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What Fears Become: An Anthology from The Horror Zine

Page 35

by Piers Anthony


  Some say her nocturnal appearance

  Is only for amorists upon days close

  Many a romantic still wander here

  And hope for a glimpse of the roadside rose

  About Teresa Ann Frazee

  From Florida, Teresa Ann Frazee has been a visual artist for over twenty years, with juried and international exhibitions including solo shows in galleries, museums and other venues, receiving many awards and honors. At the same time, Teresa has been perusing her other love, writing.

  She is a published poet, and her works have been displayed in Skyline Magazine, Hudson Review and Poetry Shelter. Inside her world of make-believe, she paints and writes what she knows to be true. Within her creative force, she leaves reality entirely up to you.

  SEVENTY YEARS LATER

  by John Grey

  Spanish moss drips from trees.

  House sheds shingles.

  Old rusty knocker clanks

  against rotting doors.

  Cracked windows rattle.

  Floor-boards groan.

  Pipes clatter.

  Two bent and withered sisters crouch together

  in one threadbare satin chair

  amid the dust and webs

  of the ancient family sitting room.

  Older brother Tom, in tattered bloody gray uniform,

  is slumped into the shabby sofa,

  eye-sockets blank, flesh green as moss,

  but skeletal fingers still tight around his rifle.

  "Quiet out there," whispers Amanda.

  "Maybe the war is over at last," rasps Esther.

  Amanda shakes her weary head.

  "Sad. So sad. A million of our boys dead."

  "A million and one if you count Tom," adds Esther.

  CONSEQUENCE

  by John Grey

  I ask myself,

  heart and head,

  is someone there?

  There is someone.

  A shape

  like a flower

  blooming under snow.

  A wisp

  like the last draught of sun

  between the trees.

  A presence

  like the mist

  on a cold lake's surface.

  But then I wonder

  what does this visitor

  want of me.

  Memory,

  a wildflower spark

  in the thick forest

  of my forgetfulness?

  Feeling,

  a mote of tenderness

  toward all that's

  passed before?

  Revenge,

  for my living,

  its threadbare substitute

  for existence?

  So I'm sorrowful,

  sympathetic,

  and terribly afraid.

  I'm not alone

  this chilly midnight.

  Oh I have lived a dark

  and shameful life

  these past few years.

  I'm here with my consequences.

  SECOND FLOOR

  by John Grey

  I arrive by night

  as moon gilds honey

  on dark, unbuttoned wind,

  the sky in the oblivion

  of its fetal stars,

  my hunger passionate but still enraged,

  up wall, through window,

  to bedroom,

  parting the golden curls

  of your throat with my tongue,

  pressing home my bleak horizon

  with long white fangs,

  your face, a startled deer

  fetching its own end

  from the unreal thunder shake

  of my eyes,

  immense night of exalted blood,

  as ancient world inhales life,

  exhales a luscious mirror

  of my face,

  pale, feminine,

  and dripping crimson.

  HANGING TREE

  by John Grey

  Its outer limbs

  Reverberated

  against the shake

  of its dead leaves

  as if a body had

  just been cut down

  and it wasn't until

  late May that

  the reluctant sun

  finally burnt off

  the thick chunks of ice

  that shrouded

  its vein-like roots.

  About John Grey

  John Grey is an Australian-born poet, but moved to the United States in the late 1970s. During the day, John works as a financial systems analyst.

  John has been recently published in Connecticut Review, Kestrel and Writer's Bloc, and has more poetry upcoming in Pennsylvania English, Alimentum and the Great American Poetry Show.

  THE RULES OF THE ABYSS

  by Christopher Hivner

  In the tunnel

  leading from the abyss,

  I climb,

  dragging myself

  over jagged rock

  leaving trails of blood behind.

  Like teeth, the stone

  rips apart my body.

  I keep reaching,

  stretching for the next foothold,

  searching for the light.

  The darkness has existed so long

  it owns my veins

  and pumps through my fractured heart.

  I pull harder,

  inching forward over fangs of stone

  incising through my cold skin.

  The pain shuts my eyes

  and inside my own world, I see light.

  I believe in light.

  Every tunnel has a beginning,

  a source,

  and the light bursts from it.

  It must exist.

  So I re-open my eyes

  to find shards of black

  piercing my temples,

  driving through my brain

  and telling me,

  whispering to me sweet blessings

  about the easy embrace of the chasm.

  In the lull of sing-song voices

  I see a pinprick of light,

  maybe only in my world

  but maybe in the real one.

  So I reach and pull and struggle

  and the darkness recedes,

  cheated.

  LITTLE RED THE HOOD

  by Christopher Hivner

  On the way to grandma's house

  with her basket full of goodies;

  eyeballs that saw too much and

  tongues from those who can't keep their mouth shut.

  I WILL MEET YOU

  by Christopher Hivner

  I am the gathering thunder

  feel me deep in your belly

  I am the coming flood

  run, it excites me

  I will lurk in the aftermath

  to pick up your scent

  I am the voice you hear

  in the decaying midnight air

  I am the presence you feel

  at the foot of your bed, hovering, watching

  I am the light that soothes you

  I am the eyes of your lover

  I am the threads of the sheets you wrap yourself in

  Crawl to your dreams

  my sickly pet

  I will meet you there

  About Christopher Hivner

  Christopher Hivner has work published in Black October, DecomP, and Niteblade among others, and was nominated for a Rhysling Award in 2008. A collection of short horror stories, The Spaces Between Your Screams, was published in 2008.

  http://www.chrishivner.com

  WHAT IS IT?

  by Jean Jones

  When Orpheus asked his critics what they

  wanted from him, they all said, "Astonish us!"

  Can you do that? Astonish your critics?

  Robert Frost claimed that it "got lost in

  translation." And Sandburg claimed it was a sack

  "of invisible keepsakes." What is it to you?

  I w
ould claim that the key lay "In the hands,

  something in the hands, surely it must be that."

  My friend, Andrea Young, asks me,

  "Are you reaching toward being a true poet?"

  What is it, Andrea? What is it?

  Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, regarding

  the true poet the following:

  "The true philosopher and the true poet

  are one, and a beauty, which is truth,

  and a truth, which is beauty, is the aim of both.

  "My friend, Howard McCord, wrote to me and said,

  "Poetry is whisky. Prose is mash. DISTILL!"

  I still wish to be astonished.

  EVERYONE ALWAYS LEAVES THINGS BEHIND

  by Jean Jones

  Everyone always leaves things behind,

  scraps of it, for miles and miles.

  A friend once told me

  that Hell is the place

  where everyone goes

  to find the things

  they've left behind,

  scraps of it, for miles and miles.

  LAST MOMENTS

  by Jean Jones

  Have you ever seen a picture that haunted you

  of someone just

  before she was murdered,

  like those photos

  of those women and children

  at My Lai

  before they were shot to death

  their crying voices

  screaming for help

  to you

  in the land of the living?

  Yet there's nothing you can

  do about it,

  for in minutes

  photos reveal

  the dead bodies

  where the women and children stood,

  like that famous photo

  of the dead girl

  running with her murderer

  beside her

  her haunted eyes say to the camera,

  "I'm trapped,

  yet there's nothing I can do about it,

  help me," and her body

  is found days later,

  brutally raped and murdered.

  What are we to do

  with such images?

  Like the man from the Tet Offensive,

  the mayor of Saigon

  pulling out this revolver

  and executing him on the spot,

  blood spurting from his head the whole time,

  or those films of that man

  who gets his head cut off

  courtesy of the Taliban

  in Iraq or Pakistan

  butchered like pigs before

  our eyes,

  some screaming for their lives

  as the knife slits their throat...

  What are we to do with such images?

  Go back to church

  and pray for God's will?

  Rorschach, the madman vigilante

  from the graphic novel

  and movie Watchmen,

  reveals to a prison psychologist why

  he was known as Rorschach.

  After discovering a missing girl's

  bones being ripped up by the killer's dogs,

  Rorschach proceeds to butcher the dogs

  and the killer himself.

  "God was not responsible," Rorschach mumbles,

  "the killer was," and God didn't mind

  if Rorschach killed the killer as well.

  To come to the realization, as murderers do,

  that no one stops you from killing

  but yourself and some lucky breaks

  by the police is weighty stuff indeed.

  Is there truly no God?

  Maybe. Maybe not.

  But if there is a God,

  He seems unlikely to interfere

  in the killing of one human being by another,

  this same God who lifts no finger to save a fish

  from a hawk, a mouse from an owl,

  or me moving in to kill you right now.

  About Jean Jones

  Originally from Bandung, Indonesia, Jean Jones received a BA in English in 1986 from UNC-Wilmington, and an MFA in Creative Writing: Poetry in 1988 from Bowling Green State University in Bowling Green, Ohio. Jean currently teaches Basic Skills at Cape Fear Community College in Wilmington, North Carolina.

  He has had two books of poetry published by St. Andrews Press from St. Andrews College, North Carolina; the most recent, Birds of Djakarta, was released in 2008. Together with his friend and fellow poet Scott Urban, Jean Jones has had a brand new book of poems published by a brand new Wilmington, North Carolina, publisher called "Shaking Outta My Heart Press." Jean's book from that publisher is titled Tornado.

  Jean is also co-editor of the online poetry magazine Word Salad.

  http://wordsaladpoetrymagazine.com/drupal7

  TWILIGHT WINE

  by Ron Koppelberger

  An arcane substance appreciated by the stone in bloody wombs

  Of birth, the cry of the child in Wolf's Bane and sharp edged

  Spears of moonlight applause, a cunning thirst enthralled by the wont

  Of an errant wolf, a tattered dilemma of knowing

  Revelation and wild haunts in gray gallop and

  Padding purchase, the gnarled oaken taboo

  Of wolves in abeyance unto the

  Magic prayers of those who imagine

  The gift of what's given throughout and the

  Bursting promise of a midnight run, a cascade in velvet smoke and

  Starving affections in rapt fluster, in blissful darkness and frayed

  Conditions of patience in chaste flourishes of remedy, for the cares of an ancient angst in spirit, a melody in twilight wine.

  ABERRANT FEAST

  by Ron Koppelberger

  The strange gaudy orange twilight

  In evenings of snakeskin sheen and

  Lizard grace. The speckled chew in chaws

  And maws, in grinding ghosts

  And wise faerie flight. An aberrant feast,

  A cornucopia inside and out of stray

  Sated character and

  Vague, tingling horror.

  IN COMPANY WITH GHOSTS

  by Ron Koppelberger

  Thorns and passage unto the unspeakable breadths of eager

  Affair in dark reflections of ethereal ascendancy, the artifice

  In eloquent agreement with illusionary suns and dreams of reason,

  A footfall amongst the morass, between the theaters of delirium

  And sane horizons, by weary eyed ambiance, given trampled

  Petals in moss laden soils of desire, the infinite in ceaseless airs

  Of birth, by want and shadow upon shadow upon outlines in candent auras

  Of secret revelation, by the grim need for eternity and precious undoing's

  In indigo and pausing firelight, drawn unto the

  Edge of another drama, by torn twilight bidden distant at journeys end and near the faded enticements of yesteryear, a way to conclaves of shadow and

  Dusty tears of blood, valued upon the pilgrim in bonded company with ghosts and stray meandering dogs in conveyed hunger.

  STARRY-EYED DREAMS

  by Ron Koppelberger

  The promise of ash and smoke,

  Charcoal assay and cauldrons of

  Human stew. A hag in honor of the torment

  That Father Redemption predicts. The

  Convocation and the provocation

  In lead to the ravens of ancient feather.

  The stories of transfer, likened to the

  Wine of witches and starry-eyed dreams.

  About Ron Koppelberger

  Ron Koppelberger has published 217 poems and 52 short stories in a variety of periodicals. He has been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!! (Poetry Magazette), Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts.

  Ron has recently won the People's Choice Award for poetry in The Storyteller for a poem titled "Secret Sash." He is a member of
The American Poets' Society, as well as The Isles Poetry Association.

  Ron has had poetry accepted in England, Australia and Thailand. He loves to write and is always seeking to offer an experience for his readers. http://www.wolffray.blogspot.com

  LIGHTHOUSE

  by Alec B. Kowalczyk

  In the solitude

  of an abandoned lighthouse

  an unsound homeless person

  finds a journal of an unstable man

  fearing for his sanity

  fearing the compromised structural integrity

  of the crumbling lighthouse he inhabits

  fearing the gales and diverse elements

  beating upon the standing straw-like shaft

  fearing the torsional stresses

  twisting the lighthouse barrel

  fearing the bending moments

  on this vertical edifice of masonry

  fearing the shearing strains

  slicing through the mortared joints

  fearing the overturning

  of the entire brick-laid structure

  fearing the underpinning of his very mind...

  this man in the journal

  who also finds a journal of an unhinged man...

  CALIGINOUS

  by Alec B. Kowalczyk

  Hotel/predawn hours...

  looking down from the fourth floor

  a doorway illuminated below

  one minor beacon in the urban gloom

 

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