RKYV ONLINE # 17

T h i smo n t h ’ s f e a t u r e da r t i s t

J o s hBo we

CONTENTS

RKYV Online #17, October 2008

Editorial Column - “At the Outset” A Few Thoughts from the Editor by R. J. Paré World View A Canadian Living in the USA by Tom Rossini Featured Artist Review by Robert Tymec & R.J. Paré Short Fiction Mr. Giggles by Patrick j. Nestor Jr. Poetry

by Larissa Gula, R. J. Paré, Stephen Campbell, Anna Gehmacher. Kristopher Marentette, Jonathan Biermann Writer’s Column Creation in our World by Larissa Gula Short Fiction A Rose Against The Moon by Nathaniel Baker Family Life Humble Pie by Lee-Ann Macdonald Pop Culture Comic Book Review by Brad Bellmore Raised On Saturday Morning Cartoons by Pauline Paré Interior Art pieces by Josh Bowe, Elza Von Zansen, Sol Lang, R. J. Paré, Leyla Sabah, Lee-Ann Macdonald, Huseyin Taygan, Nadide Gurcuoglu, Kurtis Jewell, Lisa Marie Mueller, Jon Biermann, Mike Mars, Russell Ashley.

RKYV Online Logo David Marshall (current) Roy G. James (original) R.J. Paré (original online adaptation)

Virtual Cover # 17 Art by Josh Bowe Layouts by David Marshall

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A Few Thoughts from the Editor

At the Outset by R. J. Paré “Good E-e-vening…” * The host would begin, the creepy musical overture freezing my pre-adolescent body in place. This was in the era prior to “clickers”; it would take a mobile human body of flesh and blood to get and up and change the channel. Even if I wanted to watch something else, maybe Scooby-Doo… his voice had me glued to the corner of the couch.

Oh ya, Sir Graves Ghastly was that good. http://video.google.com/videoplay?docid=538112955584510320 Dear hearts, this maestro of weekend horror movies captivated Detroit – area audiences for years with his delightful shtick. Dressed as the gentleman vampire he invited you to his crypt and introduced the spooky film about to play. From Lon Chaney to Vincent Price, Sir Graves M.C.’ed each with style and wit.

It is my distinct pleasure to emulate this master with my editorial this month.

We review the history of vampires on TV in Pauline Paré’s column “Raised on Saturday Morning Cartoons” -- now that’s spoo-ooky. Both Patrick J. Nestor and Nathaniel Baker grace our pages with short story tales to chill your blood. Some of our poets have even gotten into the spirit of things with dark and disturbing offerings of verse Has that got all you little ghouls ready to turn each sinister page in anticipation of these black treats?

Well our artists have joined the devilish fun with some sca-ary pictures to pore over as the sands of our time together pour inevitably to their end.

“So pull down the shades… draw the curtains… cuddle up in your favourite spot…” * And prepare for RKYV ONLINE’s Halloween Edition 2009.

“Nyaa – ha – ha – ha – ha – ha – ha – ha…” *

* Sir Graves Ghastly – aka Lawson J. Deming – 1913 – 2007 – R.I.P.

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World View

A Canadian Living In the USA by Tom Rossini Halloween Ain’t What It Used to Be...

This year I had the good fortune to be out of town for Halloween... along with the rest of my family. As luck would have it, my wife had to attend a Nursing Conference in Nashville, Tn. For those of you that don’t know, I was there earlier this year and met up with an old high school friend of mine - Alison. We had a wonderful time in April and well, this visit brought even more fun.

My daughter was devastated with the thought of going Trick or Treating without her friends but after this year I think she has finally understood what is meant by “Trust Me”....

I myself was surprised by the end result.

I was planning my trip down to Nashville with my family and my friend Alison and I asked Alison to help me find a safe place to take my kids trick or treating. She took us to this well to do area of Nashville - Reminded me of Belle River, the houses were about the same in size etc but the houses here started at $500,00 up to over $1 million.

As I pulled into the subdivision, parking was insane and the number of kids was just as bad. There must have been over 200 kids in a 1 block range. The first house we went to gave my daughters a KING SIZE Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup chocolate bar. I was like wow this is awesome but the best was yet to come. The second house was every man and woman’s heaven - they served the adults wine - red, white or rose, or beer from a Keg. I found my utopia... I took my 12 oz beverage and headed off the next several home after about 15 minutes there was another house offering wine and beer again. SWEET JESUS... how can I ask for anything more...

Another 20 min of trick or treating and there was Keg number 3. It was at this time my daughter said “Dad my bag is too heavy, I can't carry anymore candy.” Her bag was almost overflowing. We began to head to the car when I realized - “I need a potty”. I looked up and OMG... there was a Port a John at then end of this guys driveway. After relieving myself and feeling quite happy, I gave the keys to my wife and let her drive home.... well sort of the TOM TOM told her where to go :) I must say that although we may make fun of rednecks, and the people from the south but this city my friend knew how to celebrate Halloween....

Happy Halloween to all...

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Featured Artist Review

Josh Bowe by Robert Tymec & R. J. Paré R. J. Paré: Have you always known that you wanted to be or, rather, were an artist?

Josh Bowe: Yes from a very young age, say 7 or 8 years old.

RJP: Did you study or major in art while in school?

JB: I studied at the Glasgow school of Art RJP: Who was you biggest influence or source of encouragement, as a child, in pursuing art?

JB: I can’t remember having a specific influence in art as a child, but my family were always proactively inclined to my being an artist.

RJP: What is your favorite media to work with?

JB: Conte crayon (if I have to pick!!!)

Squares Abstract 2 (Ink and oil Pastel; 18 x 18 cm; Nov. 07) RT: Not my favourite style of art. More a practice in arrange images concentrically than in creating art. Still, nice use of colour, here. And it is a very pretty arrangement!

RJP: Do you use any special tools and techniques to create your art?

JB: I use a lightbox regularly.

RJP: What inspires you to create art?

JB: Normally the human form RJP: How would you categorize your artistic style?

JB: Loose!!!!

Clutching Crouching Figure 1 (Ink; 75 x 55 cm; Nov. 06) Robert Tymec: A piece that almost needs its title. There is an interesting use of a “bleeding effect” that causes one not to clearly see the image until you actually read that it’s meant to be a “clutching crouching figure”. Only after you've read the title does the image properly resolve before you and you notice that it's, essentially, a figure that is crouching and clutching! It's a very interesting approach that makes the picture almost seem abstract until the title directs you. Great effect!

RJP: Would you say that there is a “message” or “unifying theme” in your work?

JB: If there is I am oblivious to it!!!!!

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Paul (Water-colour; 65 x 42; Oct. 92) RT: A very nice “impressionistic” feel to this.

And, as with all impressionism, we get a nice sense of the “bare essence” of the subject matter that is being rendered. The use of water-colour was a great choice to create this.

Really beautiful piece. But then, I've always been a sucker for impressionism. One of my favourite eras!

Mardi Gras (Water-colour and ink; 20 x 16 cm; Dec. 2003) RT: Again, sadly, not a piece that does much for me. It's got less of a “patterned” look to it than “Squares Abstract 2” but it still seems just a bit too structured. I can enjoy an abstract piece, don't get me wrong. But I'd rather something like this be more free-flowing. Like “Squares”, the colours are fresh and vibrant.

But I would've liked it better if more passion than structure had come out in the way those colours were used and arranged. Not too bad of a piece, overall. But it doesn't “speak to me” in the way some of these other works have.

Turning Figure, Seated (Water-colour; 90 x 68 cm; Aug. 2007) RT: Again, gorgeous, vibrant colours. A good rendering of the subject in question that still remains beautifully “abstract” in many different ways. Much more in tune with my own tastes in art.

RJP: Which famous artists or styles have influenced you? Why?

RJP: Do you feel more a sense of community with other artists or a sense of competition?

JB: Auerbach’s charcoal studies, Giacometti’s paintings/sketches, Egon Schiele’s compositions, Picasso for his diversity, Cezanne’s compositional/mark making skills.

JB: More a community

RJP: If you could meet any living or dead artist, who would it be?

RJP: How do you market yourself?

JB: Through my website...... www.artbyjoshbowe.com

JB: Picasso

RJP: Do you find it difficult to stay motivated / inspired?

RJP: What is the one question that you would ask him/her?

JB: Not at all, I work for between 8 to 10 hours a day on average

JB: Can I spend a decade as your apprentice?

RJP: Do you create your art full time or part time?

RJP: What do you think of the term “starving artist”?

JB: Full time

JB: I live it!!!!!!

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RJP: What other interests do you have, besides art?

RJP: Do you have any big plans or shows coming up in 2008?

JB: Cycling and Physics

JB: Next show is in 2009

RJP: What advice would you have for a young artist starting out today?

RJP: How would you like your art, and by extension yourself, to be remembered?

JB: Never ever give in!!!!!!

JB: As diverse as possible

Abstract Figure 57 (Ink; 60 x 28 cm; May 2006)

Eagle Abstract (Ink; 52 x 42 cm; Jan, 2002) RT: A very nice “Native American feel” to this piece. But with a distinctive style that implies that the cultural reference is merely an influence rather than the whole idea. A nice blending of styles between the artist and the iconography. Gorgeous stuff!

RT: And we end our exhibition with a sexy little piece! Again, great use of colours - particularly with the subject matter that is being dealt with. It's racy and so are the colours that have been put into it (love the bright red and absurd shape of the “gstring”!). Unlike some of the other pieces that have used this style - the detail is sharper. And that was a good choice - not just because the model seems very attractive and it's nice to see her so clearly! The better sense of detail just seems to work well with this painting. My favourite of the bunch. Does the fact that my favourite out of this assortment involves a half-naked woman make me a dirty old perv?!

Probably...

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Short Fiction

Mr. Giggles by Patrick J. Nestor, Jr. Over a period of ten years, I can remember hearing about Mr. Giggles hundreds of times. My grandfather was the first one to introduce this mythical monstrosity into the crowded contours of my imagination, with tales of a traveling circus and freak show, and disappearing children.

“Complete rubbish.” My father would always say, giving my grandfather a frown that gave the impression that the tales were all too familiar, and perhaps frightening, even to him. It didn’t surprise me to find out, years later, that the story was a kind of ‘hand-me-down’… told from generation to generation… stretching all the way back to my great, great grandfather.

Of course, no matter what my father would say, my brothers, sisters, cousins and I would always flock around grandfather and listen wide-eyed and mouths agape about this mysterious tall man in black.

“No one ever saw his face...” Grandfather would say. “…because to look into his eyes would drive a body quite insane.”

“Did you ever see him grandpa?” one of my sisters would always ask.

“I caught a glimpse of the demon from afar once.”

He would reply. “On the night Tommy Jacobs disappeared. Gave me nightmares for months it did. I can still feel the icy stare of his eyes upon my back as I ran.”

Grandfather would go on for hours until someone, usually my aunt Gretta, would shoo us away so we would not “wear the old man out”.

We would always spend the rest of the day whispering about Mr. Giggles and trying to scare each other.

“Mr. Giggles is coming to get you!!” we would shout at each other, running around and screaming with laughter as children do.

The laughter, of course, was always a little forced.

On the day I turned eighteen, both my grandfather, who had passed away two years before of a heart attack, and Mr. Giggles were far from my mind. What was first and foremost on it, was Diane Richards.

She was a Goddess… with shoulder length wavy reddish blonde hair and a smile to die for. Her eyes were an emerald green, and no matter where I was, my mind would think of those eyes and I would fall into an abyss of pleasure.

She was a smart girl with good grades, decent popularity and a wild streak that got her into occasional trouble. I became a somewhat calming influence on her, but sometimes she would manage to drag me out of some crazy escapade that would help quench her thirst for adventure and the bizarre.

That night, as I would discover, was no different.

“Happy Birthday.” Diane breathed between the deep kisses she planted on my lips.

“Theek Oooo.” I tried to respond as she landed another one.

We were half sitting; half lying down on a blanket in the back of my father’s old pick up truck. He had given it to me only hours before as a birthday gift… one that was greatly appreciated.

“I’ve got a great birthday surprise for you!” she said suddenly, breaking away from me.

“Great.” I replied, not really caring about much more than the present moment.

“No, really silly!” she insisted, sitting completely up and pulling her shirt back down to cover her exposed bra. “I have the entire night planned out

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for us.” She flashed one of her ‘wild’ smiles at me and despite myself I felt a tingle on the back of my neck.

“So do I…” I countered, reaching out and pulling her closer to me. “… and it runs around the same lines as what we’re already doing.”

She laughed and kissed me hard and broke away again. “I bet.”

I reached over and pulled her shirt back up and placed a hand on a breast. I felt the heat from her as she moaned slightly and nuzzled my neck. She let me paw at her for a few moments then she pushed me down and straddled me. She looked down into my eyes and I felt a small pang of pain in my heart.

“Carnival huh?” I replied slowly. “Seems a little tame for Ms. Wild Child.”

“Tame my ass.” Diane laughed. “I love those freaking things.”

The tone in her voice was the same as when she had dragged me out to steal the huge letters off of the ‘Amazing Dinettes’ sign so she could spell out her name on the football field, or when she had talked me into painting the Principal’s house pink.

“What are you not telling me?” I asked suspiciously. “Where is this carnival?”

Diane smiled again and looked right at me.

“It’s in Calverton.” she said with a hint of danger in her voice.

Yes, I actually loved her so much it hurt.

“Listen loverboy...” she teased, using a term she knew I hated. “Trust me when I say that my body is yours at some point tonight. However, like I said… I have a plan for our evening and you’re just going to have to follow it to the letter.” She flashed that ‘wild’ look at me again and I knew it was no use arguing.

“Ok.” I said, propping myself up slightly on my elbows and lifting my face up towards her.

“Tell me.”

“Awesome. It’s a carnival!” she said excitedly.

“One of those traveling jobs with the rides and games and sideshow stuff. It’s going to be so fucking cool.”

“Uh… sideshow?” I asked surprised. “I didn’t know you were into roadside freak shows…”

“It’s not a freak show silly.” she answered. “It’s a carnival. C-A-R-N-I-V-A-L. Fun stuff… you know?”

It was weird. I DID know. I also recalled, subconsciously, my grandfather’s stories. For a second I felt a chill run its way, swift as a darting cat, up my spine. I had never really realized the thought of a traveling sideshow circus was actually one I did not like. Suddenly the thought occurred to me that I had never even been to one. My father had never allowed us to go to any of the ones that visited over the years.

I stiffened, and not in the good way. We (that being all of the teens in town) had been told not to venture to Calverton. Three children had gone missing from there over a two week period… a young sister/brother and a younger teenage girl.

In reality the town had discussed a curfew but was holding off for now.

“Calverton.” I said. “Calverton.”

“We have nothing to worry about!” Diane said playfully. “Just ‘cause some psycho grabbed a few small kids doesn’t mean he’d try for adults.

Besides… you’ll protect me.”

I stared at her. I tried to look disapproving. I failed miserably. She burst out laughing.

“Pleeeeeeeze?” she mock whined.

I knew I was going to cave from the second she started. I just was attempting to appear to put up some sort of a fight. In the end though… I wasn’t going to be a baby about it. She wanted a carnival, so she was going to get a carnival.

We pulled into the parking lot a little after nine o’clock and quickly found a spot. The lot was not very filled. The carnival had put down stakes on the Ellard’s old farm area and was right near Millard’s Creek. I was mildly surprised that the Ellard’s had allowed the carnival to rent the space, but times were hard so I guess the need for the money outweighed anything else.

Perhaps grandfather’s stories got to him more than he would let on.

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The parking lot was, as I said, half empty and the normal crowd sounds you would associate with a circus atmosphere were overshadowed by the loud, almost spooky calliope music blaring out by the high-mounted speakers that topped almost every purple and black tent.

“Mr. Giggles?” she interrupted part-way through.

“Holy shit! I’ve heard of him! My great-aunt used to tell me stories about how he hypnotized children and took them away if they were of the right mind and how once and a while he’d pick one to become his dark bride!”

“Dark Bride?” I asked.

“This looks really weird.” I said, turning the engine off. “It looks like there’s practically no one here.”

“I’m sure a lot of people just walked here instead of driving. And if not, there’s just more fun for us!” Diane replied.

“Besides, we won’t have to worry about running into anyone we know. You get me all to yourself tonight.”

“Yeah! That’s how she’d say it. Dark Bride!” she replied. “I was always fascinated by them… but I used to get the WORST nightmares from those stories. They scared the shit out of me!”

“Just imagine,” I said, feeling bolder knowing she had heard the same tales I had. “He might be right here… waiting for us… ready to murder us in our beds!”

Mr. Giggles by R. J. Paré

As soon as she said it, I could see she regretted it.

There had been a few arguments over the last few weeks about a guy, Erik, at school who was also into Diane. He was kind of aggressive and to make matters worse, was a once good friend of mine. I didn’t like the attention he gave Diane and I didn’t like the fact that she, being a born flirt, didn’t seem to discourage him in the ways I thought she should. During one of our arguments I had, in a stupid display of he-manism, told her I had no intention of ‘sharing her with anyone’ and that I was going to ‘have her all to myself’. It freaked her out a little. I later apologized and we were good, but I had to be careful to not overstate things.

I wasn’t about to let it get to me though. I didn’t think she meant it as a dig or anything. It was just a slip. I let it go and smiled at her.

“Why would he wait for us to get into bed?” she asked amused.

“Well… I don’t know. Maybe he’s a pervert too.”

We roamed around for a while, playing a few old games like the ring toss and the old dart through the balloon games. We had some slightly stale cotton candy and syrupy soda and decided that some of the rides seemed a little too beat up for us to chance, although we did do that old carnival staple, the bumper cars.

I had just come out from going to the bathroom when I saw something that stopped me cold.

Diane was in what seemed to be a heated discussion with someone.

It was Erik.

“Sounds good to me.” I said. I could see her visibly relax a little.

We locked up and walked across the field, the fallen autumn leaves crunching under our feet. As we got closer, I began to feel a little anxious about the sideshow, so I started to tell Diane about the stories my grandfather had spun to us.

I took a deep breath. I couldn’t believe he was here. Steeling myself, I walked over towards them.

Erik saw me coming and said something to Diane.

She seemed to wave him away, looking angry.

Was she angry because he was there or was it because I had caught them talking?

“I was just sayin’ hi, relax.” Erik was saying as I came up. He looked at me and nodded.

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I nodded back, trying to look and stay calm.

“So… Hi. Now… bye.” Diane replied. Again, in my naturally worried state about keeping Diane to myself I couldn’t help but wonder if she was annoyed at him putting her in a position to get caught or she was just annoyed by him period.

“Yeah. Bye.” he said, shifting his gaze to me.

“Hey, happy birthday man. Really. I’m… I…” he suddenly turned and walked away.

Diane looked at me, her gaze a mixture of concern and annoyance.

“I am looking at it,” she insisted. “and it’s beautiful.”

“It IS beautiful.” a voice came out of the dark shadows next to the ride. “and it DOES work.”

Both Diane and I gasped at the sudden appearance of the tall man as he stepped out of the shadows and bowed slightly in our direction.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.” the man said as he strode closer to us. “The carousel does work. It works very well in fact.”

“It’s beautiful.” Diane said to him.

“Don’t say it. Don’t think it. Don’t.” she said.

“I didn’t say anything.” I replied.

“I’m so pleased you think so.” the man replied.

“Sometimes it takes a special eye to catch the true beauty of some things. You have that eye I see.”

“No, but I know you.” she countered.

I forced my anger down and shoved it aside. I wasn’t about to let this ruin the night. I’d take care of things, if need be, later.

“Don’t worry. It’s cool. So we ran into him. No biggie.” I told her and smiled.

She looked at me suspiciously for a moment, and then she smiled back.

“You’re awesome… you know that?” she said.

She took my hand and we started walking again.

We joked about the small crowd and how the carnival might have to resort to strange ways to make money. We passed by the sideshow tents and despite my reluctance I was prepared to go into them with her just to keep the evening moving along. Diane seemed to want to go into too… that was until she saw the Merry-Go-Round.

“Oh my God!” she exclaimed as we came upon it. “Will you look at this? I haven’t seen an honest to goodness old fashioned one like this in a million years!”

Diane seemed to nod, but she was looking at the horses on the platform with barely contained excitement.

“Well, we don’t want you to start her up just for us.” I stammered. “We were just getting ready to go.”

“Nonsense!” the man boomed out, swinging to his right and approaching the carousel’s controls.

“What better reason to operate a ride but for the pleasure of two wonderful children?”

I hesitated as he began to fiddle with the ride’s machinery, and took a few steps closer to get a better look at him. He was tall. Very tall. That’s all I could really tell in the gloom and the dark. I hadn’t realized just how black it was until that moment.

The tall man seemed to almost blend in with the shadows. It was next to impossible to make out any of his features except for his smile. A big toothy grin that showed his pearly white teeth gleaming in what little light there was. I felt very uncomfortable.

“There you go.” he said suddenly, straightening up. “All set.”

“Yeah it looks like it’s about that old.” I quipped. “I wonder if it even ru-” I broke off as I realized she was running towards the carousel at full speed.

“Great!” Diane burst out breathlessly. I had almost forgotten she was there.

“C’mon stupid!” Diane called back playfully as she jumped onto the merry-go-round’s platform.

“We’ve just GOT to ride this!”

“Please pick a horse. Enjoy the ride.” the tall man told Diane. “Dance with the dusk wind in monochrome night.”

“Give me a break Di.” I protested. “I don’t think the thing even works. I mean… just look at it!”

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“Monochrome night. Oh, I like that.” Diane said as she straddled a horse much in the same way she had straddled me earlier.

“She likes that.” the tall man said, sounding amused. “Outstanding.”

He looked in my direction. The grin grew wider.

It was like there was only that grin. That grin… and shadows.

“Go ahead young sir.” the man said to me.

“Please enjoy your ride. It will take you to places… you’ve never been.”

“Uh… yeah…” I replied slowly. I didn’t really want to do it, but I could see Diane on her wooden horse, a big smile on her face. She looked very happy.

One ride couldn’t hurt, I figured.

I climbed up on the deck and choose a horse right across from Diane. I frowned as the faded paint crumbled away at my touch. I lifted my head to say so and realized the tall man was gone. A second later, the carousel sprang to life, lighting up and starting to turn.

“I love this Alex!” Diane shouted above the whir of the machinery. She laughed and leaned way back on her horse, letting her hair drape over the tail.

Her mouth was spread into a tremendous grin and her emerald eyes sparkled like priceless gems.

The carousel turned faster and faster as music spewed from the speakers hidden in the deck. I began to feel dizzy and gripped the iron pole that protruded from my horse tighter, in an effort to not lose my balance. As the spinning shook my head, I could see Diane’s eyes grow wider and wider with each passing second. The speed of the merry-go-round seemed to be getting way too fast for me. It was like it was building up to an out of control speed.

“Look Alex!” Diane practically screamed above the music. “Look how beautiful everything is! I didn’t realize how new it all looked in the dark! Look at all the people! Where did they all come from? Oh! They’re having such a wonderful time!”

I held onto my horse for dear life as I tried to wonder what in the hell she was talking about.

Everything looked the same to me… in fact… thanks to the extra lighting from the carousel, things looked even more decrepit than before. I

felt very sick, and couldn’t believe that Diane was enjoying herself.

“Di!” I called out, trying to keep a tremor out of my voice. “How the hell do we stop this thing?”

“Stop?” she shouted back. “I don’t ever want to stop! This is wonderful!” She threw her head back again and let out a shrill set of giggles that pierced the night air.

I didn’t reply because I had just realized there were people watching us. She was right about one thing… a crowd HAD gathered. They crept out of the shadows, slowly at first, then more and more swiftly as the seconds flew by. I wasn’t able to make out much more than their forms, but somehow I knew… I just KNEW, that their faces were twisted and full of anguish. My heart pounded in my chest, feeling like it would explode.

It was then that the tall man suddenly reappeared.

“Welcome children of all ages!” he bellowed, raising his arms into the air and somehow managing to be much louder than the screeching music bleeding from the speakers. “Welcome to Mr. Giggles’ Circus and Sideshow Attractions!

Come one, come all. Come walk on vanity ruins through the rain of brass petals! Come witness the end of small sanctuary and stay a while!”

Laughter thrust its way out of him like an avalanche, and terrified, I swung my head back to look at Diane. It took me a second to realize both her and her wooden horse were gone. I could now see my own reflection in the mirrored center of the merry-go-round, and what I saw made me scream.

The tall man was working his way onto the carousel. He moved quickly and gracefully despite the incredible speed at which we were moving. His long black cloak flapped in the wind and he crept upon me, getting closer and closer. I could feel his frigid cold breath on the back of my neck, but I was unable to turn and face him. My eyes were glued to the mirror and the horrors it reflected for me.

“Feeling sick Alex? Release your sickness unto foolish death.” it gibbered, slithering closer. “Want to feel better? Want to let it all hang out? Want to… giggle?”

The mirror seemed to scream along with me as the thing disguised as a tall man pulled its cloak around my body.

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MerryGoArround IS dead by Elza Von Zansen

I woke up, just minutes ago, in a hospital bed, screaming.

Bodies rushed in. My mother and father tried to calm me down. The sheriff was there, asking me what had happened to Diane. Diane’s father was shouting at me, demanding to know what I had done to his daughter. Her great-aunt, Grace, stood looking worried and trying to hold Di’s father back.

Erik was there, looking wide eyed and frightened.

A nurse came over and struggled with me, trying to keep me down. A moment later a second one came and shoved a needle into my arm.

I stopped thrashing and felt the hands lift off me.

My mother stayed next to me, stroking my hair and the rest moved to the side. I could hear them talking. “…dammit Sheriff! You heard what Erik said!

Every moment we go without finding my daughter could mean her life!” I could hear Diane’s father hiss.

“I know Mitch, but you have to calm down. We have to question Alex and see what happened.”

The sheriff was whispering. “Erik do you have any idea?”

“I honestly don’t, I swear.” Erik replied, sounding scared and small. “When I heard they were missing, I went back to the carnival grounds and it was all gone, but Alex was lying in the middle of the empty field alone and screaming… just like I told you. I know Alex was mad about me showing up earlier… and they argued about me sometimes… but… he couldn’t have hurt her. Right? Right?”

“There still have been no leads on those other missing kids, right?” my father asked.

“These aren’t little kids here! This was a young woman!” Diane’s father shouted. “He HAS to know what happened to her!”

“Alex?” my mother asked, grabbing my attention.

“Alex, please. Are you alright? Where is Diane?

What happened?”

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“I... I… I don’t…I don’t know.” I stammered.

Whatever they shot me up with was taking effect.

I’m shaking uncontrollably, and I’m sweating despite the intense cold I feel.

“You fucking LIAR!” Diane’s father screamed and lunged at me. My father and the sheriff caught him and dragged him back.

“Oh God, Diane what happened?” I ask out loud, putting my head in my hands. “What the fuck was that? Where did you go?”

I felt myself fading… falling asleep.

I keep asking myself those questions as I sit here staring into the long mirror next to my bed, waiting. Just what I’m waiting for, I don’t know… but something is coming. Something isn’t quite done with me yet.

“She… she laughed. She laughed and danced with the dusk wind in monochrome night…” I managed to whisper.

“What?” Diane’s father shouted. “What the fuck are you talking about? God DAMMIT Phil what the FUCK is your boy ON?” “Oh my God.” I heard Diane’s great-aunt Grace gasp as I started to go under. “Oh… my God. No. No.” I came to again some time later. No one is in the room. I can hear them all outside arguing. Diane’s father is telling Grace to shut up about her old bullshit wives tales. My father is insisting I could have nothing to do with Diane’s disappearance.

The sheriff is saying something about finding a trace of blood on my shirt. An unfamiliar voice is telling the sheriff this is no trace of the carnival anywhere. My mother is crying.

Maybe it will be Diane, a wild look on her face, riding a wooden horse from hell, blood in her eyes.

If it wasn’t so terrifying, the image would almost be funny.

I look in the mirror, that image in my head.

Without warning, I start to giggle.

Corn Field and Meadow - Eastern Townships, Québec. Part of the Ghosts of Nature series

by Sol Lang

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Poetry The Gas Meter – by Larissa Gula Driving down I-79 South, solid gray and devoid of anything, I was once eager to join the campers and adventure.

But these days, all I ever do while running with traffic is check the meter on the dashboard. Not just any meter – the meter.

What once meant nothing to me now dictates every move both on and off the road. My cash, once for snacks, goes into the machine’s ever open mouth; and its speedy metabolism makes speedy use of any resources I bother to spend on my transportation.

So, when friends and I crowd around the August fire, all that we say is, “Was anyone hurt while working on the railroad today?”

And then we check the bandages we pressed down our bleeding budgets, and adjust the pressure to keep the loss to the minimum.

Finally, its time to load our heavy bodies into those unsatisfied metal monsters, turn the key to jumpstart digestion, and watch that stupid, sanity consuming meter all the way home.

Butterflies – by Larissa Gula Hatch soon, little one; for the days are numbered, your glory needed.

Untitled 4 by Leyla Sabah

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Jonathan’s Poems – by Jonathan Biermann I Enter the night to claim the soul.

Pray to the dark before you go.

The tide is rising and soon you'll be gone.

Close your eyes to the hangman’s song.

The wind comes up and the moon is red.

From the ground arise the dead.

The rope tightens as bone breaks.

They move forward your soul to take.

Soon you'll walk hand in hand Returning back to the land.

Enter the night to claim the soul.

Pray to the dark before you go.

II

Devastation of Depression by Lee-Ann Macdonald

Down the road walk two young souls.

A house of white is their goal.

The air gets frosty as they near.

As if it's chilled by their fear.

They see the house from days long gone.

To see it now and think what went wrong.

Once it stood so strong and true.

Now its memories are but few.

When they walked through its doors Felt their weight shift the floor By the footsteps from above.

They knew the house held no love.

It was then that the shadows they did move.

As if the house had something to prove.

Not waiting they ran outside Knowing that the house had not died.

For its memories still held strong.

With it the spirits came along.

Yes this house is old that’s true.

And what lives inside is not for you.

Untitled by Huseyin Taygan

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III Feel the pain that dwells inside Listen to the voices from which I hide Search the night for answers I seek Find a new destiny not so bleak Break the spells that bind me down That keep me chained to the ground In hope that light lies ahead So darkened soul will not spread Hope and desires, they too will die All are based upon dark lies Feel the pain that dwells inside Hear my soul as it cries I wish to give in with such ease Give the darkness what it needs A troubled mind and dying soul I chase them but they do not go Forever cursed by my sin Feel the pain that dwells within.

Anna’s Poems – by Anna Gehmacher Why do I keep doing this over and over again, I make the same mistake and then I hate myself Every day is one big fight against my thoughts and what they lead me to do Every day is one big strain to keep hold of myself and not fall down the big black hole at the end of which I know I failed once again Why do I keep doing this, why do I keep torturing myself, telling myself that nothing's wrong, that it's all okay, and it just goes on and on, and I never grow strong.

Why can't I admit to myself and to everybody else that it's not okay, that I'm not fine, that something's wrong, and that it's been going on for too long Why do I always close my eyes to reality and run away from my real problem, Why do I escape into my imaginary world in which all is great, Why can't I face the truth and tackle the problem like I should?

That way everything would be good.

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But no, I can't, I'm way too scared I'm scared they'll laugh, I'm scared they'll leave me on my own, I'm scared I'll be ignored, I'm scared they'll shake their hands and run away.

Why can't anybody see what's going on inside me?

Why don't they understand that I need someone to hold my hand and get me out of this hell, because I'm not as strong as I may seem and the longer this goes on the weaker I become

Topher’s Poems –

By Kristopher Marentette Snow the flakes are pure, painfully delicate and fall like my love to die on the warmth of your lips to be reborn and begin the journey anew

Untitled by Huseyin Taygan

Heritage we are, all of us descendants blind carbon copies of a troubled design straining against the tethers of purpose so I walk the familiar stride of Caesar only with smaller steps and a much longer leash

Untitled by Nadide Gurcuoglu

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Paré’s Poetic Perspectives – by R. J. Paré Comic Book Writer [a parody of the Beatles “Paperback Writer”] Now come on man, let me write your books So many years I've tried, won't you take a look?

Inspired by the work of Miller and Moore And I need a job, so I want to be a comic book writer, Comic Book writer.

I'll write the grim and gritty 'bout how violence can Confuse our Hero; so he can't understand.

Could have an alias, like working for the daily mail, Think that's been done, but I want to be a comic book writer, Comic Book writer.

Comic Book writer Here's a thousand page, graphic novel for you, Or writing an issue every week or two.

I could write like Gaiman if you like that style, Use a Bendis twist and I want to be a Comic Book writer, Comic Book writer.

Do ya like my script, the way I pace the fights?

It could make a million for you overnight.

If you must reject it, please don't tell my mom She's on my case a lot and I want to be a comic book writer, Comic Book writer.

Comic Book writer Comic Book writer - comic book writer Comic Book writer - comic book writer

Ghost Rider by Kurtis Jewell

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Adrift - by Stephen Campbell Sped upon the waves of faith like some great leviathan, The heave and fro of conscience and fate, A vessel slips from thy steady hand, And plunges headlong into the sea of hate.

Poor soul lost at sea, the waves o’er his brow, What fate didst thou ordain?

That he be dragged from this, a sturdy prow, And become as one a man in pain.

Men searched for him, he heard them naught, He sank to ocean floor.

Men dived in but Poseidon fought, The man would rise no more.

Pagan gods would hold him tight, And wring of him his grip on life, The life above so fair and bright, He longed now for that forgotten light.

Light swift through turmoil waves, To floor of deep it lit his head, Forth from shackles, out from cave, Past Triton, crept past the unspoken dread.

Oh free, oh free, oh free to roam To climb, oh free again to rise, Three days cold spent beneath the foam, Now burst up into fresh blue skies.

Man ne’er again looked upon the sea, But spent his days treading the waves, Waves cool promise he did not heed, But now in lights glow he gladly bathed.

Untitled by Lisa Marie Mueller

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Writer’s Column

Creation In Our World by Larissa Gula Greetings, RKYV readers! I hope everyone’s fall season is starting off splendidly.

Pittsburgh right now has been surprisingly beautiful; we have had almost no rain and many colorful leaves illuminating the sidewalks.

Between my classes I’ve found time to consider another flaw in our society when it comes to the creative. This month’s topic is a contradiction that was brought to my attention years ago.

My concern involves teachers telling us to be creative, and parents saying to us that we should go for whatever we could imagine. We’re told these simple ideas from a rather early age, and yet…things just don’t seem to work as they should when it comes to cultivating this creativity. On the average, citizens are only partially encouraged to actually listen to this piece of advice, if encouraged at all.

The two most obvious ways I can think of this are the mocking of games and professions that require imagination, and the cutting of any classes that could stimulate the mind.

Dungeons and Dragons is the most scorned of the creation branch that I can think of. While we see published novels and art galleries every day, D&D books are usually hidden in a back corner and cost a wad of bills more than what those of us with an arts-interest budget want to pay. Plus, if anyone plays D&D they become a sight of laughter for everyone else, especially before the college years roll in.

And frankly, this just seems a shame to me. I never played D&D, but it wasn’t from a lack of interest; more a lack of fast-on-my-feet creation reflexes. I’m the type that needs time to play with my ideas and develop them.

My friends, on the other hand, were obsessed with the game throughout high school, and I could see why. The creation within D&D gave them complete control of a world they created, an escape from reality that even offered solutions to reality problems when they came back to Earth.

In simple terms: it was healthy for their minds.

Imagine that.

Yet it seems that anything worth creating is scorned more often than not. How many artists were mocked as no good, before their art began to make history? How many authors were ridiculed and written off, left to die before their works became best sellers?

Krystyn Shpeley by Jon Biermann

For a more recent example – the mocked TV shows known as “Pokemon” and “Digimon”. I do dare say they have lived far beyond their years and deserve to rest in peace; but I also dare to admit I was a loyal fan to both in their beginnings, when the idea of the monsters and the lessons from the people in both were appealing to my little girl’s mind. Look how much they’re spoofed on now. It’s almost disappointing, to see almost no acknowledgement of their possible good.

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My beginnings as an aspiring fantasy writer came from creating monsters to fit in with those two TV shows. I even dare to say a few of my good qualities came from watching that show, with its nutty main characters who never seemed to grow up and still just kept learning.

Speaking of writing, how about the jokes surrounding liberal arts majors about how they’ll never live a satisfactory and wealthy life? There’s a stigma about liberal arts majors that actually leads to colleges not declaring themselves as liberal arts colleges (yep; just saw that in a local newspaper).

While adults who work in these professions and college know better, the public doesn’t; and let’s admit it, what the majority says usually passes as the truth. It shouldn’t work that way, but it does.

The ignorance of creation benefits is not limited to the above, sadly; creative and musical classes are being cut from school curriculums in America’s attempt to boost intelligence scores. In my high school, students were encouraged to take Honors and AP classes rather than music and creative writing. The only creative writing courses were offered for my senior year (and I know that the school has reformatted the curriculum in the single summer since I left). Any other writing courses were designed to analyze specific questions and spit certain answers back at the teachers.

It seems it has never once occurred to our superiors that classes that allow creativity and beauty to bloom are what help our intelligence in the long run. To play the violin and to sing was to create and learn how alter and adapt to various keys and dialects within life. It sounds bizarre, but I can say from experience with both throughout my life that it’s true. Besides, they’re relaxing and stimulating at the same time. Music is creation at its peak; although from the recent bands hitting MTV I dare to see even this creative avenue is being butchered.

Either way, the people that run our country called U.S.A. never stop to think that the meager task known as reading can help increase vocabulary.

Certain games have the ability to tutor in basic math, the simple math that is prevalent in all higher levels.

In other words: our skills and our greatest lessons lie within exposure, not a coddling and memorizing education and a life sitting in front of our computers and TVs. (Hm...does any of this sound like a “Fahrenheit 451” utopia existence?)

Untitled 29 by Lisa Marie Mueller

My advice to everyone who reads this is: 1) To broaden your horizons. Listen to more forms of music than you do now and see what you learn; check out a genre of book you never tried in the library before. I think you’ll find you learn more from that than anything else.

(And yes, if you so desire, form that D&D group of yours.)

2) To raise public awareness of the benefits of creativity. Get enough people on your side to campaign for the return of the music and creative writing classes. Don’t limit it to your own neighborhood; go national if the situation calls for it. (Remember – it’s supposed to be a democracy.

The politicians and leaders should obey the public demand for fear of losing their status. This applies to every societal problem, not just this one.)

3) Encourage any couch potatoes you know to join you in some creative fun in one form or another.

And “creation” is not limited to writing and art. I think next month will call for some ideas on letting out a muse in some other fashions.

Best of luck until then, Larissa

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Short Fiction “A Rose Against The Moon” is a short story based in a dark and dying world. In this world there are very few people who will step up to fight corruption. Though that doesn’t mean there aren’t those who wield corruption with a certain grace. You’ll know exactly what I mean as you fall into the world that surrounds it: “Chosen Defects” and see its denizens at work. If you enjoy the short here, please remember to check us out at www.silentsoul.org for more shorts and an upcoming web comic.

A Rose against the Moon by Nathaniel Baker The moon sat high and full in the night sky. A cold wind moved through the empty street that ran between fourth and main. It seemed almost as if the night begged for a heist like this one. The five man crew waited for the start of their, own personal theme song. Moments later the bang of their first instrument spat smoke through the street.

They all dawned navy blue uniforms, spitting images of the local police uniforms. Of course with the exception of the clear plastic masks with the single breathing apparatus set in them, and the sub machine guns they wore at their sides. The group moved quickly and efficiently. They moved as if this was just another night at the same repetitive job. “Reese! Move your ass!” One of the pretenders stood still watching the moon stare back at him, unsettling. The cool breeze in the air spat a chill down his spine, moving deeper then he thought possible. “Guys I…I…I’ve got a b…b…b bad feeling about this.” The other four men just kept moving through the same old motions as the stuttering idiot they all new Reese to be, stared off into the dark through the gaping hole in the wall. “C’mon, c’mon let’s move!”

Reese shook out of his stupor as he stuck close behind the almost militant movements of the rest of the crew.

Reese wasn’t the smartest, the strongest, the quickest, or even remotely funny. He was however a great fall guy and the other four knew it. Three months ago when they initially planned the heist they knew that one more was necessary for the true crime to fall along the lines they needed it to fall.

Dodson, a sharp looking man closer to his thirties with short blonde hair looked up from the blue prints of the bank. “So anyone know an idiot that’s good at cracking under pressure?” Mills and Stevens we’re both a little confused by the question initially, but both of them we’re in their

mid thirties now and had done this more times then they cared to remember. Mills was only five foot even, but he was built like a Boston Irish boxer, even down to the short trimmed red hair and goatee. Stevens on the other hand was a bit slimmer, taller by at least another foot, with medium graying black hair. The stereotypical glasses pretty much gave away his job in the group. Lastly there was Dukes. Dukes, was the kind of guy you didn’t fuck with. Strong cutting features, with short black hair. You could see it in his eyes, the way he talked, dressed, that he knew this job. He knew every angle of every job, or at least that’s what he made you believe. Dukes looked up from the table with a half smile on his face, “Ya actually, I know a guy.”

Reese joined them in every meeting after that. Tall, lanky, early twenties, with short curly orange red hair, he was perfect for what they needed him for.

With no experience, no knowledge of any of his fellow heist-ers, they knew it would be perfect for him to get caught. They knew it would work so perfectly for him to talk. Then when the cops we’re done with him the mob would move in next. See unbeknownst, to little Reese, his fellow mates we’re in fact retired cops with a score to settle.

For too long had not only their fellow officers dipped into mob money, but so had they. When the time finally came for them to use their own working knowledge of the family, of the precinct, of this city, to better themselves and really hurt them, they took it. Now here they we’re four and a half strong, and knowing that Reese would be a

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huge key to finally bringing down the entire family of the city, as well as every dirty cop who has ever killed for a few extra bucks. Granted most had their reasons, hell they even had their reasons from time to time. How much though is too much?

They knew the silent alarm would be setting off at any minute; they had planned it that way. They also knew exactly who was going to show when that happened, the route they would take, and the procedures they would go through when they found Reese lying in the lumps of plaster outside on the sidewalk. The four of them passed glances between each other as they made their way past the heavy vault door. It was all going just as they planned.

A majestic figure stared off into the night sky from the rooftop of an old warehouse. The black cloak that wrapped around her flapped in the wind along with her straight long red hair. She took in the air around her, inviting it into her knowingly empty lungs. The static that surged through the bright night sky above her, reminded her of things long passed. She could feel the metaphysical storm

brewing in the streets below, ready to unleash itself. “I do enjoy nights like these.” Her voice was beyond soothing; even to herself it was beyond her expectations of pleasant. The percussion of plastic explosive boomed through the light filled blackness of the night. “Hmm, seems as if my tip off was legit after all.”

The five men filled the black duffle bags that Reese so happily hauled back into the building for them. They sent him back and forth with trips of three very heavy bags as they discussed their contingency plan. They knew it would be easy enough to get out of here. For the most part no one would be ready to respond on a call like this; the call of them knowing that their boss’s finances just got jacked. I mean in a town filled with every body playing on the same side, who would truly expect it? Stevens looked down at his palm pilot as they discussed worse case scenarios. A flash of red began to blink on his screen. “Alright guys the alarm has been issued, they’ll be here in about twelve minutes. Are we set to…?” Stevens' voice died under the roar of the wall blowing out beside him.

Bloody Rose by Mike Mars

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In a black wisp Stevens face went from accomplished satisfaction to “what the hell?” It was almost as if a vacuum had been created from the explosion beside him; creating a suction force through the wall, but they we’re all pretty sure something was there. The other three men readied the SMG’s as they began to spread out towards the open vault door. The emergency lights that had clicked on from the explosion early, now flickered.

Dodson looked over to Dukes who now wore a panic stricken face under the clear plastic mask.

Dodson took a quick glance around the room, “Fuck this!”

Dodson rushed for the vault door.

Just as he reached the archway of the circular doorway, a black whirl slammed into him sending him hard onto the floor behind him. The smack of his body against the floor was a loud thud. His body continued to slide back to the other two men who stood awe struck in the center of the vault.

The cloak began to settle around the dark figure in front of them. The two men still standing returned it’s silent gestures with loud ones of their own, as a fury of rounds lashed out from their firearms.

The shadow in a blink of an eye moved backwards and then to the side, evading the bullets with little to no effort.

The two men moved quickly to the side hole in the wall that had early sucked out their comrade Stevens. “This is fucking nuts!” Mills at this point was almost lucid, but the rage in his voice was nothing Dukes wasn’t use to. They had ran into problems in the past, bad intel, somebody trying to pull a fast over them in the crew. This though, this wasn’t natural, this wasn’t cops, or the mob.

The two moved through the gaping mass in the structure not even glancing back once at Dodson.

They moved into what looked to be a hallway, the exit sign shined above a pair of double doors not twenty feet down the hall. Though a mass of what was once Stevens was wrapped between the hard metal and wood of the door, and the metal levers that you pushed on to open them. “Fuck me!” is all Mills could get out as Dukes quickly turned to the end of the hallway that went back into the bank, back to where the shadow was.

Dukes looked into the side pouch that hung close to his leather belt. “One more plastic explosive, just enough” he thought. Without a second of hesitation he moved to the exit door. Fighting a

mixture of the smell, and the texture of his now twisted ally, he placed the explosive on the bottom of the metal door. Mills without the needed gesture began to move back through the hallway, and hunkered down covering his ears. Dukes moved past the hole in the wall and put his back towards the exit way he was about to make. Just before he moved the remote into his right hand a motion inside the vault room brought his attention to Dodson. His limp form was now being held by a very beautiful red head wrapped in a black menacing cloak. Her vivid green eyes looked up from the object she was feeding from, and met Dukes with an almost feral flash. The button clicked down under Dukes thumb, as the pure force knocked both men down onto their stomachs.

The two men with little hesitation moved back to their feet. Dukes looked back to see the stunning image he had seen before, but she was gone.

Dodson still lied unmoving in the empty flickering room. “Let’s go!” Mills’ scream brought Dukes’ mind back to the task at hand. The two men moved through the now shattered and slightly gored hall. Bits of Stevens spread out through the inside and outside of the building. Not that the two could really admire the irony in the fact that the guy who made the explosives was now fodder for one. Nor could they grasp the fact that they just left Dodson back in a room with god knows what; when in fact several times he had turned back, risking life and limb to pull both of them out of near death situations. Nor could either of them remember that Reese, if he was still alive, was sitting out front in a tan brown Chevy van, filled with mob money.

The two rushed through the back alleys of the buildings that surrounded the bank. Dukes’ watch now read back to them that they had eight minutes roughly, before the streets were filled with angry cops, and gangsters. Though in their minds they didn’t care what was lost tonight. The fact was, months of planning couldn’t have prepared them enough for something like that. The fact that they we’re still both alive kept them content at running to the nearest bar, to the nearest hotel, anything outside of the city limits that they could hunker down in for the night.

“Fuck! Shit! What was that!? How did we go so wrong!?” As soon as the two men stopped running to catch their breaths Mills started screaming. Dukes just gave him the same look he

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gave him the time they barely made it out of a Jewel heist that had gone bad. The same look he gave him when Dukes lost his little brother in a gun fight with another crew with the same intentions they had. Then Dukes face contorted to another look, one that Mills had thought he saw earlier tonight. A look of horror, and amazement, a look he gave to that thing back in the bank before it mangled Stevens, before it shot Dodson across a cold concrete floor. Mills eyes stared past Dukes now, he knew he only had one chance at maybe getting away from the dark cloak he could now see fluttering in the wind behind him.

A sharp cold feeling shot through his stomach.

Mills looked down, only to see Dukes hand holding the knife handle that he had plunged into Mills torso. “Why…?” Mills voice trailed off as a mixture of shock and an almost ecstasy shot through his neck and into the rest of his body. Her hands were cold, almost like stone, but somehow so warm and inviting. She pulled Mills into the shadows behind them, looking into Dukes eyes with that same look from before. Her voice echoed through his mind as she spoke like a siren of old, “Wait.” Duke just stared at the knife in his hand.

The blood dripped heavy onto the pavement below him. His mind was in a daze, he had no

idea why he had just stabbed his partner and closest friend for the past seventeen years. He had no idea why his only thoughts were now a mixture of guilt and lust. He knew what ever she was, he wanted it. He knew now, that whatever game was being played he had lost, but as long as he could feel her he could be ok with that. Even if he had to wait for her to come back, wait until the sun came up and went down again. Until his body could no longer stand, no longer hold together his thoughts. He knew he could wait for her, wait until death took him away.

* The sirens now filled the night, there flashing lights telling anyone who cared to know that something was going down at the bank. Reese walked up to the Sergeant in charge. “Your l..l…late.” The Sergeant looked back at him with a disappointed look on his face, “Sorry sir, it won’t happen again.”

Reese smiled, “Oh I know it won’t.” A bullet rang out through the moon filled night, reminding Rose why she loved nights like these so much.

END

The End of the Road - Part of the Ghosts of Nature series by Sol Lang

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Family Life

Humble Pie by Lee-Ann Macdonald Yesterday I had to go to emergency at the hospital. They have their little routine there in order to prioritize the order in which they see patients. You sit in a triage chair so that the triage nurse knows you need to see a Dr. The nurse then sees the patients one at a time in the order they sat down in the triage chair. Of course if someone comes in ambulance or are complaining of chest pains, they are seen immediately. The triage nurse then assigns your case a number, which is degree of crisis she deems you to be in.

So sometimes you can go right in to see the Doctor, and sometimes you can wait for hours.

So there we all sat, going through the process, silent and resolved in knowing it could be any length of a wait. An elderly gentleman came in. He was tall and handsome and really well groomed. He wore country club type clothing. He walked directly to the triage nurses room. He did not follow the process whatsoever.

I made an off handed The Road That Must Be Traveled by Lee-Ann Macdonald remark to my husband about some people with money thinking they were above the process. A couple of people sitting in the triage chairs kinda grumbled under their breath and then another nurse who popped her head out the door of the room of my destination, called my name.

So they sit me in a room with the door closed based on their privacy policy. While I sit there I hear the alarms go off and the recording “code blue”. It went on for awhile and eventually it stopped. The Doctor came to see me, the nurse took vile about vile of blood, and a very nice smelling orderly took me to get an ultra sound. Then the Dr. reappears and gives me his diagnosis, prescription, and advice.

I call my husband to come and get me. He comes and I get in the car. The first thing he said to me was, “Remember that guy who pissed you off for butting in line for triage; the one that was sitting in the triage room when you got called? Well he truly must have been in distress because he never got back up off that chair.”

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Gallery

Untitled 6 by Huseyin Taygan

Captain America by Jon Biermann

Untitled by Lisa Marie Mueller Untitled by Russell Ashley

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Pop Culture

Comic Book Review by Brad Bellmore Thirteen Chambers I’m a big fan of a good western. Flipping through the pages of Thirteen Chambers gave me hope that that was what I was getting. Unfortunately I didn’t.

Thirteen Chambers is a new release from Image Comics, written by Christopher “mink” Morrison, with Denis Medri on pencils. The book has all the elements you need for a good western: horses, shootouts, an old mining town and even a train robbery. It almost seemed that the intent was to cover all the elements without putting much effort or passion into them, making them mere elements rather than familiar friends that welcome you in to hear their story.

The basic story is that by Abe Lincoln commissioned thirteen marshals scattered across the country to maintain the peace.

The next president (referred to as both Mr. Jackson and Mr. Johnson in the book) decides that they are now obsolete and decommissions them. They are armed with a special pistol call a Peace Keeper that has, you guessed it, thirteen chambers, allowing it to fire thirteen bullets. Other features of the weapon make you wonder if aliens designed them.

Our hero, the thirteenth marshal, who has no name (none of the marshals do), is ordered to collect the other Peace Keepers and return them to the president as proof that all the marshals are now out of service. Of course, there are problems along the way, including a shootout that even John Wayne couldn’t have survived, yet our hero does, capping it all off with shooting an axe to split his bullet and kill two enemies? I actually enjoy that sort of thing and some of the outrageous resolutions were very creative.

It felt like they tried to cram an entire graphic novel into a two issue pilot sold under one cover. The story was rushed; the action was over way too fast. Events occur so quickly at times that I had to stop and try to figure out what happened.

At times the artwork was brilliant. The alternate cover (by Paolo Parente) is a serious attention grabber.

Other times, particularly in action sequences, the art failed to deliver. The action in one panel and the one following often needed a transition and I found myself trying to figure out if a punch really landed.

It felt like reading the story board for a movie yet to be made, knowing that the camera would fill in the gaps.

I’m sad that Thirteen Chambers didn’t work better. I loved the concept and really wanted this story to lasso me and drag me in. Don’t waste you money on this one. I wish I didn’t

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Pop Culture

Raised On Saturday Morning Cartoons by Pauline Paré North American Vampires In Television Halloween is a time for ghost and ghouls and my favourite of these by far is the vampire. Television has been a host to many a vampire including Grandpa Munster who is recorded as the first regular TV series vampire. I loved watching reruns of The Munsters and Grandpa was one of my favourite though least scary, vampires. The Munsters led way to some more serious fare. “Dark Shadows” was a spooky soap opera that aired from 1966 to 1971. Barnabus, a lonely vampire was one of the main characters in Dark Shadows. I never even saw an episode but I find the concept quite intriguing.

The first vampire I remember from television, however, is Count von Count, the obsessive counter from Sesame Street. I loved the antics of the count and I believed that math could maybe be fun (until I encountered calculus). Another vampiric children’s show, Count Duckula, aired in 1988 on Saturday morning cartoons. I never saw the show until I started the research on this article. I was in high school and too cool for cartoons, except for maybe Thundercats, which I never missed.

Canada took a chance on vampires next with the well received “Forever Knight”. Airing from 1989-1996 this show was quite a favourite of mine and featured a vampire trying to mend his ways, long before Angel tried the same gig. Nick Knight becomes a cop in Toronto, using his abilities to catch bad guys. Another Canadian vampire series “Blood Ties” was not quite so successful. Even though it was based on a popular series of novels, the series lasted only one season.

Aaron Spelling’s ill-fated “Kindred the Embraced” aired in 1996 on Fox in the US. Based on a popular collectible card game, Kindred followed a family of vampires and the story was a little bit like a prime time soap. I watched and enjoyed this series until it was pulled after only 8 episodes. In doing research for this article, I found that the actor who played the main character died in a motorcycle accident after filming only 8 episodes; a shame really. The vampires pictured in this show were rich, sophisticated and glamorous and I enjoyed the first 8 episodes.

My favourite vampires on the small screen would have to be Spike and Angel from “Buffy the Vampire Slayer”. This was an extremely successful series which also led to a spin off: “Angel”. The vampires on both shows were rich, interesting and very sexy characters. Can a show featuring vampires ever become as popular as Joss Whedon’s creations? “Blood Ties”, “Blade” and “Moonlight” tried but never got a 2nd season. I personally would love a new vampire series if it could be new and fresh.

So purchase one of these series on DVD and enjoy a blood curdling month of frights.

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