New Document
RHYSLING PORTFOLIO FOR LORI R. LOPEZ — 2021 Poems
Lori R. Lopez
lorilopez13@
contact@
Thank you for reading and considering my verse!
Poems first published in 2021:
DWARF POEMS
A Crow Is Calling
Deliberatus Mordica
Bite-Sized
A Crow is calling
A Crow is calling, such a desolate sound
Bleak and tuneless — a mournful round
Like chanting or ranting, naming and blaming
Cursing the shadows, a specter of shaming
Offering up plates with Pepper Tarts
Conducting a chorus of Lonely Hearts
For a ravenesque Rook, only one of a feather
Without a Murder, his social tether
Must cry to the night, complexion turned white
Haunting and daunting by dim moonlight.
10 lines
Spectral Realms, Issue 15, July 16, 2021
* * *
Deliberatus Mordica
Straining against bonds, reclined on a slab
An altar, it seems, for a fateful rite
While a squirming fat creature captured in pincers
Inspires revulsion at the very sight
“Deliberatus Mordica!” bids a Priestess
Drugged voices echo the fervent cry
Memory awakens — I have been chosen!
This honor bestowed, to live or die
An act of valor to survive or fall
Embracing the Leech-Snake, I risk it all.
10 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 53, Spring, April 2021
* * *
Bite-Sized
It’s all in how you look at it
Whether a treat is just the right size
To fit in your mouth and chew
Or, on the contrary, you
Are the treat and might require
Multiple bites — yet a morsel that
Would taste so good to a ghoul like me
When I open my door and reach for
You like this. Trick or treat!
Ah yes indeed. Bite-sized . . .
10 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 55, Halloween, October 2021
SHORT POEMS
The Unknown
Being Shadowed
conspiracy of cats
The ghost in the room
The starkness of bated breath
WELCOME TO RUIN
She Who Stalks Behind My Steps
The Darkout
within the cracks
The Fog Has Teeth
Gravetrotters
the silence after the scream
Howloween
Cliffhanger
Alligory
Carnival Prize
Dead Tired
The Burning Question
The Unknown
That scuttle and clicking of
claws in the night
How creepy and dramatic
is such a fright
Peering into darkness quite poorly equipped
To explain the reason I stumbled and tripped
Or whose breath I discern on
the nape of my neck
Why emotions and nerves
are a twisted wreck
Do you think you can imagine the unfathomable fear
When something uncertain scrambles near
A legion of talons,
a myriad of limbs
Scraping while thrashing
like an army of grims
And you’re faced with confronting the unforeseen
In nary a glimmer, not the slightest sheen
Of a candle’s light —
a warm lantern’s glow?
How terrible it is
to quake and not know
What slithers beyond our Comfort Zone
The space where we feel less or most alone
Confined by the Dark like
a pantomime box
Yet how we now crave
a safe place with locks!
I can tell you firsthand I should not be here
To risk losing parts that are held quite dear
The Unknown is always
not far behind
You can hear it, sense it,
turn around and find . . .
What you least expected, you hadn’t suspected
A dreadful surprise, and you’re so unprotected!
I will never forget
what I refused to see —
The something or nothing
that won’t get me!
40 lines
Spectral Realms Magazine, Issue 14, February 2021
* * *
Being Shadowed
If you never look back, you might not
realize you’re being followed. Stalked by
a sinister nothing. Shadowed by
a shady character, unobtrusively obscure . . .
hiding, gliding, striding right behind you.
Sticking to your heels like Embalmer’s Glue —
quite the opposite of Elmer’s. Dark and dry
rather than white and moist. Flat instead of
thick or goopy.
Perhaps you’d sense that something is off,
the atmosphere amiss. It can begin
as an uncomfortable sensation, like a tickle
in your toes that will drive you mad unless
it’s scratched. But you mustn’t give in to
temptation, for such would cause the beast
coiled at your wake to contort and embellish,
expand, burgeon with a great understated
muckraked abandon. Inglorious.
The savage orneriness that bursts out
when emotions explode into an oily manic
gloomfest. The worst of dreads and
frightful poses. Deliberately bland,
exquisitely overt, a bleak and ominous
inkstain. The burst black pearl of gothic
substance, raking poetic. Stark and morbid,
slashing, looming, deliverer of doom,
imperiling your nape.
This shallow creature reared, spiderish —
poised to pounce, yet stealthy and restrained
as a rug lying stretched and narrow from
the backs of your feet until it rises spine
against the wall, firmly rooted and crepuscular,
a mountainous contour of menace, the silhouette
of a monstrous behemoth, miming, mumming,
moaning . . . lingering to paw with curved
dagger-claws unsheathed.
Thrust like a jagged horrendous Bowsprit
toward the dance of wave and froth that ebbs,
fading conciliatory in the background as Night
deepens while lights dim. Shocks spark
and mutate. Electricity grows wan, the Moon
Anemic. You may even be overshadowed.
This is not to imply or say there will never be
a moment when you merge complete — wholly
absorbed. Swallowed up!
45 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 53, Spring, April 2021
* * *
conspiracy of cats
Night belongs to the howlers
The ones that roam. Singularities of sleekness
Fur and delicate features, mood-indicators
In tow, orbs bright as pale lunar eyeballs
Against an oblivious ink-drenched cosmos
Padding with the self-assurance
Of a jungle feline, until a noise
Betrays its fear — razor-edged
Ready to split the scene
Right down the center and race
On feral cat feet
Ducking to alleys like strays
Then strutting like champions
Tails proud. Punctuation Marks
Held high. Still skittish; temporarily
Conquering an aloof demeanor
A scared-rabbit image. Prowling in
Affectionate gangs. Rubbing, winding,
Hissing; getting in each other’s way
Yet it is every cat for his or her
Best interest, despite the purr-meows
And their smug conspiracy of
Nine lives. They are individually gods
With the solitude of a wolf
Who runs in a pack
But is content to go it alone
Fleet of paw and claw, wily of
Whisker and will, light as Ballerinas
They dart . . . possessing abundant confidence
Agility, clandestine phantom grace as they
Steal a look behind, peering over a shoulder
Past a hoisted Lightning Rod
The night has been theirs for millennia
We just didn’t realize, didn’t acknowledge
Their supreme aptitude and ownership
Svelte agents of shadow and dusk
Melting through the streets
Silent of stride, on stealthy cat steps
Infiltrating homes and hearts, lounging near
While humans gaze up at starry skies and
Wait for the invasion to begin. If only
We all knew; if only more could see
That it’s already here!
43 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 53, Spring, April 2021
* * *
The ghost in the room
The ghost in the room is
watching. Spying. Is it madness?
It must be madness. No, he’s there.
I know he’s there.
He’s real. I feel him watching me
from behind. Staring like a cat awaiting
dinner. I can’t turn, can’t bear
to confront him.
I sense his presence, the keen eyes,
a never-faltering gaze.
I see his blurred specter in my dreams.
Am I awake? I doubt he ever blinks,
or looks away. I am his world,
the focus of a phantom’s rapt appraisal.
For some unconscionable reason,
the center of his universe,
that unwavering unwanted attention.
Why won’t he stop? It’s maddening!
Nobody deserves this . . .
To be haunted by a relentless figure,
chilling the back of my neck!
Boring into my spine with twin icicles
of intense scrutiny, fixation, concentration —
avid unfailing interest.
Why won’t he just leave???
Die, return to the grave!
How can I be rid of the revenant’s
brooding glower? His wan reproach?
Why must he disturb me as if obsessed?
Torment me in this chamber?
This box where I cannot
escape him —
or the walls, these four
uncompromising walls that
confine me.
35 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 53, Spring, April 2021
* * *
The starkness of bated breath
My ears scream for quiet.
My eyes boast of sleepless indignation,
the burn of a candle’s both ends.
Lying awake, fighting the cold, battling
fatigue, nocturnal elements, the Twilight’s
furtive sneakers — grappling with the
exhaustion of a mind that won’t be silent.
How hard it is to outrun your demons,
real or imagined, physical or figment.
(Fooled ya, we’re emotional!)
Quaking, unable to breathe, holding it tightly.
Or chase the spirits away that
daunt and haunt you in the deep end of
Night, absent the huffiness to scream.
Fraught breaths clamor for attention,
for a sympathetic listen, gasping fishlike
with the hoarse pleas of an aggrieved throat.
Covers overhead, paper stuffed in ears,
begging for mercy from a heartless
universe of Trolls and Highwaymen.
Spurned, ignored, ghosted . . .
A parade of apparitions flit by, so many
you could never count them all,
bearing the faces of Regret, the visages
of victims — everyone you failed in some
regard, and the multitude we read about,
hear about; a bodycount too long to
remember. Or forget.
I float within myself on the bed
of mental nails that will not let me rest,
embraced by a tumult of fog, inane duress
clouding my skull. Seeking a drop
of gentle peace in the darkness of
the mind, when its shade is pulled down,
its curtain closed on the day’s final act.
Maybe it isn’t too late. Maybe
there is a chance to save it. Losing hope
is the greatest defeat. There is truly
a night with no Tomorrow, of crepuscular
dusk without end. Like a ship without sails,
left to drift alone on an empty sea . . .
no land in sight and no salvation.
Only a vast relentless gulf of oily morale
and flagging courage. On and on
toward a blank Horizon in the starkness
of bated breath. Is this like death? Is this
the Future or the Past? One day I will
float far enough, sleep hard enough to reach
the other side and heave myself ashore.
49 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 53, Spring, April 2021
* * *
WELCOME TO RUIN
When you can no longer tell
whether booms and rumbles are the
sounds of thunder and rain, the electric crackle
of a storm’s approach or distant cannons, the
impending machines and devices of combat on
the horizon . . . you are living too close
to a city called Ruin.
I should know because I was born there.
If you ever decide to visit, be sure to wear a Havoc Suit
with armor and a gleaming helmet or thick hat.
Life here is no walk at the beach . . .
It’s more like teetering on the rim of a bitter
brooding Volcano. We don’t get many Tourists or
Sightseers. If it was really a Volcano
we probably would. People love a good thrill,
the possibility of peril. Then again,
they could get that here.
Instead of raised, the land is flat
and the architecture — what’s left of it —
isn’t much to talk about. There are no
fancy effects like Flying Buttresses,
just hollow sockets without doors and windows,
ragged at the edges. We pick through
the rubble of buildings deconstructed, scavenge
the iron skeletons of towers where
construction is halted, abandoned, surrendered
to anonymous heavy-metal armies
of Cyborgs and Bots who rage and wage battles
like Chess Matches without rules
around us, over us, in spite of us,
following (we assume) a chaotic clash of
principles and masterplans, or arbitrary whims,
maniacal impulsive mayhem,
while our lungs inhale and exhale smoke,
our lips swallow ashes, and we go on about our days
believing there will be a Tomorrow,
although the odds are definitely against it.
If you pass a fried war-torn bulletholed
WELCOME TO RUIN Sign, you will
know you have come to the wrong place.
40 lines
Impspired, Issue 11, June 2021
* * *
She Who Stalks Behind My Steps
I hear her. Sliding along, dragging
A trail of ragged cloth in her wake as she
Follows in mine. Like a hound from Hades
I cannot escape the close pursuit. Furtive
Hunched, ever vigilant. Abysmal gaze vapid
Keen and empty. Glares like Black Holes
Her reeking rotten breath singes nostrils
She wears fog draped about her
A vapor shawl, fumes bleak and umbral
The cape of one who is eternal. Darkness
Her medium, a dim canvas and palette. Strokes
Intense, equally banal. Morbid as Victorian
Still-Life. Painting herself Midnight. Dabbing
A poet’s withered heart, an artist’s lost ear
Dismal and dusky-blue the mantle
Veiling a bowed head. Mistic the aura emitted
In cemetery shades of grimstone and brume
Leaked by a gaunt spirit; evanescent wisps
I sense those chilling orbs. I’ve seen them
Turned my way, reflected on a shop window
I cannot deny Misfortune’s attention
The wilted woebegone stare of tragedy
I know she’s there. I have glimpsed stark
Proof, witnessed the drab wraith-like figure —
She who stalks behind my steps! She is not
The same as me and makes no attempt
To match my walk, my pace
The length or beat of strides I take
Long skirts sweep the ground, the dirt
Feet glide or hasten out of sight. Eerie, she is
Weightless, preternatural. No rhyme or reason
For this dance of two partners faced in a row
Detached, disconnected yet together
Phantom or ne’er-do-well
I fear what will happen should I halt
What does she seek? I am terrified to
Find out! Could she be an omen, shadowing
Warning to watch my back? If she is some
Disparate harbinger plotting mischief, treachery
Awaiting the moment I pause to look —
Then what? The answer may be my last
Her presence fraught with anticipation
Near enough that we are joined as a pair
This suspenseful agony’s impossible to quell
Dangling in choreographed synchronicity
A locked scheme. A journey without finale
I dare not break this bond, her proximity
Trapped in a role of spellbound dread!
A position I fulfill to the dire end
Haunted by the remnants of Lady Luck.
50 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 54, Summer, June 2021
* * *
The Darkout
On this hilltop I wait and wince at the sight
Of that beacon on a cliff disturbing night,
Constructed as if protecting a coast;
Admonishing sailors, guard well your ghost.
Its sweeping signal a blatant ruse —
A brazen lie, and the baldest excuse!
Those flashes are aimed at a Gothic Villa:
My mountain Château named Casa Camilla.
Behind lead-glass, I pace while brooding . . .
For years my kin were confined herein,
A battle of wills no warmblood could win.
Now I am the last, still unable to kill.
I wait for a chance when brightness goes nil.
The silver-edged beam has held me at bay
Past the gilded hours of sun-drenched day.
A prisoner of Fate, from my tower of stones
I vow to escape and shall lick their bones!
I release a shout, agitation exuding . . .
The Lighthouse matches my dungeon spire,
Yet strobes each maddening burst of fire
To coat the surroundings with lethal rays
That boil the marrow a million ways.
This Eve, however, the Keeper missed.
An hour since Dusk, I cannot resist!
Down the trail I slip, cold flesh atremble.
The quivering halts as I un-dissemble.
From the Darkout sprung shall I taste a feast!
You can cage a brute but never its heart.
Mine throbs triple beats, a glorious restart.
I revel at the thrill of a chilling hunt
As a creature descends with howl and grunt
To immerse in bloodbath of visceral need.
It’s about to get messy, this act of greed.
Look away the virulent spree ahead;
In a Monster Minute you will all be dead!
Long live the return of an ancient beast.
36 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 54, Summer, June 2021
* * *
within the cracks
Under this wall’s veneer lie secrets —
inky mildewed stains so deep, so shocking,
they would cause a body’s heart to fail
should the paint or paper chip off,
peel and split apart. The plaster break,
flake, crumble dead away . . .
The walls are whispering. Nobody
hears. None will listen or heed
their quiet murmurs. Too busy brooding,
weeping over wasted moments. I could
Fill a suitcase with those, my regrets.
Phone a Taxi to haul them far.
Load them on the next departing
Flight, only to be out the cost for
the ticket when they return to Sender.
It wouldn’t relieve my mental knots,
the wrinkles and furrows carved
in the middle of the night by fears.
That’s when the walls speak loudest,
spelling out woes in fine lines, telling
tales by creases. On murals of fanciful
figures and visages, examined during
mindless reveries, the stuff of vacant
speculation. I leave a light on . . .
Too afraid the walls might close in.
Or any number of revelations occur.
Thuds and creaks. Spectral taps, groans.
Fissures are the worst for what they reveal
like windows. Houses have souls too.
Spirits abiding within the cracks.
Behind walls hiding more than mold,
cobwebs, dusty pipes. Concealing corpses
of rats and flies, cast-aside moltings from
spiders, an occasional unburied skeleton.
None can see the truth, unless with tools,
a hammer, they widen those crevices.
Prying, damaging, the dwelling’s guts
laid bare, painfully exposed. More than
wood beams, wiring, clumps of insulation.
Mysteries solved. Histories uncovered.
Residue stirred like leaves in October wind.
Even a new house is built on the past.
And sometimes the walls have eyes.
Sometimes we are not alone in an empty
room. Or discern a voice, a giggle, a noise
that cannot be dismissed. If we ignore
them — ghosts, bugbears, the ones who
came before — who will listen to us?
48 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 54, Summer, June 2021
* * *
The Fog Has Teeth
Best you not risk being out after dark
when a fey brume cascades from coast or hills,
for the vapors may harbor countless cusps
that rend and devour to cast bloodspills.
A body could lose one’s way in such drink,
when air grows as thick as the whitecapped Sea.
A step’ll turn foul unaccustomed to depths
of a swirling embrace from that heartless fury.
Encountering these words carved into stone
at the entrance of the village I chose for a night,
my steps rang out briskly I will kid you not,
gazing mouse-eyed with a tremor of fright.
Chilled by its warning, the lack of a welcome,
I hoped to move on from the place a few winks
after renting a room just to stretch on a bed —
chasing the road once I shook off the kinks.
Overtaken at once, an oppressive black layer,
dense and rolling, obscured my route.
I found myself groping, confused in the murk,
unable to see, arms thrashing about.
Rich as the smog, the smoke and ash
spewing from fire, yet muggy as a storm . . .
Writhing with rippers that danced and stung
like humid flames without any form.
Astir in the haze a myriad of gnashers,
teeming, tearing at cloth and skin!
Unprotected I flailed; the nippers prevailed.
Screams were swallowed, a muffled din.
The swarm of slashers crafted my tissue,
sculpting mayhem, a free-for-all fest.
The biters fed — microscopic hunger.
I was nearly dead by a thronging pest.
And then it passed, no corpses remaining.
The street merely damp in the wake of rain.
I crawled to the Inn, slapped at the door.
They whispered I didn’t need to explain.
“Fog in these parts can gobble your soul.
You’re lucky to survive,” a doctor reported.
I learned a rough lesson on traveling afar.
Listen to warnings, however distorted.
And even the most serene of Weather
may harbor dangers. It cannot be trusted.
I believe the clouds above are alive,
floating, observing, swimming or gusted.
Balloon-like organisms feeding on air,
absorbing moisture from water or vein.
Hovering, thirsting, waiting to pounce.
The Fog has teeth. I am not insane.
48 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 54, Summer, June 2021
* * *
Gravetrotters
Neath the vivid mantle of Autumnal hues
Lie withered husks bound for Winter’s touch.
A respite from Life’s grim debts and dues;
In these chilling moments, a temporal crutch.
Past September’s parch, by October’s Moon,
Ere November’s march of wilted bod,
As Flies thickly swarm through skies attune,
Nether masses stir, unearthing sod . . .
Corpse or spook they danse aligned in reason,
Roaming as hordes of phantoms and rotters —
Decomposure-clad, for this is their season,
Arisen to lurch born of tatters and totters.
Feral and grimy with stalking in mind,
Unsleepy and hollow, returned to the streets.
Grody are they who traipse ill-defined,
Released of cold grips to stump for treats.
Called by the wolves and droning throngs.
Led by a choir of grumbles and hums,
Random or prone toward a-righting wrongs —
They shamble like blistering bums . . .
As the Living rejoice in a Candy Parade
And pretend they are not afraid of ghosts,
Each could be called for a Death Promenade.
We are none immune to the Reaper’s ripostes.
For the Tomb conceals nary soul in its vault
Once the knells of Fate toll our names.
The gruesome resurrected no shroud will halt.
What the Darkness lures, the Light reclaims.
Fall, the most decadent slice of a pie;
The dreariest, starkest, yet brightest flower;
Demanding her riches of Gold and Cat’s-Eye,
While awaiting the chime to devour!
Step merry whichever side you abide
At the Witching Hour of restless plotters.
When the curtain yields, no place to hide
From unbridled waves of gravetrotters.
36 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 55, Halloween, October 2021
* * *
the silence after the scream
All I could hear was that scream.
Lasting forever. This is no exaggeration.
I still hear it, like the worst case of
ringing in the ears on record.
My head is splitting. I can’t make it
halt — the axe-cleaving racket of a thousand
Torture Chambers. A lifetime of
sixteen-siren blazes jangling to High Heaven,
wringing every drop of empathy out!
Compassionless, I am squeezed dry to the bone
by a banshee chorus. A Hellelujah Choir of angels
whose wings have been plucked.
The scream endures, and with it my conviction
there is something entirely eldritch at hand,
a malevolence or deed of the sinister,
a presence of the supernatural unearthly type —
some treachery far beyond the range or realm of
comprehension. There are limits. Even in this
sanctum. Man or beast, human whine or animal wail,
it defies a reasonable conclusion. In fact, the tongue
would tie knots attempting to explain what cannot
be fathomed. Nor could I hope to compete with
an unbearable volume. These words are all I might
offer, smeared in scarlet letters on a white canvas,
the page of a wall, for lack of paint or pen. Back then
I had no distance from the suffering tone . . .
from the agonizing peal slicing through me like
infectious disease, a contagion of terror; transmitting
indescribable wretchedness; leaving no sane
or safe ground to hunker and hide until its end.
I became part of the madness, sharing a common
experience, unwilling not to listen. Gravely engaged;
somberly attracted by frequency, intensity, proximity.
My life taken over, and to this day, a victim as much as
a witness . . . of what? Fate? Fury? A deafening
blinding force that claimed me, controls me,
crushes me in its blasting wrenching withering grasp.
Will it ever — just — stop???
There, you’ve begun to hear it too. You have!
And I — it can’t be true — at last I detect
something else! Oh, such exquisite joy! Thank you,
for accepting my burden . . . relieving, releasing me . . .
But no, no, it’s impossible, it can’t be!
The silence after the scream —
is so much worse.
45 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 55, Halloween, October 2021
* * *
HOWLOWEEN
Axe-murderous rain slashed an indigo lane,
a rare and brutal tempest, drowning the city with
chilling ferocity. Carving chaos, cleaving roofs
and canopies, hacking the frail domes of
Impressionist Umbrellas to figurative shreds.
Raging and vicious, a frenzy, a tantrum that none
could anticipate or guard against, let alone
extinguish. There was no shelter far enough
from its spite, as if driven by a relentless mood.
Then the atmosphere shifted; the black drops
of bile halted and lamps became visible in
an aftermath of suspended belief.
Shadows lean and long tilted upstreet, cast
by a spindly race of giants. Drawn by thick
strokes of ink and madness on pale walls.
Footsteps, a steady ulterior beat, advanced
and receded at equal measure. Out of the wild
forsaken heart of solitude emerged a figure
hunched to ward off skulking creatures that
she might meet. Harboring a state of wariness
toward the night’s dour unsightly denizens, her
posture prone to accumulated acts of defiance
gathered inside, she scurried a path of washed
stone and brick to a faded Cinema . . .
And purchased a ticket, Second Row Center,
the next Matinee. “It’s already started.” A tinny
voice from the Box Office, like one of those
crank Fortuneteller Machines activated by
a coin. Entering the dark interior, a scattered
audience occupying back rows, she descended
to the pit as if duty-bound. A monster upon
the screen paid little heed while the hooded
straggler sidled to her seat, a silhouette crossing
in a crouch. Then the Fourth Window cracked.
“You were late.” A deep timbre stabbed; her
chest constricted as she slumped. “Sorry.”
Golden orbs swiveled, aimed a lupine glare.
“I do this for you.” Embarrassed, Red slouched
further down, endeavoring to hide in her seat.
“I know.” A beast resumed the role, in the act
of terrifying a hiker. The mark fought, surprising
the Werewolf, thrusting a blade. The broad knife
wielded by Hunters. A Lycan bled, reproachful.
“You distracted me.” The menace revived
and claws ripped, a furious swat, messier than
necessary. “You’re the only one I can talk to!”
Mopping her face, Red crumpled a tissue.
“I really wish you wouldn’t,” she mourned.
“But it’s Howloween!” roared a Wolfwoman.
“The day you visit your dear old Granny.”
50 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 55, Halloween, October 2021
* * *
Cliffhanger
The verbal warning resounded. My glass jittered with
an unsteady amber lake, panic swirling in its murky brew.
Distracted, I viewed a slow jarring dance toward the edge.
There are reasons you might convince yourself of lies,
yet I could think of no excuse to believe these claims.
Without question I did, accepting, cringing at the words.
The hoarse tone. “He occupies dim regions, inspecting,
watching from nightmares. You’ve stirred interest . . .
been noticed and tagged. He’s coming.” A sharp hiss.
I could have reached for the glass, interrupted its trek.
Whispers continued. “There’s a dark vibe. An aura.
Half-sensed. Opaque. You’ve got it. A Glim-Life.”
“What does that mean?” I rasped. My friend replied,
“The path your shadow takes when you aren’t looking.
Behind your back! Beyond the pale, the circle of light.”
Appalled, I experienced a chill like Déjà Vu. Qualms,
a strong quiver rocked my shoulders. The door jangled.
A Death Knell. Bleak steps. My companion gasped.
Sliding from her seat, she fled the Diner — an act of
desperation. Escape. No goodbye. Peripherally
I glimpsed a body stagger by the window, gone.
As if swept in a Tempest, a great roiling wind
that pulled her, plucked her forth to hurtle away.
Severing our bond, a brief filament of affinity.
The presence paused. Then settled across from me.
Embral as a flame. Subdued, indistinct. Burning out.
A figure on the verge. Straining orbs and neck to see . . .
I couldn’t turn my face. Joined without consent.
Rigidly transfixed. At its tipping point, the cliffhanger
spilled. Glass shattered in cacophonous profusion.
Attention locked, indirect, unfocused. An impression
of liquid fire. The gaze flickered, seared, penetrated my
skull — a blinding, deafening, mind-rending conclusion.
“You do not belong here!” The bellow flared, scorched,
lashed. Retribution throttled my screams. An accusation
lingered, an echo I couldn’t unhear. A thousand slaps!
A ringing sting of rebuke far mightier than the grim
approaching tremor that rippled and quaked my
too-sweet beverage, now puddled over dingy tile.
“Return to your side!” roared the Shade-Catcher.
Causing me to cower, afraid of that cold alabaster
visage, worm-colored lips, hairless dome . . .
Claws tore trenches in Formica. Electric flashes
of white-hot light strobed at the fringes of my vision.
I dissipated, condemned back to a flat sullen plane.
A meager semblance of being — a mere imitation
of living — a two-dimensional existence trailing,
copying. Never again to taste the sublime.
A tall drink of Iced Tea with Lemon.
49 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 55, Halloween, October 2021
* * *
Alligory
If you’re headed down to the local Swamp
Don’t let it be known full of too much pomp
Better watch where you step and never stomp
Or the Gator may snatch you in one fell chomp!
She’s long and mean, about twice as smart
She might even give you a little headstart
Each tooth like a thick and wavy dart
A mouthful of spikes to rip you apart!
They say Mizzybelle has a taste for men
And will drag fools deep to her watery den
Enjoy a nice snack again and again
Toying with prey in a turbid playpen.
For those who wrestle with “Alligories”
Of Fabulous Monsters to tell the stories
How they ventured through wicked territories
Like symbolic Hunters in search of glories . . .
You can’t blame a Beast for being scary
Or giving chase to a warm adversary
The intrusive type who’s less than wary
And lacks respect of the Legendary.
Mizzybelle’s domain is muddy and bleak
Should ya bump with a moss-coated log, do shriek
When that driftwood grins and takes a peek
Start paddlin’ home in a lightnin’ streak!
The most important rules around this drink —
Steer clear the stumps or you may sink
And don’t tip the Pirogue or in half a blink
You’ll be sailin’ faster than a Tiddly-Wink!
Now best be attentive or you’ll regret
Not listening well before you’ve met
The doomful chops of the Bayou’s Pet
A-slidin’ and glidin’ underneath the wet.
What’s that in the water? I leaned too far!
That Mizzybelle’s bite is an awful jar
As she lunges high from her dim Boudoir.
Losin’ my head’s bound ta leave a scar.
36 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 56, Winter, December 2021
* * *
Carnival Prize
The Creepy Carnival comes to town with sly secrecy.
Unannounced. I stumble across their lights, black tents,
strains of Organ Music by chance. And yet by Fate.
In a daze, a dull haze I stroll a maze of gaudy aisles,
lured by exotic intoxicating aromas: Popcorn fumes,
Caramel Apples, Cotton Candy, greasy French Fries.
Passing myriad Games hawked by grinning Venders:
Test your skill! Try your luck! Give it your best shot!
I take the bait — the darts, rifles, rings — for free.
And lose each time. They pressure, invite, entice,
bamboozle to go again . . . until my life has become
the Prize! Attention hooked, I am forced to play.
At last the bells, the whistles, the buzzers blare.
“You’ve won!” They all cheer; I think they leer
as I claim a long green furry Snake. A silly toy.
Perspiring with immeasurable relief, I exit the Fair:
towing a Serpent by the tail through dirt; stunned
to survive, a host of weirdos waving Goodbye.
My steps quicken. I race to place some distance
between — and toss Jake The Snake in a corner.
Climbing in bed, I cringe and quake, teeth achatter.
The sudden adventure verged on disaster. I feel lucky
to be home. Eventually I emerge from hiding under
a pile of blankets. The Snake is somehow coiled.
I sit and stare, wondering if the thing could be alive.
A ridiculous notion. But time after time I discover him
moved, like a creepy doll. Ever so slightly changed.
The creature gives off dreadful vibes! I lock him upstairs,
then hear a series of thumps. Bumps. Rattles and scuds.
Directly above. I can’t rest or think, terrified of Jake . . .
Who thrashes on the floor, my ceiling. Knocks things over.
Angry it seems. I view the shadows in terror and distrust —
as I consider packing up, fleeing to another City or State!
My luggage is up there. A supply of trunks, cases, crates.
I plot his capture, giddily contrive of trapping him in a box,
shipping the Viper back to his sudden Macabre Carnival.
The Traveling Show had as swiftly departed — gone
in a blink without leaving a clue, the least footprint
or trace; vanished entirely from this plane of mundanity!
Rising to the Attic, determined to face my starkest fears
and confront Jake bearing a pitchfork and a plan, I am
aghast, struck numb, beholding a critter as real as me!
Flesh and scales, tongue flicking, orbs unblinking.
No longer a Carnival Prize, the Serpent dances . . .
Entranced I gape. I gawp. I topple downstairs.
Broken, dragging myself, striving to flee the Python,
I paint a scarlet trail, writhe like a scared Gardensnake,
followed by the gloating gluttonous gleeful Jake —
Who will soon be stuffed in more ways than one!
49 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 56, Winter, December 2021
* * *
Dead Tired
Like a cat’s meow so mournfully expressed . . .
Digging deep, a needle-fingered stab at a body’s
Softer regions. An undertone that’s been dragged
Below the Bus and ironed flat, steamrolled to Oblivion.
Desolated beyond the brink of post-fatigue and being
Able to nap; in need of a thousand or more years
To relax enough and doze in an eternity of peace.
A pooch too weary to yawn, beset by Sandman
Grit in dunes of exhausted dust, the Hinterland
Of wasted energy spent in grainy minutes leaked
From a broken Hourglass; a prematurely expired
Parking-Meter. Joints and muscles slung sagging
Beneath bones like hammocks on a deserted isle
Where only the Tide and Crabs are active.
I have no strength remaining in me except
To wrap myself darkly and mantle swollen orbs,
Shutter the windows of the soul and greet Nocturne.
Allow her numbing drowning current to wash over —
Pull my slack and lifeless form beyond these cares,
Everything I know. And slumber in the midst of
Calm, dead tired to the world. Unable to budge.
A soaked body dragged onto a perilous shore.
Yet somehow awake, cognizant, so exhausted,
So fatigued, I cannot summon energy to sleep . . .
The strength to dream. Nor can I stir a muscle
Hearing the door, a step, slight maddening sounds!
I am not alone, I’m sure of it! When I should be —
Locked in a solitary snooze. A remote setting.
Limp and next to lifeless in this state of unrest.
My own island. Paralyzed, practically comatose.
Aware yet detached. Listening, heart lunging,
Dread growing like a shadow on a wall . . .
I can do nothing but wait, eyelids no protection
From the treacherous advance. Brain firing
Shots that have no effect in the gloom.
How could I permit myself to languish, let go?
To lie here vulnerable, my fortress ajar, defenses
Lowered, the overcautious guard I am known for —
Obsessively rigid about — all but abandoned?
Why would I invite such peril to my door?
A recurrent Bad Dream of being helpless,
Ignorant, privacy intruded, security invaded!
Unsafe. Confined by a dismal weakened state,
My barriers suspended. Left open to attack!
How will I survive? What can I possibly use
To escape this pervading sense of doom?
Frozen in place, like a corpse on a frigid slab,
I await the certainty of The Reaper’s blade.
No ramparts thick enough; no tower as tall . . .
That grim nether-reach will stop a heart cold.
50 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 56, Winter, December 2021
* * *
The Burning Question
I traveled a lane, fog-glistened, vapor-drenched,
to the brink of my refuge, crossing a threshold . . .
embraced by the cold black stillness of a shelter
occupied alone. Or so I thought — until
the perfidious strides that entered behind
with hollow treads. All subsequent sounds,
however slight or misgiven to grief,
would inspire jolts. An iron rattle, the scrape
of tin, a creaking board, a sigh or moan,
the chatter of rain against glass. Echoing,
eerily intense. Pummeling my soul, my sanity
to wreckage like timbers of a ship wrenched
apart by waves in a stormy umbral sea.
You were gone. The burning question
lingered. Haunted. Endured.
The spirit attempting to take your place,
inhabit a makeshift metallic home, trailing
from the Cemetery, could never fill this vault
of emptiness. The gulf of your departure.
Heavy with sorrow, wrapped in a shroud both
guilt and shackle, I ignored all signs except
the pounding tempest. Grateful to outpace
the worst of its lashing tumult and frigid beads.
Hopeful I might heal — if only the phantom
throb of your heart would still!
Moody, I studied that thing in the corner:
a hand, meager bones, their flesh ungloved,
clinging to a wheel in a rusted Oldsmobile.
Archaic-sounding, a decrepit husk of steel
and time-eaten upholstery. The rest of
the driver encased by casket and tomb.
Wind howled as I holed up with a relic parked
in a ramshackle ruin, staring at the shell of
a bygone age: fanciful and bleak, removed
to a slumbering-place, a warehouse where
I abided. There were ghosts in the night and
I walked among them, whiskered, visiting your
grave, a moth to candle, knowing I could burn.
Greedy for warmth, a crumb of affection where
none remained. Only the vacant stare of a fey
specter, thoughtless and cruel to remind me of
you. Hungry for sustenance and lacking the belly
to hold a meal, juices to digest what nourished
the living yet withered and rotted in the gut
of a ghoul. I had no compassion left —
no patience to explain for ears that would
never listen. “Leave!” A hoarse demand.
“You don’t belong here. It’s too late.”
It was my coffin. My fist on the wheel
of your demise. “Too late to answer now.”
50 lines
The Sirens Call E-Zine, Issue 56, Winter, December 2021
LONG POEMS
SMILE
Delivery
Biting Sarcasm
The Man With One Head
The Cellar Under the Morgue
Plague
The Last Final Girl
Creatures of The Macabre
The Costume
Fools Afloat
road to Nowhere
Stocking Up for the Apocalypse
The Report
The Black Fog
Skin-Deep
The Haggards
The Bluster
A Shiftless Spirit
Before The Plague
Epic Rain
The Cliff
Castle Keep
SMILE
A black and white day
Like an old photograph that has
History, once a scrap of memory, the record
Of an event or simple candid moment
Trapped behind glass
A conspicuous fish to be gazed at in a bowl
On a table or shelf. There’s a tree
Near the edge of the frame
Unable to avoid being included, part of the
Scene decorating a mantel
Tucked in a musty album or scrapbook
I see a weatherbeaten facade
Unpainted, filling the background
Two stark figures at the fore, side by side
Nowhere to escape, squinting curiously
Toward the lens of an outsider. Clad in faded
Tatterdemalion threads; ragamuffin country urchins
Apple-cheeked and guileless. A little shy
Or is it fear? They couldn’t know their aspects
Would be captured, collected as
Souvenirs. Pose for me.
A glib request; a disarming grin
The stranger tall and elegant
As men and women appear in colorless classic
Films; the kind who aren’t roughhewn,
Stoic, coarse-mannered. He snaps a photo
With nonchalance, an easy casual air, and tips
A brim, a gray Fedora
Dark against a white sky. The day
Has a neutral overcast feel. Turning
He climbs in his automobile, aristocratic
Self-assured, smug of demeanor
Wearing a suit and a smirk
The boy and girl wave, staring while he
Motors away down an empty stream of asphalt
Then shrinks to a dot, a mere glint that
Flares and is gone. The kids
Do not resume playing, chasing in a circle
Kicking dust — but stand immobile —
Statues. They cannot forget the Photographer
Who pulled off the road on a whim and
Will not forget them, for his camera
Took more than their picture
It snatched who they are
Faceless, they no longer resemble
Brother and sister but a pair of featureless
Store Mannequins, robbed of
Matching eyes, intrinsic looks, a key factor
In their identities if not their humanity
What made them special. Removed, lost in the
Theft, erased. Twin mugs having shaped how
Each viewed the other and themselves
Extracted simultaneously through a shutter
A mechanical Photo-Synthesis
I watched it all behind glass
My mouth agape. A witness, seated
On the passenger-seat of a Family Sedan
Parked outside The Sunup Cafe where
My mother had stopped to order food
We would eat in the car to avoid paying a tip
I thought the Waitress in the window
Deserved better and sympathized before
Noticing the man arrive
His License Plate read SMILE
The guy winked at me, striding to depart . . .
Young, less certain, I said and did nothing
Until I found the portrait on a wall
By then it was far too late.
67 lines
Illumen Magazine, Winter Issue, January 2021
* * *
Delivery
A symphony of moisture plays
its hollow taps and pings,
resounding in concordance,
a billion or so plucked strings.
Shotgun blasts of Thunder
crash and volley overhead,
as drops increase their tempo
and a stomach growls unfed —
Hunger swiftly answered
by a knell that chimes on cue.
Belly grumbling, I arise
to give the devil’s due.
“Coming! Hold your horses!”
Eager fingers fumble locks,
then drag a heavy portal back,
revealing Chicken Pox . . .
Or some related ailment
resulting in red spots!
A pasty-visaged twerp behind
a rash of polkadots
toes the line of perspicacity,
clasping my To-Go.
He might’ve licked the Order,
snuck a taste for all I know.
Electric bolts, a blinking bulb
strobelight an anxious nerd.
I accept the sack and ditch it
with an understated word.
The only other sound the rain —
such music to my ears!
Delightedly I grab his shirt
and justify his fears.
The next ill-fated sap arrives,
hugging a plastic crate,
and blares “I’m from the Market!”
I greet my dinner date.
“Come inside. How nice to meet you!”
The grin a little broad.
My orbs the size of Tangerines,
imagining him clawed . . .
A pattern of bright hashmarks;
crisscrossed by scarlet stripes,
like the menu for a Werewolf
bearing tracks of wicked swipes
guaranteed to leave a scar,
but that isn’t my affliction.
The handiwork I do
isn’t based in lore and fiction.
“Just bring the items in.”
“You sure that’s all you need?”
He lugs four jugs of Bleach . . .
to scrub where morsels bleed.
“I’m on a special diet.”
My edges become sharp
with talons and long cusps.
I roll him in a tarp.
This time no storm to muffle
a piercing shout or screech,
but I live out in the country
and lack neighbors it could reach.
My bane demanding human flesh
to satisfy Consumption
has kept me isolated,
running low on strength and gumption.
Relying on deliveries,
I had never learned to hunt.
There is no instinctive rage;
no desire to growl or grunt.
The world has its Infections
as I dwell in near-seclusion.
I only kill to eat.
That should clear up your confusion.
My invitation stands.
Should you wish to look around,
I’ll restrain my urge to feed
in return for nothing found.
I claim the careless ones
who refuse to wear a mask
though they have no vaccination.
Stay away is all I ask.
80 lines
Illumen Magazine, Winter Issue, January 2021
* * *
Biting Sarcasm
It’s raining teeth out there! Striking
a metal roof, colliding, bouncing, clattering
in a hail of stone throws, pebble blows,
a tinny resounding dash and ding of
hollow cascading staccato bites, as if
the heavens endeavor to munch through
the ceiling and rend me to bits — saw me to
a thousand halves — rip garish red ribbons
with fangs and incisors, nipping
and stripping to the bone!
I wasn’t born here.
Frigid spasms quake me. The night
spills onto my abode its rampant assault,
a racketous bombarding fervor I have come
to dread in this stark brutal place where
no sense of order and calm may exist,
only fits and furies, violent psycho-delic
breaks in the gray pall of a dismal atmosphere.
Flash-floods of misery open up in bursts
between days of maddening drought,
lightning strobes of intense disaster.
Into this hell I fell, out of a drowsy state.
Reason holds no sway, Reality force-fed
to dungeon beasts beneath a bristled demeanor
in this sordid space. Life a form of
stagnant death, withered and suffering aloud.
No explanation defines it, no purpose.
There is merely a chorus of noises like
shaking a glass jar of marbles and iron bolts,
while the how of a body’s exile down the drain
of its domain whispers too quiet to interpret,
replaying over and over in one’s head.
A bottomless storm of pellets.
Squeamish orbs screw tight against the gore
invoked by manic downpourings, bleak assails;
caustic raps, taps, claps and browbeats;
an echoing clamor in weather-drenched detail,
in nightmares carving me raw with fright
for the savageness of their appetite, their
ravenous riotous hurl. Strident, cacophonous,
drumming, pummeling like stones upon
steel, battering dreams of vessels
that cut waves through oily resonance.
From the din there is no rest, and no return.
Voyaging limits beyond measure, across
oceans of burgeoning billowing voids, currents
that crush the edges of coasts into eroded rubble
coating ivory beaches, glimmering reaches
of nethral shores on which the sands wandering
Infinity collect, heaped in cosmic corners.
Pulled like teeth out of mindless reveries, drawn
like grinning Helium-filled balloons on tethers
back to the underrealm, scattering the floor
of a subterrain that bates its ragged breath.
At Dawn’s break I sweep them up to save in jars.
If only rain could be soft, not hard as rock,
not peppering shacks and huts and keeping the
climate pulse, a tempest of sarcasm.
If only it could be candy-coated like Gumballs,
sweet or sour to the taste, showering tooth
and gum. But wistful thoughts resemble
clouds, floating beyond touch — elusive wads
of smoke or lint that lack essential substance,
a silver-lining. Flimsier than Fool’s Gold,
crumbling to worthless dust in your grasp.
Neath a pelting deluge, a perennial torrent . . .
Huddled with clenched knees, gritted molars;
at once cold and clammy to the depths of my gist,
the epitomes of saturated pits, I listen for
a Morse-Code meaning telegraphed from some
murky morbid trench at the base of the blackest sea:
a pearl of wisdom waiting to be discovered
in a Treasure Chest swallowed by mistral tides
of gloom as I hunker wide awake, aware of
the deafening percussive dance’s descent
that my bludgeoned mind can never unhear.
The Universe has a strange sense of humor.
77 lines
Spectral Realms Magazine, Issue 14, February 2021
* * *
The Man With One Head
They dubbed him a freak, a circus reject.
He might be a nice fellow, the type to respect,
if they could only overlook his glaring flaw —
plainer than the nose or the cut of his jaw
on a visage that wasn’t exactly wrong . . .
No aspect he possessed did not belong.
In adding up virtues, there was much to subtract.
A dozen fingers couldn’t count what he lacked.
The list would be long of tallying crosses,
of tipping the scales to weigh Albatrosses.
It was widely known a pair of heads beat one,
and less than two-faced was superior to none.
Losing his noggin he would have none to spare!
Loaning an ear in a show that he cared,
what he heard would be slanted, all the same sided.
No balance or logic. Severely divided.
So tragic a figure seemed best to ignore —
a man with one head, a wretch to the core!
Misshapen, a defect, abandoned by his mother?
No kindred embrace. Unlike any other.
A walking weirdo, the man with one head
was impossible to accept, an object of dread
who frightened small kids and the elderly
from his state of single-minded abominy.
I wished I could salvage this hopeless case
beyond the hands of a Surgeon to replace
an absent gourd, those missing features;
a poor self-image, the strangest of creatures.
I pitied the outcast, what he had to endure:
the suffering and hatred, a lifetime impure.
In a world where perfection ranked too high,
the man with one head was no regular guy.
His abnormal traits were innate to detest,
like elevating paleness above the rest.
A Color Scale served to determine worth,
a Waistline Tool for measuring girth.
Blanching and Dieting topped the charts
on a globe obsessed with Appearance Arts.
The lowest of the low were in their own class,
yet high-level citizens did not get a pass.
You could fail any day to live up to codes.
The Scores diminished as a cliffside erodes.
Existing by numbers meant yours may be up!
The man with one head held an empty cup
since the Novelty Shoppe closed, out on the street;
begging for kindness, for something to eat.
I could not risk detection or coming up short,
disregarding him daily to avoid a Report . . .
My noses averted in case of bad smell.
Sensing he smiled and would wish me well.
50 lines
Spectral Realms Magazine, Issue 14, February 2021
* * *
The Cellar Under the Morgue
“Is this where the bodies are buried?”
Delivered as a joke — in an uneasy manner.
The Patient stifled a laugh or scream.
“Where am I?” A nervous query.
The figure faced away, rigid yet serene.
Head slightly bowed. A statue or a Nurse?
The angel turned, pale as White Marble.
“Under the Morgue.” A distant reply.
“Is my surgery done?” Shaky, rising off
an unyielding surface, afraid to ask the outcome.
A meager gown did nothing for the chill.
He stumbled, feeling inept. “This is awkward.”
Baby steps. A gesture at curved molds
shaped like Grave Markers. Hollowed-out
Tombstones. Frames lacking substance.
No name or date; awaiting. “What are those?”
Intense, she granted a smile, the kind that
can mask unthinkable notions, the very worst
of plots. He marveled at perfect features.
“I drugged you.” As if spoken from afar.
Her broad stony orbs could have been ice.
A cool sculpted hand lifted to caress his cheek.
The contact, light, almost imagined, burned.
“Wheeled you here.” A quiet boast.
How it scorched! The truth. That touch.
His jaw sank. No sound emerged. His heart
thrashed. A fish on land. A fallen bird.
“My daddy tinkered.” Cryptic and faint.
The flopping subsided. His mouth gaped,
askew. Vocal Chords strained — rasping for
words, as fists uncurled bore garish prizes.
“You needed work.” Scarcely audible.
Ears embedded; occult symbols in each palm!
His thumbs were missing, removed, protruding
hornlike over temples. “No!” wailed a freak.
“Now you’re beautiful.” Too soft, exultant.
He sensed the digits without reaching —
sewn, fused in crazed symmetry. Outraged,
unsteady, glaring, he whirled to escape . . .
“My father’s workshop.” So dim her voice.
And viewed the steel slab beneath a lamp.
Medical devices. Scalpels, Forceps, a Bone Saw.
He raised his hands to either side of his face.
Loud and clear behind him: “Stay with me.”
The man could hear through his palms, beside
his mug. Turning back, he noticed she too was
marred. One of her eyes blinked on her hand.
She lowered it. “Aren’t we wonderful?”
He beheld a scar, flesh rough, sealed to hide
an empty socket. And felt ashamed of staring,
of treating her features as deformed. Ugly!
“We’re both unique.” He offered an open hand.
Their fingers locked. She chattered, beaming.
“We only bury the mistakes. I knew you’d be
the one! My poppa made you just for me.”
Her beau drew her near. “The perfect pair.”
He chose to ignore a field of Headstones
in a corner of the earthen cellar floor. Love
is blind. At last he found his match . . .
Simultaneously cured of being all thumbs.
60 lines
The Ladies of Horror Flash Project, Spreading The Writer’s Word, February 24, 2021
* * *
Plague
It was going around, spreading willy-nill;
relentlessly catching. Through proximity,
climate and habitat. In the rain and wind.
None could be certain how. By magic spell?
A clump of dour Physicians in drab archaic
garb reflecting the somber mood, stark setting,
marched in huddled unison, heads and noses
curved forth, mimicking a murder-plot of Crows.
Deep rumbles in the background of gray-lidded
skies as the day growled. This brooding flock
anonymously robed and hooded, faces concealed,
crossed a vacant courtyard under a variety of hats.
Black funereal brims, Corvid beaks, arriving at
double doors half-closed while a torrent spilled.
The bunch disbanded to single-file, unable to
penetrate the opening (they tried, a clumsy knot).
Led by one, the tallest of the nine, these birds
entered a hall as a river stained red washed
behind: a scarlet stream of mercy-killing
rinsed off hooked bills and lank oil-cloth coats.
A trail of death. Serious, rigid, the cadre of
Medics regarded each other as best they could,
encased crown to toe in the strange costume
of Plague Doctors, as if it were The Dark Ages.
Or Halloween. It was a time of contagion, a novel
Pandemic. But the age was modern, as every new
year must be. Luther removed a Derby and stated,
“We did what we could here. All were doomed.”
“Cleansing, not curing! The work of soldiers.
We are healers.” Calvin, with a narrow Fedora.
Luther stepped toward him. Crimson goggles
glared. “Do you know of a cure? Then share it!”
Pacing inside a circle, hat in place, words muffled,
Luther intoned: “Isolation faltered. Technology,
advances of Science failed to protect us. Panic,
paranoia travel with the illness, but we prevail.
Lacking proper equipment, Hazmat Suits in
short supply, a desperate mind gazed to the
Past. It might seem primitive, out-of-date,
and yet we survive. We are proof we can beat it.”
Luther halted right before the smallest form,
who bowed panting. Unwell. “Perhaps I have
spoken too soon. Are you okay, Doctor Luce?”
An intense query. She gave him a thumbs-up.
He persisted. “Let me see.” The shake
of a damp Beret-topped head. The Derby
demanded, cutting: “Remove your mask.”
Disobedience. Reluctance. Her gloves rose . . .
To unfasten a snout and still she hesitated,
refusing. After so many hurdles, obstacles
to be admitted and qualify, to keep herself
unemotional, and for this! A cruel massacre!
Rebecca had feelings. Horrified tears and
anguish flowed. Also doubt and trepidation
gave her pause. What would they do if they
glimpsed her secret? That she had weakened.
Succumbed. She bore the trademark of
the disease. Though she did not eat eggs
or fowl, any type of meat. Solely plants.
The malady now passed between humankind . . .
From those infected, some without any
sign. Bec was not as lucky. Revealing
herself must expose a clear symptom!
Would fellow Empirics have no heart —
And treat her the same as the victims
put out of their misery because they
were changed, impure? Luther reached
forth to unstrap a dripping ravenesque visor.
And slowly unveiled a revised aspect,
wincing at strange features — Avian,
matching the Mask; the semblance of
a Rook. Extracting a lengthy blade to slay her . . .
“Behold the Apocalypse!” he raged.
Viewed only as a beast, the female
tore free to cry, “Behold the Future!”
An echo of brisk footfalls would ring.
Calvin stood for a frozen instant —
wishing the world could return to
a degree of sanity, unity, sympathy.
Blood wept. A warm heart went cold.
80 lines
Spectral Realms, Issue 15, July 16, 2021
* * *
The Last Final Girl
A black and gray man like an old-time photo depicting
the impoverished lifted watery eyes bleeding tears, dim
and dull as the surface of stagnant ponds.
He spoke in harsh paranoid whispers, confiding his
worst secret. Clutching my left shoulder, in torment,
muscles of his face screwed tight . . .
“Nobody gets those monsters, ya know? Where they
come from. Why they’re here. Culling! Reaping!
They took my sweet Beulah.”
Heads bowed, we shared an endless aching interval
of despair. “I’m sorry.” It was a human thing to offer —
far from the spires of civilization . . .
The littered concrete corridors of diseased battle zones
prowled by relentless husks of shambling former people;
vacant shells with voracious hunger.
“Ate her like savage beasts!” A crinkled pair of lips
pouted. “That hound was all I had. My whole world.”
I pictured the moment. His loss . . .
Cadaverish fiends robbed me as well — limping out of
deep shadows. Surprise! I should have smelled their rot,
their spoiled flesh. A dead giveaway.
I blamed myself for the suddenness. My lack of wary
attention. Too little sleep, too much stress. I felt like
a zombie, part of the crowd . . .
Ironic. That was a goal of mine as an unpopular kid —
to belong; acceptance. Not anymore. Rule Number One:
Avoid all contact. Don’t get close!
I keep breaking the rule. I didn’t hear a single snarl
or step. They swarmed us, a pack of four. I miss her.
I needed a friend. We bonded . . .
Close as sisters. Family. I was an only child, an orphan.
It meant a lot to have someone. I felt so isolated and torn
when they burned then buried my parents.
Victims of The Great Flu, before The Z-Virus. Bereft,
I found Kat — short for Kathleen — hiding in a rusted
Van. Sixteen months after a new outbreak . . .
Terrified of being alone, we teamed up and became
independent, unflinching, staunch. A pair of Final Girls.
Confident; capable of anything together.
Still we searched for a group. That concept no longer
exists. Infection spread. None could be safe. No stranger
trusted, whether from germs, a foul nature . . .
Seeking food, shelter. Abandoned buildings a risk —
lairs or traps for bodies we didn’t wish to greet. It was
a Supermarket that led to her demise.
I dragged Kat’s corpse to hold a funeral. A memorial.
While I dug a hole she changed, crawled to the grave,
leaped upon me! I swung my spade . . .
And lived another hour. Another day. Sometimes by luck.
We learn not to relax. I don’t know how we endure the
shock; the constant continuous threat.
It wears you down. For those we lost, the brutal wait
is over. The interminable tension, grueling strain . . .
The constant gnawing numbing fright . . .
Always braced for a mindless attack. Cringing, watching,
every direction at once. Seldom able to rest, take comfort,
savor a minute or two of peace!
I know better now — or should. Yet we tell our tragic
woeful survivor tales, shared around furtive campfires,
because we must. We crave it . . .
A kind expression or word. A sympathetic ear. A sense
of community, commiseration. We are social creatures.
At least most of us were in the past.
I hugged the man, aware he would soon be gone like Kat.
We were all so frail in this crude morbid age of unreason.
This apogee of zombie bites and ill fate . . .
Unfortunate for us both, the man in my arms had just
turned, expiring from his dog’s “rabid” bite. Belated,
I grasped a mumbled statement.
“She didn’t mean to.” I felt certain she didn’t, and he
intended no harm. It wasn’t our decision if our brains
were overtaken . . . succumbing . . .
Ravenous for tissue and blood. A canine companion
growled behind me, rejoining her master for a feast.
I was the last Final Girl.
No future surprises await. Desperate thoughts have
eased to grim acceptance. The Virus surges my veins.
I will stiffen and perish . . . then reopen clouded orbs.
78 lines
Weirdbook Annual #3: Zombies, October 8, 2021
* * *
Creatures of The Macabre
They hide in the obvious,
deep in those naked quiet moments —
the Early Shift when Dawn has just broken
and draws back velvet drapes, the soft black
curtains of Dusk. When all is plain yet unspoken.
They are a stain, not easily glimpsed.
Creatures of the Macabre . . .
fiendish, they harbor uncanny powers to
avoid observation, befuddling watchful eyes
while they roam and sift crowds
of humankind in stealth, nimble as spies,
trolling a wealth of masses for victims.
Skulking, slinking about
to play ghoulish games on rubes and naifs.
Conniving, striving, plotting wicked pranks,
these callous dark-hearted nightblots
scuttle like doom, creeping the flanks
to blend in with gloom or glare.
Craftily such blightpots abound,
illuminating, gyrating — mastering the art
of cruel hoaxes; the element of surprise and shock.
Born in the dingiest of minutes and hours, these
abysmal times, the belfry or bowels of a clock
rusted and stark. How dismal it chimes . . .
’Mongst the somber strokes of
grim Unlight: muses for the meagerest hopes,
the sinisterest inklings and depths of despair,
these eldritch mobsters that sneak and creak,
pounce and thump will raise your hair —
cause hearts to gallop or jump with terrors.
Like sooty fungus, dire disgusting
Toxic Mold, they can lead to panic, invite a craze;
fright cats, incite knock-kneed cowardly dives.
Offend noses and snouts with spiteful pouts;
lend devilish mirth and sharpened knives
for all they’re worth on their merry way . . .
A chorus line of kicks and stomps,
they single out a target, prowling the midst
of meek or rude, bustling or sluggish folk.
The grouchy and slouchy, namby and pamby,
The neithers and eithers, all part of their joke!
Biting like teethers, they gloat on parade.
Heed not such creatures,
else pay the price! Trepidation and woes,
tribulation and throes, the agony you will meet,
for they love a good snack. Never feed them I warn.
Don’t go offering the crummies a treat!
Whet not their appetite of flesh and scorn.
These quibblesome nibblers
might chomp the hand that provides a meal.
If you value your fingers, count them well . . .
and guard your toes in case! The Macabre is
a perilous place to visit. Dare not go pell or mell.
Always sharpen your elbows and carry a Mace.
Do not let them collect
in your closet or cupboard. Invite them to stay and
be stuck for life as the festering pests accumulate.
Nothing is worse than the curse of these critters.
Tell them to scram, you mustn’t wait . . .
To expel the foul lot, send a Scattergram!
60 lines
Bewildering Stories, Issue 906, June 7, 2021
* * *
The Costume
It was of stirring consequence to
a mother named Hortense who
commanded a daughter she
decide what on Earth to be . . .
“While nothing groundbreaking
or tremendously quaking,
at least put some thought,
even if it’s store-bought!”
“I should like to be a cat!”
is what the girl said to that,
pointing toward a nimble feline
crawling up a trellis vine.
Mother glanced quickly there,
found the pane of glass bare,
then would deductively wring:
It must be an Alice thing!
“And which manner of kitty
might you fancy most pretty?”
Hortense assumed the best
of her darling’s request.
Yet it wasn’t quite as trite
with a child of the Night
who craved things occult.
Deirdra weirdly did exult . . .
“It needs to be black.
And give fools a Heart Attack!”
More devil than a saint,
her gaze made people faint.
So Hortense evoked a name
of inglorious sylvan fame.
“We shall visit Opal Drench.”
(An involuntary clench.)
“Known for realistic costumes.
We can also shop for brooms.”
Down she marched the murky lane
where you’d have to be insane.
And indeed they might’ve been
while they left a world of men —
striding midst the fog and trees
until they reached a Diocese.
Long abandoned by its flock,
a temple carved of timeless rock,
the hall was practically deserted —
rather gothically converted.
“Hello, hello!” An eerie echo.
All they noticed was a Gecko.
Deirdra’s mother bent to speak.
“Are you the Pythoness we seek?”
“It depends if you’re a quack.”
The lizard fled inside a crack.
“This is my unholy store.
Tell me what you’re looking for.”
A tall and spindly old lady
straightened up a trifle shady.
The impatient Spellseller
claimed to be no Fortuneteller.
“Dare not keep me in suspense!”
bade the crone to Hortense.
“Well, we need a Cat Costume,
and a Number Three Broom.”
“I am not a Fast-Food Line!
Did you say a Porcupine?”
“Cat! A cat!” Deirdra bawled.
The bellicose Beldam stonewalled.
“I may have conjured a Fruit Bat.
There’s a lovely Muskrat.
What about a Horned Toad?”
The girl threatened to explode.
“Why can’t I just be a cat!?”
fumed a swollen-faced brat.
Grimbling, grumbling a lot.
“Here’s the closest I’ve got.”
Opal muttered a wee curse.
“It doesn’t work in reverse.
Hope you like your grimalkin look.”
Fur and tail overtook . . .
Whiskers sprouted quite long.
Deirdra changed in a sprong.
Metamorphosis-bent,
her new state permanent.
A masquerade without end
and no need to pretend.
The Costume fit as if bonded!
A deep rumble responded.
It was quite a great cost,
her humanity lost.
A torn mother would weep,
the price being too steep.
Opal gained a Familiar.
Deirdra thought it peculiar,
but curled up on her lap
for a comfortable nap.
A wild gust of animosity,
a stiff whiff of ferocity
swept home poor Hortense,
lacking memory or sense.
Transformed a bit spotty,
her inklings polkadotty,
the picture of forlorn,
she rocked a phantom-child
shorn — by witchery unborn.
100 lines
Spectral Realms, Issue 15, July 16, 2021,
* * *
Fools Afloat
(Inspired by the Fifteenth Century painting SHIP OF FOOLS by Hieronymus Bosch)
I
Still-lifes. Muted landscapes.
Hushed portraits hung in subdued galleries,
Reverent like a church. A lone penitent,
Morose, head bowed, stationed on a bench —
The kind lacking support for an aching spine.
His presence quiet. Unobtrusive as much as
Unobservant. A sightless spectator,
Focused inward. Scarcely conscious that
Walls fenced him, adorned by windows
In which the view never transformed.
Edmund Fritz an expired driver’s license read.
Fritzy to co-workers and friends.
Eddie to his siblings . . . gone now, every single one.
Two sisters. Eight brothers. A close-knit band,
They looked out for each other to the end.
But he was the eldest and it was hard losing them.
Not a day went by that he failed to
Shed a tear of grief. Mourning . . . missing . . .
Believing in his heart it should have been
Him. Cast away, hollow, a stray artifact,
He had exceeded his usefulness,
Become a piece of junk instead of
An antique.
II
He was alone a wistful moment.
An interval of sedate reflection, private from
The commotion on city streets. Traffic.
Construction. Chatter. Throbbing nerve-jarring
Music, annoying video-game noises,
Everywhere he turned. Or the opposite —
An eerie Terra-Cotta army staring down at screens,
Holding devices plugged into them by cords.
If he didn’t venture out: bursts of
Disruptive clamor. Small kids playing,
Quarreling, racing and squealing through his
Grand-niece’s apartment — where he ran aground,
Stranded. Inflexible. Set in his ways.
Refusing to compromise or update.
Unnecessary as a piece of flotsam, beached
By a lengthier tide, a stronger wave.
Independence, solitude, career
Washed to sea. His cherished freedom curtailed.
What else could he do when
The firm bellied-up with nary a warning?
Zero pension. Not even a gold watch.
What else was left except charity?
Moving in with relatives like some kind of
Invalid. As if he were no longer valid.
III
The craziest part, he relished going to work.
Having a routine, a purpose helped navigate the
Difficult straits. He couldn’t simply recline
In the sun on the shore and bake
Like a loaf of bread.
He had skipped vacations. Now it was all he did.
Brain-numbing leisure. Sighing, his aspect
Tightened. An automatic glance at
A modest timepiece. Habit.
The hours on its face had little meaning anymore.
Footsteps echoed. Patrons treading by
The entrance to his sanctum. A frigid surge —
Drowning, drawing him back. In the same boat
As many peers, who never learned to
Paddle or sail or swim. Cramming a life-raft
With no destination. He felt adrift.
His anchor and mooring-line cut loose,
Floating on a boundless current of change.
He deplored transition.
It meant that something would be
Different.
IV
His office had been stable, calm.
Edmund rearranged his feet, then frowned at
The narrow painting before him.
A ship of fools according to its nameplate.
“Just where I belong.”
His grumble loud in a somber atmosphere.
The resultant silence massive, encompassing.
Features gloomy, the man gazed unblinking. Lost.
His world had shifted gears, its pace so rapid.
He wanted the mad shuffle to pause,
The globe’s Express Lanes to slow down again.
Like this place, this museum of relics.
A vault of iconic history. A window to the past.
Not his era. Far removed from the present.
The modern age arriving in a rush,
A towering Tsunami.
Yet here was safe, protected, beyond
The colossal crashing tumult.
A sheltered cove; a soothing retreat. A secluded
Harbor where a person could be at home.
V
Orbs regained clarity. Elbows braced upon thighs.
A gray dome angled forward, bobbing, brooding . . .
Edmund wished he could stay. Roam its halls,
These solemn chambers, day and night.
Would they catch him?
There were probably cameras. And guards.
Doubtful he could evade them,
A thick fuddy-duddy with bad knees!
Clasping veined, wrinkled, spotted hands,
He debated whether he would miss the books and
Pulp Magazines fondly stacked in his room.
The solo matinees. He already missed weekly
Chess matches with cronies — shadow figures,
Faded memories. He was a fish leaping at the Moon,
Grasping for distant images, faint impressions
From Yesteryear in the contours of its visage.
Only to fall and lie flopping
At the bottom of a dinghy. Forced to
Confront his life’s crevices and faults,
The chips and imperfections.
VI
Conscious how deeply sad he had been
Under the surface — never entirely mended
After his fiancée jilted him to wed another. At least
He had loved. And been loved. That was enough.
Why couldn’t he be satisfied?
Perhaps he feared embracing a new family
Might dim the recollections of
Siblings, parents, aunts and uncles; war buddies,
Colleagues, chums. Perhaps he was afraid
No space would be left in a brimming heart or mind.
A thin voice captured his attention.
The fellow tilted an ear toward a panel of paint.
“Eddie!” A man in a red tunic waved.
Squinting, it almost looked like his brother
Garland. Is that Jerome? Leaning to see better,
He toppled off his bench. Splashing. Chilled.
Feet kicking. Metamorphosed to a beggar,
Swimming . . .
Impossible! He had never learned,
Never had the inclination.
VII
Hauled aboard, dripping and bare,
Edmund gasped and gulped — fish-like —
As they swaddled him in a blanket.
“We’ve been waiting for you, Eddie!”
The words made him weep.
But it wasn’t his time. He needed to get back.
His niece would worry. “This is a mistake.”
A Sister with a nun’s habit smiled. Edith patted
His shoulder. “Nonsense, there’s room for
One more fool. And you’re an old one.”
The second Sister bade,
“Relax. You were always too practical.”
Eddie nodded. Too practical for
Daydreams and illusions. The brushstrokes
Had vanished. The vessel was real.
It seemed crowded. Not much of a ship.
Nearer to a dory. The plank jutting from its rim
Served for a table. This can’t be happening . . .
Edmund fumbled to pinch himself,
Curled on his side in the prow.
VIII
Garrett gripped an oar. Emmett and Jared
Perched in trees at center and stern along with
An owl. He forgot to notice how absurd it appeared.
Elliot, Jeffrey and George shared a drink,
While Jemma strummed her lute.
Ignoring paupers in the water, a jolly crew of
Kinfolk lilted, terribly out of tune
And not caring:
“We are merry fools afloat, in a leaky wooden boat!
A ship of idiots and clowns, abandoning our towns,
To steer an idle course, and sing till we get hoarse!
Until we sink or swim, let us chase a feather’s whim!”
They clapped and cheered, a wine jug drained.
Back in the fold, back where he belonged,
Eddie grinned and felt younger,
More alive. Wasn’t it odd?
Well, it might have been; he didn’t have time
To ponder, speculate, ruminate.
Far too busy romping and reveling,
Rollicking and frolicking. Acting festive
And yes, very foolish.
169 lines
Impspired, Issue 11, June 2021
* * *
road to Nowhere
Its branches creak in the wildest of grims.
Bleak shadows whisper neath monster limbs —
pawing with ire toward any who dare
tiptoe down the road to Nowhere.
Few chests that pound would be eager to brave
the snarly twists of a dismal enclave,
a fernful Nocturne that would lead to no Dawn:
one lane too insane for treading upon!
Through a canopy fogged by bedeviled clouds,
gloominescence may settle in revenant shrouds,
this trail bleed from Thistles with dire intent,
aramble with Bramble dense as cement . . .
Where a step will falter for a wobble of knee,
’long fanciful meadows, an arboreal sea
of Witchgrass and Bane, Wolf Berries and Bracken;
a wooded outlandish forest of Kraken . .
Where Dragons roost on the sturdiest boughs,
while nefarious nap between thens and nows.
I live on that lane at Number Thirteen.
The Mail’s slower than Snails and rarely seen —
As if sent at the bitter end of February,
in Leap Year on a day that seems arbitrary.
My entire lifestory may be illusion,
the work of Faeries; a nest of confusion.
Which is probably why I sleep during Day;
at Night to write in black and gray,
existing beyond normal dots on most maps,
where highways are drawn by Thunderclaps.
A bed of gnarled Briars pokes me awake,
and the yard’s too unruly with knots to rake.
In case there were cause to worry about neighbors,
they would not make it home from urban labors.
A clandestine location appeals to my needs,
being off the Grid, bent on furtive deeds!
Skirt well the passage appearing by Moon,
when the silv’ry light will ignite a loon.
There is scant good to come on a magical eve,
in the middle of time, up the Reaper’s sleeve.
Should you venture along that miserable path,
I cannot guarantee a benign aftermath.
Wisely heed the display of No Trespassing Signs.
Reaching my cabin there will be fines . . .
a trapdoor on my porch; a prison cellar below.
Fair warning to all. My advice is to go!
Better still I urge, choose a safer ambit —
lest the hike be undone by a sinister gambit
’mongst the mists of a jungle in search of its tail,
like a Panther cavorting; a sylvan betrayal.
A wily switcheroo in a tanglesome weald,
the ground ahead overtly concealed.
Destination out of sight; a malicious loop,
returning to Start in a wicked swoop.
Or faintly unfolding while lit from above
to a thicket of thorns, Poison Ivy and Foxglove.
Your heart may flutter and miss a beat,
the journey disrupted, your trek incomplete.
No stranger to perils nor a calm aimless jaunt,
should your feet find this way it would certainly haunt;
any hope of recovery suspended by a thread
on the nowhere route toward a feeling of dread.
If lucky to stumble from its endless track
with each of your limbs, the skin on your back,
there is no assurance you would ever forget
the wilds and recluse you might’ve met.
64 lines
Impspired, Issue 11, June 2021
* * *
Stocking Up for the Apocalypse
They called it a Pandemic, only I knew better!
Aware of weird gurgles, suspicious coughs,
groans and grunts that didn’t sound good from
the adjacent apartment. Loud prolonged hacks
and coarse breathing. Somebody there was ill.
Possibly more than ill: Apocalyptic-sick!
My stomach churned, discerning awful noises.
Frantic and obsessively I waited. Imagination
whipped up a zombie-esque Panic Party of
shivers and shakes. Whatever festered behind
that wall, I felt disinclined to escalate a rising
toll. I tend to be a devout handwringer . . .
“Stay home!” the Television blared.
Why wouldn’t they listen? They kept leaving!
Spreading it to others! That’s how these things
spiral out of control. Before you know it the
streets are empty, except for clusters of Undead.
I watched all the movies, the gruesome shows;
the indoctrination films released in advance.
We were warned. Am I the lone person who
paid attention??? Ordinarily paranoid about
germs, I wanted to comply with orders and
didn’t wish to answer if I heard a knock, so
I laid low for a week, my curtains closed, the
lamps extinguished. What could I do to help?
Stranded, a scuttled wreck?
Not the best time for Emergency Declarations,
orders to Self-Isolate. I was reduced to licking
the inside of cereal and potato-chip bags . . .
My cabinets stark, my Fridge bereft. Mentally
prepared, not physically. I read books by
flashlight on the floor. Hunkering. Hiding.
Waiting as long as I could, I was forced to
suspend Hibernation and step out of a shy
Hermit Shell, make a starved trek. Hoping
there were provisions left in stores, I raided
my Piggybank. I’ll miss you Mister Oinky.
Pillaged the Penny Jar; my Coin Collection.
I ransacked my armchair and sofa.
Then snuck out so the neighbors wouldn’t see.
Or hear. Pockets ringing like alarm-bells, feeling
conspicuous, I tiptoed after Dusk toward the
nearest Supermarket. And circled back, my
conscience acute, prodding me to ask through
an imposing barrier if they required assistance.
Strangers I shared a tenuous connection with,
by proximity. A polite inquiry; more an inquest:
“Are you okay?” Of course they aren’t! raved
my rational mind. A fist hesitated to rap. “Need
any supplies from the store? I’m going now.
Is there something you could use?” Silence.
No Crickets. No Tinnitus.
The quiet of a tomb; the burial vault at the
heart of a Pyramid heralded me. Relief, my
first reaction. A coward braced to slink away.
Tense nerves almost eased a hair. Until a series
of squishy thumps approached. What’s that?
Nothing wholesome or hale I was certain.
After living in Survival Mode for much of
my existence, I had a pretty heightened sense
of Self-Preservation. I knew in each fiber
that ticked or hummed or throbbed; that shed
to great gobs of skin cells and lint cluttering
under-beds and the corners of rooms . . .
Down to my perspiring soles.
(I may have ignored such instincts, the dire
signals to stockpile disaster precautions, to
accumulate quantities of food in advance.)
My orbs the size of Ping-Pong Balls, staring
in rapt reluctance, I didn’t really seek a reply,
hoping to continue a perilous journey!
Inwardly I pleaded for the door not to open.
That infernal slab refused to obey. Locks
echoed, clacking, clicking. Hinges gradually
creaked, taking their time about it. A gap
appeared and slowly . . . excruciatingly . . .
tauntingly widened. I gaped in horror.
Balking. Crumpling. Cringing.
A thought occurred: Maybe I should run.
I couldn’t, limbs petrified, gourd as hollow
as a pumpkin carved for last Halloween.
I simply stood whimpering, anticipating
whatever cards Fate would deal, eyes
transfixed upon an unfolding sight. Death.
Or the next thing to it. Eerie crevices were
carved in flesh. Lumps and motley colors
adorned him. Beyond that I couldn’t say.
He continued to morph. I to self-destruct —
as one will at their wit’s end, overwhelmed
by the macabre ghoul I encountered.
Decomposing, unraveling . . .
Evolving before me; bumps pushing forth,
sprouting from waxlike features and neck
as if Tumors or Boils. His head cracked,
revealing a gangrenous brain. India-Ink
blood seeped from eyes, nostrils, lips.
A swollen extended tongue slipped out.
Eyes rolling, an arm reaching, he lurched
toward me groping. I had not heard of
a cranium-severing disease, and I looked
them all up, researched every ailment known
to man or beast. This was unprecedented.
It was undocumented. Foreign, alien . . .
Undoubtedly contagious!
I fled. Lanes were desolate in the middle
of the day. An occasional pauper, homeless,
unable to retreat indoors. And folks like me,
caught without a can of beans to their name.
Random people, through no fault of their own,
lacking a social network. A circle of support.
A family, though they probably had friends
and relatives at another point in their lives.
I fell into that category, devoid of close ties.
Others might increase their guns and ammo
stashes out of insecurity. Or turn to addiction,
immerse themselves in bad unhealthy habits.
Neither saint nor sinner . . .
I only wanted to restock. I found the Market
a madhouse, overrun. Between Infected,
Hoarders, Impulse-Buyers, Spree-Shoppers,
Looters, the aisles were crowded, shelves bare.
In the Paper Section, hysteria went from nuts
to worse, weapons drawn, moods homicidal.
Events were no laughing matter yet I couldn’t
stop chortling as I raced around snatching what
I might. Greeting Cards, a package with a single
cracker, a crushed Cereal Box, Red-Hot Pretzels,
a discarded Face Mask, Mustard, Mouthwash,
a tub of Vegetable Shortening, Gerbil Food.
Five canisters of Tennisballs.
Arbitrary items, either incomplete or unwanted,
but I counted myself lucky to have something!
The Cashiers devoured or fired, I dashed out of
Mick’s Grocery Mart, guilty, hugging my plunder.
Would the world ever be the same? I knew not.
A woman with a splitting skull appeared.
Tissue buckling on her aspect, the Lurker
limped in my direction. Did she seek a piece
of me or crave the purloined objects in my
arms? I refused to surrender this meager haul
I risked life and limb to acquire. Kicking
the Rotter’s shin, I dodged and swerved by.
She howled in my wake.
The entire trip home, weeping, ashudder,
I clung to those questionable prizes. A star
athlete rushing to score at the end of a field —
a desperate mother bringing a meal to her
young. As if my life depended on it, while
Society capsized, tipped violently off-kilter.
Like many, without enough to fall back on,
too little saved up when our Rockbottom
collapsed, when the ratty hole-riddled net
for safety and security dropped us down
a deep Wishing Well to gawp at distant light
and dream, trapped in a frightmare.
Too often we had no nest.
Still believing in Tomorrow, I persist . . .
Cowering, recoiling if shadows cross my
windows, should thuds quake the door.
Terrified cretins are coming for me. Enduring
on a diet of apples and pears robbed from the
neighbor’s branches above a sturdy fence —
Which won’t last forever. Someday I must
venture from seclusion, set foot past this
refuge and scout for a glimmer of fortune.
The brightest news in months, I heard that
Climate Change was halted just in time.
It took an Apocalypse to save the Planet.
168 lines
Bewildering Stories, Issue 908, June 28, 2021
* * *
The Report
Humans were the last to be
subdued, loaded into cavernous vessels.
They were the most savage and unruly,
despite advances, the level of their current
development, proving themselves less
civilized as a Race than predetermined.
I enter the observation in my Report, but it is
not yet a conclusion. My task has been
to study and group this Planet’s abducted
Species: assign them fates, assess
the category for usage — whether on
cargo-ships, at a Colony, a Station,
or in our world.
From initial inspection, I must note
firsthand how emotion-driven they are.
Visibly more so than other lifeforms
collected here. (What they have not killed off.)
Emotion is a trait they revere, considered
a sign of higher intelligence, while
we view it as the opposite. In comparison,
our Race, our Society has evolved much farther,
having long ago eliminated the weakness.
We are guided by logic, by Science and
Technology, by calculation and measure.
It is possible they aspire to such yet fail —
incapable of unity.
Based on preliminary surveillance and
in-depth research, analysis, I find it irrational
why at least some of those with the
least color to their flesh, their pigment,
believed themselves better. Superior to others
who were exactly the same except for
the degree of skin tone. Elevating a light
complexion. It is all in the perspective.
Our people have a wide range
of hues, shades, Kin Patterns. Whereas these
possess little variation, few differences,
their Race less impressive than the rest of
the remaining Earth Species.
A shame so many of the best were lost
before the Invasion. We are here now and
will save the pugilists from themselves.
Any with skills can be put to labor.
Some have low value. Poor strength, vitality.
Or desire to rebel, to resist authority.
They must be separated . . .
We do not need the strong of will.
Since there is not much demand for their
hides, and they are unfit as live exhibits,
I recommend placing them with the
beasts. They can feed the
Beautiful Creatures.
54 lines
Altered Reality Magazine, Issue 29, May/June 2021
* * *
The Black Fog
A fog thick and umbral settled
A wave of night in afternoon, clammy
Opaque as a New Moon, hooding my face
Vision clouded, I fumbled through haze
Baffled by a dreary dismal expanse, lost
Within coalish gauze, my world gone
Of an instant, an empty starless void
All I had known and believed to be true
Swallowed in the dead of day
I flailed my arms to clear the air
As if encompassed by swarming Gnats
A teeming halo of Fruit Flies
Yet clarity staunch and grim eluded —
The light’s embrace danced out of reach
Familiar ground the faintest memory
A candle’s flicker in the distant nocturne
Far from any shore, engulfed by a dry sea
I waded obscurity, convinced
There had to be an end, like exiting
A Cornfield Maze and tasting sun
Where had this mantle, this abysmal
Dusk stolen from? Which breeze pushed it
Here — flung the nebulous veil to
Blanket my circumference in a shroud?
What did the roiling accumulation seek?
There were no demands, only a filmy
Persistence. An inky consistency
I could not discern a purpose to the
Presence, a motivation for collecting, for
Traveling to envelop me as if I were
Distinct, somebody special. Or unfortunate.
Depending on the point of view; mine was
Bleak. I had lost my outlook. Not even
Confucius could edify, elucidate, enlighten
My disadvantage amidst the murk
Dour and caliginous. A mind eclipse
Shading, infiltrating. Yes! I felt it
Probing, prodding, slithering up my nose!
A tendril, a tentacle, snaking inside my
Head! How could I keep it out, prevent the
Intrusion? I was being invaded by mist
Examined for some arcane intent. To determine
Health? Suitability? Compatibility? Was the
Pithy substance alien, abducting me in place?
A demon, endeavoring to possess?
An agent of Nature? A primeval guardian?
Dredged out of a pit; vented to settle a score
Picking a random target. Heaping the blame for
Miseries, damages wrought by menkind, on a single
Poor soul. Me! The notion caused my pulse to
Throb — irate passion to churn and froth
Rejecting, ejecting the Black Fog from pores
Nostrils and ears spilled muddiness
Spewed the tenebral uncivilized smoke
Uncouth vapors wove together, channeled
To a current: encircling, orbiting, obstructing
Forming a barrier. Still I was trapped, walled
Confined. My freedom and passage suspended
Where would it end? Why was it happening?
Did Time stop too, or was I doomed to
Wither and cease existing, unable to escape
The madness of a storm-cast day?
I had always loved inclement skies
Perhaps deep down I wanted this . . .
Or was it simply a matter of luck, a personal
Cocoon of foul weather, dense as linen?
Profoundly humbled, I wept at the isolation
What seemed my darkest hour abruptly
Illuminated; around me flowed Constellations,
Planets, the Cosmos. Perspective shaped
My perception. I was no longer alone
But part of a grand universal scheme
Connected to everyone, everything!
Greater than a single speck, immeasurably
Important, yet concerns that weighed so
Cumbrously dissolved from one moment to the
Next. Intense emotions that had driven me
To act rather than feel, react rather than think
Fizzled to impermanent dust then faded
My dim sight unfolded. A somber gloom
Evaporated; I blinked at the world
With fresh eyes.
82 lines
Altered Reality Magazine, Issue 29, May/June 2021
* * *
Skin-Deep
Curt was terrified of Ticks. Not the kind
you heard at night, paranoid a bomb was near
and it was just your clock. The ones with
a head and mouth that drank blood.
The buggy type that carried disease;
that a body might mistake for a mole,
a freckle or other blemish.
They scared a guy who towered above
his friends and family. A man who rippled
with muscles when he was relaxed,
no flexing and posturing required.
The beasties might be small, but they didn’t
stop at a nip. These devils got under your skin
and lived there for days or weeks,
which made them worse than Mosquitoes.
Number One on his list of dreads.
Camping? A hike? The mere suggestion
sparked outrage. And fear.
He kept a safe distance from Nature,
frightened of a dot with legs.
Then he met Della — who exuded
a forest scent, an earthy charm
that robbed his breath. Infected, stricken,
bewitched, caution and self-preservation
failed. His walls caved as she molded,
crafted, summoned him. Come to me.
A whisper on the wind.
Was that a leaf in her hair?
For a change he ignored the signs
of hand-woven fabrics, occult symbols
inked on her flesh, encircling
fingers and wrists forged in Silver.
He forgot to examine her moles,
inspired to abandon all trepidation,
suspicion and sense. Enraptured,
he pledged to die for her. To protect her
from the world of Man, the dangers
and ills of Society: Technology,
Machines, Pollution and Pesticides.
He was her shield,
and she his drink, his drug, his poison.
For Della’s contours and garments housed
a colony. Their Queen, she commanded
a legion of Vampiters. Through her
they found a new host to infest.
While he slept beside her, a “teem” of crawlers
swarmed . . . invading the sturdy frame
to carve a catacomb. A biological fortress.
No ordinary Ticks, her henchmites tunneled.
The pain lasted hours. Then his agony
subsided. The mind of Curt grew numb
like his form. Intelligence altered,
honed and sculpted to a work of devotion.
He must serve his Queen until
the fibers of his strength and tissue
had been depleted. A monument of
human engineering and conception would
sink to the ground, deserted by ranks of
inhabitants. A ghost city of hollow canals,
collapsing chambers. The ruins of a man
whose deepest horror and desire would
eventually consume him.
62 lines
Altered Reality Magazine, Issue 29, May/June 2021
* * *
The Haggards
In this place frolick elementals, conjuring
for the sake of eldritch spirits departed.
Copses of trees had knit tangled patches,
eventually creeping close enough to be
designated a Wood. Though not your average
bird-singing sun-dappled collection of
dense thickets, sprawling groves
where folks might pitch tents and relax
around campfires. Quite the opposite.
These were chilling unwholesome sections
of a brambly, gnarled and dread-inducing nature
in which nobody of sound mind and body
should tread. People who lived
within a hundred miles knew better.
Yet now and then, a group or a pair of outsiders
ventured amid the devil trees.
They never came out. And nobody went in
to search. The Haggards had been declared off-limits —
deemed too treacherous and dire, a public hazard —
and the legend became a law, strictly enforced,
a steadfast rule. An unbending local edict.
Warnings were posted along the perimeter
of raggedy edges to KEEP OUT!
DO NOT ENTER AT YOUR OWN RISK!
VIOLATORS WILL BE PROSECUTED!
For over a Century, occasional tourists went
absent or were arrested, scoffing at such quaint
traditions, rustic fears. Refusing to obey the
signs, apprehend the rumors. A club even formed
on the Internet of foolhardy death-defiers
aimed at accepting the challenge: the first to
record and survive one night.
So far the tally stood at zero humans,
with unknown or countless incidents of the
dark nethers causing victims to vanish. How much
was truth and how much fiction remained a mystery
no licensed sleuth or badge-wearer summoned
the courage to solve. But there were suspects.
A circle of pagan protectors.
Sylvan guardians known as The Hags,
believed to be youthful in appearance like
Wood Nymphs. Regional folklore spoke of them
luring, enchanting, dancing rings around those
who dared to cross their boundaries; singing, casting
spells. “Fall asleep o’er a loamy bed . . .
a crown of leaves for your face and head.”
Escaping, a traumatized man described the rite to
a friend, an ambitious freelance journalist. He sobbed
that his brother was still in the black haunting forest,
being absorbed by dirt and vegetation! A Sheriff had filed
a report then ignored the case. “He put me in a jail cell,”
whispered the survivor. “I was let go with instructions
to forget about it. I can’t. I miss my brother!”
What Jon witnessed and what he lost scarred him,
kept him awake, robbed him of appetite.
The Hags had turned into crones, a frightful coven!
Their voices were vile and lingered, echoing in
his mind. “I didn’t understand most of the words,
but it’s impossible to unhear.”
The Journalist, Ivy Bruce, was sympathetic.
She tried to contact an online group he blamed.
The siblings learned of the legend from their articles
and forum postings. The brothers didn’t register as
official members. Nonetheless, Jon Sullivan threatened
to sue. The Haghounds Website disappeared.
Ivy packed a bag and drove to interview
Sheriff North — who said her father just retired.
“The case is sealed. I advise you to drop this
investigation. Leave it for professionals. Stay out
of that Woods. Don’t make me have to incarcerate you!”
Ivy parked a yellow Mustang in front of two signs:
NO TRESPASSING! and THAT MEANS YOU!
Jon had nervously declined to accompany her,
citing Panic Attacks. “Find Joe. Please!”
Ivy vowed to do her best. Dismal spiky
Nevergreens met her eyes when she climbed out
to inspect a grim verge, despite a cheerful sky above,
a gilded path leading to the shadowy threshold.
Scant foliage was visible, the Wood
consisting of weeds and snarled scraggly growths
that seemed in a state of demise.
Branches were barren, sharp as spidery legs.
The female wove through a twisted maze
of brush and bracken, stalks and bare appendages.
Traipsing half an hour, her crunching footsteps halted.
Maidens clad in white gowns, floral tiaras, greeted
the intruder. “Thank you for joining us,” they intoned,
an eerie chorus. The voice of The Haggards.
Gazes deep as cosmic pools, astral abysses . . .
Uncompromising in purpose. Solemn and severe.
Dimly the woman recognized features
beyond them — a nose, an eye, the angle of a chin,
pieces of an aspect — blending with the trunk of
a spindly tree. While she stared incredulous, her jaw
adangle, Wood Nymphs pranced reciting verse . . .
Gradually the Journalist felt heavy and reclined
on a serried mat of wild grass.
The figures transformed to withered old ladies.
Looming, a giggling huddle, they peered down —
to gloat, applaud, ogle. Ivy felt her lower extremities
shrivel and take root in the soil. It didn’t hurt,
almost soothing. Her skin cracked apart,
emaciated, fashioning bark. She croaked a garbled
protest. The Witches crooned her to sleep.
“Planting people to sprout in the Wood
replaces the children gone for good.
Celebrate life with arboreal seeds,
collect the guilty and sow crossbreeds.
A limb for a limb to balance the loss
by culling their masses and feeding the Moss.
A limb for a limb, we feed the Moss.”
111 lines
Altered Reality Magazine, Issue 29, May/June 2021
* * *
The Bluster
Wind shrieks, fit to be tied
Not that she ever could. A futile effort
Quixotic folly to attempt
Like tilting at Windmills and expecting
The blades to fight back
With a smug conceited air the Element
Convulses landscapes. Shivers
A terrain of scrub-foliage barely hanging on
In the chill, a morbid brush with Death
Skeletal fingers strum
Harp strings, porches of danglies and chimes
Soft as Hummingbird wings flutter
The inaudible flapping of Butterflies
Tender strokes, her will
Suppressed, subdued to prove that power
May be gentle too; a great force restrained
Capricious, playful, teasing
Huddled masses of shrub and grass
Boughs and hillsides weathering
The arctic touch of Old Woman Winter’s
Exhalations as vulnerable towns and cities
Dance for Solstice then revel in a new year
A fresh chance, the breath of change
While elsewhere a natural order beyond such
Measures, off the calendars and clocks of menkind
Marks the occasion with a fierce sigh
Caressing a cruel and timeless countenance
Features that symbolize the end of things
The bleakest days and grimmest hours
High above, almost as cold as The Grave
Stars glitter in a night sky like gems of ice
So far away, remotely indifferent
But it is the Wind’s chance to roar and howl
Rampage and prowl, hunt cowering bodies
Strip their warmth, invade their every defense
A period for atonement and grudges
Bitter from the Fall
When a feverish Summer crashes and burns
Resplendent in the leaves that weep
From the branches of trees, the Drama Queen
Writhes and screams her last, unheeded
The atmosphere shaken, turned into a rattlebone
Guster, a twelve-alarm Bluster with a mind
All her own, packing a sledgehammer punch
At every blast of overwrought breeze
Enduring stages of seasonal transition
Autumn a grand and gaudy shift of maternal moods
To the bleakest depressions and sulks of
A Frost Queen reluctant to yield at last for the verdant
Rebirth of Spring, shedding sorrows, spilling
Tears frozen or wet
Resisting, denying, aware it must come
And furious at the thought
A jealous sister, a split-personality
A diamond-edged facet of a complicated whole
And still, beneath the luster
Of snow-glazed figures modeling sculpted crusts
Afraid to move for fear of cracking
Delicate white coats, twinkling veneers
Resembling oddly-crafted cakes displayed
In the window of a very mad baker — silent
Sugar-laden forms of statues bating breaths
Anticipating the shuddery impact
The frigid rustle and sweep
A glacial draft stirring powder, trembling limbs
Uplifting what isn’t attached to waltz with The Diva
In wails and whistles across a glassy stage
Where no audience applauds, no orchestra blows
There is only a blizzard’s tantrum
The raging blood and cyclonic self-rivalry of
A tempestuous core as Banshee Winds
Prevail in a competitive conflicted spirit
Even the Seasons can have hormonal
Outbursts of distemperament —
Lashing and loathing. Polar opposites:
Inflicting rime-laced wither, heat-drenched swelter
Skulking Nocturne, piercing flesh under
Protective layers by daggers and swords before
A tropic gale, a hurdy-gurdy hurricane melts
The Ice Witch’s heart, churned out of climatic throes
Converting as steam her wicked impulse to shrill
Until the next storm.
82 lines
Altered Reality Magazine, Issue 29, May/June 2021
* * *
A Shiftless Spirit
The rattle of a sash, its bolt in place,
from a phantom breath without a face
that jars the panes and slips within
beneath the sill, extremely thin . . .
The ghost proceeds to hunt and spy,
its purpose veiled from any eye,
until a din betrays the specter —
who activated my Smoke Detector.
The beeping drags me out of a dream
to stumble through a fabric seam
wherein the stuffing, my mortal coil,
unravels then snarls to a mess of turmoil
that sticks out like a Teddybear’s fluff.
Which leads me to proclaim “Enough!”
Possessions fly to land in a heap
as the presence assembles into a creep.
Disgruntled, I bash the alarm with a shoe
to kill the shrillness. What else can I do?
I lack an emergency plan for ghoulies,
bumps in the night, tricksters and droolies.
I have no precautions for apparitions.
There is never a good time for superstitions,
and I’m in no mood for a rude Poltergeist,
especially one in the midst of a heist.
“Explain yourself!” I demand of the vandal,
and fumble to light the wick of a candle.
The matchstick dies in a rancid breeze,
a gust of contempt like a whiff of disease.
So I dash for a switch on the opposite wall.
The spook beats me to it by casting a pall,
yet I persevere and reach for the light —
my gaze dumbstruck by a ghastly sight.
A swinging bulb illumines the room,
clearing away shadows and gloom,
starkly exposing the situation,
removing all manner of speculation.
I am forced to deal with a wraithful wrath,
my home invaded by an Ectopath . . .
During life, a ne’er-do-well burgling intruder;
in the shroud, a crooked restless brooder.
A two-time loser, anonymous and hazy,
obviously a loafer, slackish and lazy.
A sticky-fingered thief, the collector of junk,
looting the living to fill a Hope Trunk.
Reaping and keeping what doesn’t belong,
but the covert late visit has gone a bit wrong,
for my uninvited guest was caught in the act
of robbing a grave as a matter of fact!
This chamber is my tomb, lavishly decked
with modern convenience, until they resurrect
my mummified body once doctors know how.
It was lonely in here, so I’m willing to allow
the pest to remain for disturbing my rest.
If I don’t get back to sleep, in an isolated nest
one could use a little company, however drab —
even a shiftless spirit one foot from the slab.
To seal a loose draft I must batten the view
by closing storm shutters, for it just wouldn’t do
if a lachrymose lawbreaker managed to flee.
“We are locked up tight and I have the key.
Rules are quite simple,” I lecture my chum.
“Only I can take it with me! No need to be glum.
We are both serving Death in a comfortable cell,
but I hold the cards. At least you don’t smell.”
64 lines
Aphelion, Issue 263, Volume 25, July 2021
* * *
Before The Plague
All that we were accustomed to
Seems a world away in the wake of this
Pandemic. Before The Plague
Sun bathed us in a gilded hue. Streets
Sounded alive, astir with cheery
Bustles of children chasing, adults hastening
Cats darting, the traffic of cart wheels
Rolling. Coins jangled in pockets, dogs
Barked, Peddlers and Shopkeepers haggled
In the light of each day. Fresh opportunities
Arose with the populace, hopes springing like
Jesters at a Fair. Troubadours sang
Playing instruments, sharing music as they
Strolled, their steps lively, visiting for a spell
Bringing color and dance in vibrant tides of merry
Earsong, mimicking the notes of feathered
Minstrels on trees and rooftops
Strumming the emotions of young and old
Lightening moods and postures
Even the air rang with a festive spirit
And people were untroubled as
One might be who skips ahead of The Reaper
Like a Fool, blissfully oblivious
Cavorting before an unseen conclusion
Then it moved over our land
A virulent storm blocking the Sun
Though none could view its arrival
No eye glimpsed the Scourge
It hung, a thick dense shadow of
Diseased breath. There was
Coldness, a chill transferred spine to spine
Instilling dread at its stealth and spread
Lacking compassion; dividing families
Advancing house to house, door to door
Entering without permission; seeping
Under, between cracks. An atmosphere of
Treachery, a silent unseen
Menace stalking, straining chests
Claiming, robbing every age, every hearth
Lungs ailed, flesh wore the odor of
Contagion, contamination
Minds grappled to comprehend, wailing
Echoing the question of who we would be after
This Eternal Midnight had gone
Neighborhoods shuddered and wept in its thrall
Respiration felt heavy, laden with misery —
Fierce woes that could not be prayed away
Cured by healers. Great sadness and despair
Settled on shoulders, rained on heads
But wouldn’t soak in. From that day
That moment of doomfall
We were not the same people. Scant joy
Could be shared. Meager optimism
Remained in hearts broken, battered by loss
An Albatross of grief, the cumbrous
Weight of cares and tribulations, deep abiding
Sorrows. Grim were the faces, solemn
And gaunt-featured. Backs hunched with
Inner strife, boulder-size burdens
The figures of near-wraiths passed without
Greeting or remark; speaking seldom in low
Murmurs, grunts of acknowledgement
This became my village, my town
Barren of warmth and health, robust gaits
Listless treads shambled to and fro
Moving by instinct and rote, somehow
Dredging up courage to venture out for
Necessary tasks and provisions. Complicit in
The change, the drab fleece pulled over
To conceal, disguise everything we knew
Hide it all from view
Enshroud from memory the faces lost
Those of us left mere remnants of
Former selves. Ghostlike
Apparitions who shuffle and hobble as if
Crippled by guilt — bowed under the
Mass of death, the ordeal to survive
No longer whole, safe, complete
In the arms of our kin
The circle of fellowship that once
Embraced this hollow shell of community
The empty walls of home
Where most had dreamt we were
Content . . . before The Plague.
84 lines
Aphelion, Issue 262, Volume 25, June 2021
* * *
Epic Rain
It was an epic rain
according to instructions on the box.
A storm like no other.
Starting with an intense blinding bolt
that seared from coalish Thunderheads and
gray soup stirred by an invisible spoon
to zap a band of highway, a river of asphalt
winding through forest on either side. The tall
dense kind you could only find in out-of-the-way
areas beyond the sprawling grope of cities
and suburbs.
This tempest would deluge
trees and soil; the severed road melted by
voltage as if angering gods.
Detonations rippled, crackling in a deep
bass resonance that almost formed words,
translatable to the type of grumbling you’d
hear from selfish old men who want everything
their way, often placated by old women
used to being sidelined and silenced,
treated like Second-Class Citizens in their
own houses.
The weather had a temper.
And a voice, disapproving; annoyed with the
atmosphere. Complaining.
But it didn’t have personality, manipulated
by intelligent handlers from a hill, overseeing the
potency of the thing they unleashed and wielded
through remote-control. Safely ensconced,
concealed from view, they operated knobs and
buttons, dials and levers like kids playing with
a new toy. Something dangerous. Explosive.
They argued.
Like friends or siblings yet
were neither. And the toy did not belong
to them. It was borrowed.
All of which couldn’t prevent them from having
some fun, adding Sound Effects and flashes of energy,
static fire from cloudbanks, a generated stormfield.
Rain swamped the terrain in a torrent as Thunder
growled and Lightning strobed. At once magnificent
and horrific, the spectacle became a lot more interesting
when a figure loped into sight beside the road
then halted.
Gilda Humphrey had parked
as she usually did, for an invigorating run
along a quiet stretch of woods.
Each Sunday she made the drive to this spot,
except last weekend when she had to skip it due to
a cousin’s Wedding. As a consequence, she felt
stiff and cranky the entire lagging tedium between.
It was great to be back, hitting her stride, shaking off
the kinks of office work. Till practically plowing
into a biblical event unfolding before her eyes!
She stopped —
Panting in disbelief. Gaping,
gasping for breath, Gilda stared at a fury
like nothing she had seen.
Mother Nature was in a really foul mood.
A megastorm, whipping trees, flooding earth,
appeared to have wrecked the road. Her jaw slack,
the woman goggled at an astounding chaotic scene.
Poised in a state of fright and flight, mere steps
from a volatile verge. Struggling to restart her
brain and retreat, dash to a secure place. Shelter.
A cellphone.
Lying on the Passenger Seat,
after a call from her brother just to say hi
then listen in silence . . .
Both of them tongue-tied, unable to speak.
Her relationships were complicated. Gilda
preferred the relative stillness of a forest,
punctuated by bird tweets and faint rustling
instead of traffic noise, Jackhammers, wails of
Emergency Vehicles. Or the incessant pings, posts,
messages, notifications, videos and chats on
Social Media.
Her best days involved
reading a book, sipping a cup of Cocoa,
hearing raindrops patter.
This, this was a full-fledged Disaster Movie!
She expected to see a camera, an Action Hero Star.
She needed to call someone so they could call
somebody else. Eventually sirens would blare and
she’d feel less alone. Gilda’s eyes bulged. The edge
of the superstorm menaced, creeping closer in
deliberate darts, small lunges, teasily approaching.
Taunting her!
No point in pulling
rank to settle a dispute. The two were equals.
A pair of Scientists.
Climate-Engineers on a mission. Analyzing
a weather weapon, a synthetic instant storm designed
for use in enemy territory. They sought to record
the system’s effectiveness from Aerial Drones. With
portable Measurement Stations positioned at intervals;
a dish and camera on the roof of a Mobile Lab.
Giddy amusement filled the truck . . .
“Watch this!”
A random human subject
made it far more interesting. Unscheduled, she
wandered into the Test Site.
Sensitive data would ordinarily be collected
in private; a live trial conducted behind guarded gates
on fenced government property. This was a different
age. The steep global rise of Nationalism led to changes
for Official Protocols and Policies that existed many
decades. Limitations to power had been stripped,
funding poured into the Defense Department.
Military Research.
Loud booming echoed.
Gilda jumped, anxious. Turning, her eyes
scoped every direction.
A brilliant dazzling jolt of current shook
the ground, pitched the woman off her feet.
That was close! Given the amount of water, if she
wasn’t fried directly, a streak might electrocute her . . .
Gilda staggered up and raced down the centerline
of the pavement, fleeing toward a Compact Car
left where rays of sunlight still shone,
blacktop dry.
Muscles bore her fleetly,
but the storm nipped at her heels like
Wolves chasing a Doe.
And then it was clear! She sensed it . . .
no longer hearing, smelling, feeling a damp
presence, an enormous threat slobbering an inch or so
from her neck, her spine! Aware of a sudden drop
in turbulence, commotion, pressure. By miracle,
the targeted squall had reversed as if a Funnel Cloud,
shifting to drench and assail its previous path.
She swiveled . . .
A raging howling titan
fiercely hove away. The typhoon-like
tantrum swept trees —
Flattening, uprooting. Flinging vegetation,
cutting a swath through Birches and Pines. Scaling
a tall slope, out of control, Project Storm-Box barreled
to its point of origin and swallowed a bulky dark
Van. Hurling high-tech equipment to the sky; casting
costly flying gizmos to asphalt and forest floor.
As abruptly as it developed, the behemoth fizzled
to naught.
Perhaps connected to more
than Technology and Science, it channeled
the true forces of Nature.
146 lines
Bewildering Stories, Issue 904, May 27, 2021
* * *
The Cliff
’Twas an eve without peace,
With no trace of comfort and security;
The kind of night best to not be out on,
Certainly not alone . . .
For haunted things prowled the earth
When the Moon was less vigilant
And darkness thickened,
Enticing them forth.
Sweet Darla paused to catch
A breath. Covert steps trailed,
Scarce audible, and then a tread
Revealed the presence.
She gripped her wrap tighter.
How many eventides passed while
Ghosts drifted the surface
Without hope of sunlight’s embrace,
Locked in this brooding wayfare,
Along muted desolate avenues?
How often must a lady falter
And clutch at the throat of the cape
Around quivering shoulders —
Huffs of respiration frosting
Unlit air,
Painting the twilight
A cemetery pall?
It seemed to her rather
Frequent, a regular occurrence.
She had slipped out for a visit with
Friends, a group of poets,
Being a defiant age.
Claudine. The word entered her mind
Unbidden, lacking explanation.
A stray caterwaul in the deep of
Nocturne.
That which howls isn’t always
Defined by fur and claw;
There may be ulterior plots afoot,
Uglier impulses, frightful traits
Harbored by a heart so void
Of compassion and warmth
That the flames of Hell might freeze
Against the chill
Of a disturbed spirit.
The terrors between Midnight and morn
Cannot compare to such bane . . .
An iniquitous wildfire pouring
From wretched tormented depths.
The rake of ruby-red nails, each
Perfect as a drop of unrequited blood
From a rended cheek:
Pulsing with intensity,
Exiting the flesh and vein
Of a damsel whose love was tarnished
By deceit —
A consummate, infinite betrayal.
Who cast herself to stone
The way miseries were once resolved,
Dashed upon the jagged crowns of rocks.
For it is an immeasurable risk to reside
Close to the perilous maw, the gaping edge
Of a cliff,
Which will beckon and lure,
Coax at times of
Woe, the utmost tribulation.
And there is no greater frenzy or anguish
Than the ice-hot temper,
The wintry gale and searing gall
To lash from a scorned woman’s soul
In an unhallowed clash
Of bitter extremes.
She had lurked, this vengeful spirit,
Quietly gathering like a storm,
The tempest out of teapot that cruelty
Made her become.
If only it could have been otherwise;
How she would have delighted
At a merry life with its typical
Dips and peaks, the moody lulls of
Sorrow and exultant heights of glory!
But no, she must resign herself
To an unfruitful harvest,
A meager bouquet of wilted flowers
In nebulous shades of despair . . .
The drabbest hues of gray for her
Dawns and Dusks,
When she faded or reappeared.
“What do you want?”
The phantom whirled to confront
A foaming persecuting pack
Of devil-dogs on leads,
Tracking her footfalls, the scent of blood;
Straining against tethers;
Pulling to sniff the ground
And circle her, a wrathful ring
Of bellicose snouts and snorting.
“What do you want?” Her question
Repeated, almost an echo.
“Why do you pursue me?”
The voice was bold, slightly timid,
Gentle as the tinkle of a tiny bell.
Much smaller than the ones on her grave.
She frowned at the thought,
Frozen between offering a response
And heeding the beasts that clamored,
Lunging with restrained devotion
To carp and tear at the stiff black crinoline
Of her garb,
A faded Gothic-style dress.
Claudine swiveled, confronted by
The figure she had followed night after night
In fascination . . . jealous too
Of her liberty.
Women had few enough rights
And were constantly burdened by demands,
Expectations, roles they must perform.
She had rebelled against a Male Society,
Craving their chances, coveting
The freedoms
Men took for granted.
Why could she not do as they did,
Carelessly independent?
Yet she had loved one man with all of herself,
Only to be forsaken.
Abandoned
While he wooed and wed another!
“You are my life,” he had pledged.
And he was hers. Forever.
“Why do you seem familiar?”
Instead of answering, she asked.
“We have never met — I’m certain.”
A stammered protest, as if the girl
Wouldn’t be caught in her company,
Given half a choice.
Offended, Claudine stared nose to nose,
Peering through Moss Green eyes,
Probing the young lady’s internal works.
Dainty gloved hands spread apart.
“It’s a fact!”
“I don’t believe you.”
She fluttered side to side,
Examining features.
“There is something about your face.”
“Well, a number of acquaintances
Have remarked on my beauty.”
“It isn’t that!” Claudine pinched
Wavy strands, ebony tresses.
“You bear a striking resemblance . . .
To someone I hate!”
She roared the last words, emotions
Rising in her cheeks. Vessels bulged,
Threatening to explode.
A damsel retreated
From a tumult of swirling
Passion.
The blood-hounds whined
And merged into shadows —
Tugged back.
Growling, baying. Unfed.
“You can’t fault me for something
Utterly random. I cannot help
Who I remind you of. It is out of my
Control.” The lady trembled.
Claudine pressed closer,
Assertive, glaring,
Her venom and fury bridled.
“What is your name?”
A whisper: “Darla.”
“Your complete name! All of it.
Every syllable.”
“Darla May Anuncio Redding.”
“Then it’s true!”
A column of crimson rage
Churned aloft. Ice crystals congealed
Underfoot, crackling, glazing. Transforming
The street to white threads and spikes.
A bereft sob emerged.
The chimney of hostility diminished,
Smothered by conflicting degrees of
Empathy and contempt.
“I am Claudine.”
The girl’s expression changed to
Recognition.
A ghost heart quickened.
“Have you heard of me?”
“No. Until tonight.”
The revelation meant nothing;
Hope crumbled.
Her demise was in vain.
“Ramon. Reynaldo. Anuncio.”
Spitting the statements.
“Tell me who he is!”
A prolonged gasp, as if rousing
From a terrible dream . . .
Or the sleep of the dead.
In spite of fear, the maiden
Replied, “My grandfather.”
It sank in.
Claudine had impulsively, desperately
Flung herself over the cliff
Decades before. He had gone on,
Raised a family, embraced
The happiness that she was
Denied. He never mourned,
Never mentioned her loss.
“Where is he?” The wail
Resounded, expelled from cold lips.
Fingers of bone clasped
A delicate arm. “Take me to him!”
The tone was frigid. Arctic.
Her visage seethed, flesh swollen.
Ripe with heat blisters.
Peeling as they walked a series of
Hollow lanes and alleys.
The drumming of a cadence
Deafened ears ⸺
A rhythmic throb,
Channeled through his descendant.
Ragged skirt hem trailing,
The remnant of an ambitious girl,
A lithe form stalked to meet
The fate intertwined with her own.
It would be an unhappy reunion
As she crept inside a townhouse,
Climbed marble stairs
And burst into a bedchamber.
Sitting up, awash in elegance,
The wrinkled gent fumbled to illuminate
Intruders. “Darla!
What is the meaning of this?
My heart could have stopped!”
He had married into wealth
And was still a deadbeat, a rogue,
A narcissist.
Familiar though sagging, his jaw drooped,
Hanging open. “Claudine.”
So he remembered, as dreadful as
She looked. The revenant fussed
With her tangled mane.
A nod of belated satisfaction.
“Murderer.”
The silver cad swallowed,
Then sputtered “No!
You must not listen,
My darling granddaughter.
She threw herself off a cliff.
I didn’t touch her!
I was exchanging vows with
Your grandmother when it happened.
An enormous wedding.
There were many witnesses.
I have a flawless alibi.”
The frail voice attempted a laugh
But choked.
“Who was she, Grandpa?”
“Nobody. A tramp who fancied me.
Can you imagine?” His coughs
Turned to hacking.
The specter’s emotions billowed,
Congesting his room with
Heavy clouds of rancor,
A warring thunderstorm of
Hate and love.
At the center Claudine
Brushed talon-digits across
The girl’s soft cheek.
“You could have been mine.”
A note of regret; a trace of
Grief.
She had seldom played like
The other girls with dolls or wished
For armfuls of babies.
Yet she might have been
A good mother.
She might have adored a child . . .
Sentiments steeled.
Her gut lurched.
She cast the young lady out
In a toss of her head. Pure anger
Slammed the doors. He and she
Were sealed together.
Shouts. Fists pounded
From a distant land. Face to face,
Wind providing a shrill chorus,
The couple beheld each other
With distaste. “You’re old,”
Sneered she, as if it were a dire
Punishment.
Her flesh repaired itself and
Shimmered.
“You’re deceased,” he spurned.
The artifice shattered.
A decrepit hag, battered from rocks,
Withered and grotesque,
She scowled at him and shrieked.
Then grew despondent. Pensive.
“I discarded my life over you,
An unworthy excuse of a man!
At least I did not waste it
Bound to you for Eternity,
Serving as your spouse.
I committed a reckless act . . .
An irredeemable sin.
The cliff was there, a convenient
Method in a distraught moment;
Swifter than blade or gun,
Than poison.
It summoned a foolish heart,
Broken and jaded, unable to glimpse
The future without you.
But I am now glad to be
Rid of you once and for all!
I can release the feelings
That corrupted my soul,
Festered in my core.
The treachery of your rejection
Hurts no more.
I am free!”
A dramatic speech,
Wrenched from her marrow.
“Depart then! Away with you!”
Cried Ramon, optimistic he might be
Spared. Vile men do triumph,
Escaping justice.
Not this one.
Claudine smiled, a little wicked.
“You are going with me . . .
To Hell!” she screamed,
And grabbed his scrawny wrist
To yank him out of bed —
Drag him down through a hole,
A vortex of rime and blaze.
The wraith’s troubled wandering,
Her unsettled nightly travels
Ended,
For she was at peace.
Yet how she would savor
Watching him burn.
340 lines
Aphelion, Issue 261, Volume 25, May 2021
* * *
Castle Keep
Gray stones reflected the lunar frost
spilling down, a milky washed-to-null
mist on walls turned white as gypsum
in the black sojourn of night’s embrace.
I paused to catch a respite,
huffing like a boneyard brume,
and gazed upon the mysterious vision.
Crags and towers in black and white relief.
Shapes that appeared so unfamiliar . . .
far removed from the brick facades
and linear edges of a cityscape.
Gothic trappings; the setting from a novel,
not my life. It loomed surreal. A reminder
of Medieval conflicts. Darker ages.
Out of my element, I altered course to
retreat. Ringing still, the warnings of a town
below — urgent and bitter, in anguish,
hoarsely whispered. Like pleas for a pardon,
a merciful reprieve, to be spared the noose
or firing squad — for what did they know
of my business? Maybe I was the one to fear!
I guessed their concern to not be my health.
Cloistered from the world. I was the foreigner.
Starkly modern. A threat to the perseverance
of their entrenched sameness. Weird in their eyes.
For a community dreading change, my arrival
would meet distrust. I swung back to scale
the laborious incline. I mustn’t falter.
Trudging, I viewed it from their side.
Why should a remote village greet me with
widespread arms? We were divided by barriers
of language and custom. They were mostly
wrinkled. Peasants. Glimpsing the castle daily,
an ugly remnant; a dormant depressing shard.
Quite natural to be suspicious, uneasy.
My visit disturbed them. I was unaware
of a macabre legend surrounding the place.
Yet wondered that these folk had not razed the
landmark to mere rubble if they hated it.
Couldn’t their town condemn the site?
Judging by an unusual manner of downcast eyes,
their aversion to gazing up the hill . . .
There were secrets here. Arcane details and
plenty of rumors, spaded under wary expressions.
The stirrings and mutterings that confronted my
alien presence; an undesirable intrusion.
I shivered, hiking the steep twisting lane toward
a jagged contour from which the castle had once
sprung like the jester tucked in a wind-up box.
I would perceive the scene as a tourist —
no intention of remaining longer than necessary
to arrange a sale. If a buyer could be located.
I had doubts. The property’s title weighed on my
shoulders. Rather than amount to a stroke of
fortune, this burdensome wreck was
a complication I did not require.
And a complete surprise. I had no idea
I was the final living heir, the distant cousin
of a Baron. His last descendant.
Forefathers had migrated generations ago,
all remaining kin forgot. I imagined there were
relatives, but rarely gave them a thought . . .
a typical American, past my melting point.
Striding closer, uncertainty continued to
nibble and vex: a legion of minute rats in my
skull, feeding, voracious. Tickling frayed nerves.
Peek and be done with it. Go home.
Consider it an interesting story to tell for
Halloween! It was such an eve. Gloom, tatters
of fog masked any number of covert terrors.
Filaments on my nape arose. Gooseflesh
sprouted along arms. I wished for a thicker
coat. Armor, an axe or club, a weapon to
defend against the unknown. At least a sturdy
ally. A companion. I had none. Reaching
the massive portal, I banged an iron goblin.
“Don’t be silly.” Nobody lived there.
Unless a homeless individual resided in
the ruins. He or she could have it!
I’d give it up for free. I would just glance about
and be quickly on my way, excited to leave it
behind . . . lucky if I could. Who in their
right mind would take the relic off my hands?
A frigid wave of blackness struck.
I swayed at the threshold, flooded with
anxieties, frights, travails. I stood there quaking,
chest beating a frantic rhythm, fraught by
a rampage of insecurities. Afraid the people below
might bill me to demolish the eyesore; it could
collapse further, roll downhill, destroy their town!
Heedless of how foolish or genuine the worries.
Dismal sensations — torment, destruction, jeopardy
conspired, unraveling my sanity on the doorstep.
Every instinct howled to flee that mountain.
Catch a train back to civilization —
the real world! Don’t hesitate a moment more!
Save yourself! Run! If only I were not so curious.
And obstinate. Embarking on a whim.
I traveled by coach, ship, locomotive, wagon.
Sometimes on foot. I couldn’t retrace the trek
without examining, exploring my bequeathed
domain. Internal bedlam silenced. A calmer tone
prevailed: Come in. You are welcome here.
The voice was eerie, soothing. Weary legs
responded. I found myself in a drafty hall.
The figure emerged from ample depths,
attired in a suit that belonged in a museum.
I recognized, with flashes of apprehension
and comprehension, I did indeed glimpse
a pale visage at the window of a broken tower
when approaching the summit.
He gave a firm nod. I am Baron Von Krypt.
“You can’t be! The Baron lived a century ago.”
Perhaps two. And you are? My protest ignored.
Cracked lips didn’t move yet I heard him clearly,
and obeyed an impulse to guard my name,
vaguely asserting “The new owner.
Shall I consider you a tenant or squatter?”
I told you who I am. A ghoulish scowl.
His features writhed — possessed —
white as a spirit. In fact, I half-believed him
a ghost, the specter of my ancestor.
This is my house! Virulent; a declaration.
I am the owner! Who are you? Impostor!
Thief! Coming to steal my sanctuary. My Keep.
“No. I don’t want it.” Stepping away.
I assured him I would depart at Dawn.
“I came because a letter said I was — the sole
beneficiary — in line for the estate, following years
of research. I didn’t care about a creepy castle,
but it’s going to be my birthday, on the stroke of
Midnight, three decades, and I decided to have
a look. Before selling it. Then I hoped —”
The voice fails when most needed.
“I hoped that someone might accept this
decrepit tomb as a gift. It’s yours! Keep it with
my blessing.” Right hand extended to seal
the bargain. He clasped my palm. A grave chill
seeped to elbow and shoulder. My core
congealed, head swooning in trepidation.
Barely conscious, I was dragged through
dust and dirt, fragments of blocks, to a fortress.
Rousing, I gaped at its entrance — the Castle Keep.
Walls, a high ceiling were intact. A laboratory:
not of Medicine. Gadgets for the Devil’s work.
Fey apparatuses. Jars, tubes and pipes.
Coils. Hoses and clamps. Pulleys and weights.
Bottles, flasks, beakers. Crucibles, vats and
burners. A hodgepodge of Science; the lair of
a crazed Baron. From an earlier period I wanly
surmised while he strapped me to a device.
The rodent on a sacrificial altar; a hapless
Guinea Pig for his experiments! Revenant
or monster, his aspect bore no humanity.
How convenient you should faint . . .
and spare me the task of overpowering you.
Terrible tools, antique blades and forceps,
hammers and chisels lay at his grim disposal.
Never had I felt as desolate — utterly
forsaken by Heaven; perilously vulnerable
to the rim of Hell’s rock-bottom pit.
Dry lips parted. An arid throat coughed out
“Why?” A bleak, lone, hollow appeal. Not for
salvation, but elucidation. A random death
seemed crueler. My inflamed heart burst
like an abscess, draining of hope.
The last drop hung, glistering, suspended.
Straining my bonds, a cuff loosened.
Why do the letters of an alphabet have to
stay in order? Who made those rules? It wasn’t
me. I have rules of my own . . . The unholy
menace patted my cheek, drab as a Mortician,
a peculiar grin across the withery morbid span of
his wax-like countenance. Claw-fingers grasped
a lengthy needle. I smelled you. Coming.
Patient, subtle, my hand squirmed the instant
round buggish orbs averted. He had pried open
the intellect; I would not let him carve into
my body, whatever his purpose.
Various pieces of equipment were hooked to
bizarre contrivances. Torches and candelabras
lent shadows; an occult atmosphere.
Let us haste! Soon you will be too ripe for
the procedure. You are on the cusp of maturity.
I wanted an explanation. He spoke in my
cranium of selfish impersonal reasons
that centered on my fitness to serve him.
The fiend wasn’t grinning —
teeth were exposed in a diabolic leer!
Needle plunged to arm. I watched
in dismay the sanguine syrup of life fill a tube,
collect within a bulb-shaped vessel
attached by intricate design to a bulky machine.
Frowning, keen to discern my fate, I noted
the mechanism had a bellows; it was air-driven,
controlled by a foot pedal. “What is this?”
Genius or lunatic, tall and gruesome,
a dour rogue sapped precious fluid like a spider!
I had stumbled into his artificial web.
The potion of vigor, sprightliness! I created
a chemical formula to survive the dark summons
of Death. Your brain, your vital organs will be
added, the serum transferred to my veins.
He lifted a bone saw. I began in nearby towns,
abducting orphans, the sixth and seventh-born,
children nobody wanted, for generations. Unruly
young men, disobedient daughters. The elders
were grateful. Then grew penitent, accusing.
They had no proof of the crimes. Timid,
law-abiding, they could not penetrate my Keep.
I broadened the field. Now I am forced to pluck
victims from scattered villages. Slinking at night
to their beds, kidnapping one without waking others,
hauling them here. My flesh is deceased, a walking
corpse. I must reanimate it. Each Lunar Cycle.
“Why do families in the region not move?
Why would they risk your appalling appetite?”
They have nowhere to go. The world doesn’t
welcome strangers. I however, like a politician,
am delighted to receive their donations.
His smile was worse than the grimace.
As your heart pumps the dregs of your blood,
I shall commence the dissections. You will not
feel a thing. By that stage you will be expired.
Though not your blood! The Baron paced.
For dessert I consume their limbs. It isn’t necessary.
A matter of taste. His back was to me. I slipped
out my hand, released its partner. Ankles next.
You were deceived. The words halted my escape.
Whatever council of cowards sent for an heir,
they suppose my bloodline to be the forbidden fruit.
They are mistaken. Von Krypt boasted, I created
an immortal being with the strength of twenty men!
I am invincible! He was pure evil. The kind that
could wring a gasp from the dead with gnarled digits,
a skeletal touch. Humanity hoards its empty riches.
Money. Coffers of gold and gems. But Life is the
only treasure of value. Worth keeping . . . coveting.
It is the true wealth we inherit. He whirled
to face me. I sat frozen — a prisoner caught in
mid-flight. Acting swiftly, I stripped the bindings,
tore the needle from my arm. Baron Von Krypt
and I circled, adversaries, a pair of Tomcats.
He was so thin, I pictured snapping him twig-like.
“You should have aimed for twenty-five.”
A blank mug. “Men!” I clarified. Brash,
antagonistic, confident in my ability to fell the
beastly ogre, I seized narrow shoulders. We grappled,
staggering. Our wrestling match careened, bumping
the contraption that stored a quantity of my blood.
The rotter couldn’t fling me aside, almost to the
limit of his monthly duration, and so we waltzed . . .
An awkward couple. I took a leap of trust in
the universe — a theory that for there to be balance
and order, all that could be done could also be
undone. Gripping him single-handed, I yanked
a lever and reversed the flow of his machine.
Then fished for the tube with the needle to jab the
spike in his Jugular, while we stepped and swerved.
Twelve-O-Clock tolled. The Ball was over!
My boot located a pedal. Our shuffling dance
concluded. I stomped and pumped what he had
robbed from me into his neck, his own stream.
Our eyes met while the liquids verged and blended.
Nooooooooooo! A shriek such as I had never heard,
and never would aloud. Without a scrap of pity,
I beheld my predecessor’s untimely demise.
The stiff crumbled like a vampire in the sun.
“You were right,” I admitted. “Thirty is getting old.”
Kicking ashes, I snatched a vintage coat out of
the debris, shook it and donned the snug garment.
I could lose weight. Changing my diet, I would live,
at least exist, forever! “It’s the best birthday present.
I’m the end of the line, and nothing can stop me.”
164 lines
Aphelion, Issue 260 Volume 25, April 2021
................
................
In order to avoid copyright disputes, this page is only a partial summary.
To fulfill the demand for quickly locating and searching documents.
It is intelligent file search solution for home and business.
Related searches
- start new document in word
- new word document format
- type new document windows 10
- fha new construction document requirements
- type new document on blank page
- compose new document windows 10
- start a new document in word
- create new document in word in windows 10
- open new document windows 10
- create new document in word
- new jersey business document search
- new blank document windows 10