The Tenants by Jonel Abellanosa

My wife and I were startled

Out of our conversation with the

Tongueless. It was the loud metallic

Banging of the screen door.

 

So scared was I my rush to the

House from the acacia’s knotted

Arm buoyed what seemed 

Weightlessness, my gaze pulled up

 

As my bare feet touched the earth. 

The moon, like a melting sacramental

Wafer. The wind, rustling. Mounds 

Of brown leaves, stirring.

 

A virago’s black words shrouded

The obese man’s gray silence.

And I thought to myself,

Would disturbances be our lot again?

 

This is the fifth couple in two years.

Either my wife and I go back to the

Cemetery, or we let them constantly 

Hear what they wouldn’t see.

 

Either we distance ourselves for

The length of their stay, or we 

Lift their bed and wake them sweating,

Frightened and deciding at last to leave. 

Jonel Abellanosa resides in Cebu City, the Philippines.  His poetry has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies. His chapbook, “Songs from My Mind’s Tree,” and full-length poetry collection, “Multiverse,” are forthcoming from Clare Songbirds Publishing House. He is a Pushcart Prize, Best of the Net and Dwarf Stars Award nominee.

The Scent of Lemons by Sandra Arnold

He said he was sure the house they’d stayed in had been halfway between a rock at the end of the beach and the Maori pa site. He remembered paddocks opposite where the owners kept their horse. And a garden full of lemon bushes and a path that led down to the beach. The librarian brought out maps and summoned a couple of locals to help. Perhaps the house had been demolished? Perhaps there’d been floods? Erosion? Perhaps he was mistaken about the area? Twenty three years was a long time. 

They walked on the beach. Pale blue silk covered the sand where the tide was retreating. The sea was polished glass. This was what she remembered, she said, when their daughter was young. She remembered their dog-at-the-time ignoring the seagulls so he could guard the little girl, making sure she didn’t swim out of her depth, pulling her back if she did, ignoring her protests. 

This can’t be the right place, he said. What he remembered was the scent of lemons. Lifting their daughter up to feed the horse. Watching her flying along the sand, arms outstretched, pretending to be a bird. The dog racing alongside, keeping close watch. 

“She’d have loved our present dog,” she said. 

They watched him swimming, unencumbered by responsibility, scattering seagulls, chasing their shadows on the sand, his young body quivering with the sheer joy of being alive. 

“I’ll try google maps,” he said. “Places don’t just disappear.”

* First Published Flash Frontier November 2016 

Sandra Arnold lives in New Zealand. Her flash fiction and short stories appear  in numerous journals including Flash: The International Short-Short Story Magazine and New Flash Fiction Reviewand the  anthologies, Sleep is a Beautiful Colour  (National Flash Fiction Day, UK, 2017),  Fresh Ink (Cloud Ink Press, NZ, 2017)  and is forthcoming in Bonsai: The Big Book of Small Stories (Canterbury University Press, NZ, 2018).  Her work has been nominated for the 2018 Pushcart Prize and 2018 Best Small Fictions.

www.sandraarnold.wordpress.com

Salamander Man by Jimmy Pappas

He lived down the street from me. Flat boards all over his overgrown yard. He'd pick them up for the kids and show them what lived underneath. Salamanders. He called the front legs arms with hands and fingers. No one was allowed to touch them, just look. They stood silently, hypnotized by the beauty. He told them this would be as close as they'd ever get to God. Some parents didn't appreciate that. One father told him to stay away from his daughter. If he ever caught him near her again, he'd call the cops. A few days later, the police did come to his home. Complaints about a terrible odor coming from within. They smashed the door down. A crowd gathered. No one avoided stepping on the boards. 

Jimmy Pappas served during the Vietnam War as an English language instructor training South Vietnamese soldiers. Jimmy received his BA in English at Bridgewater State University and an MA in English literature from Rivier University. He is a retired teacher whose poems have been published in many journals, including Yellowchair Review, Rattle, Shot Glass Journal, Off the Coast, Boston Literary Magazine, and War, Literature and the Arts. He is a member of the Executive Board of the Poetry Society of NH. He was one of ten finalists in the 2017 Rattle Poetry Contest. 

Into the Light by Lynn White

I’m living through the time

of night without end.

The time when everywhere is transformed

into the underworld.

When everywhere is transformed 

into that dark place,

deathly dark.

Only the dark gods 

and the creatures of death can live there,

those who need no further sustenance,

who gave up on the light above.

I won’t give up.

I’m ready for the birth of a new day.

Ready for a pink dawn to rise

and break

full of possibilities,

as the light takes 

over from the dark

and the day is born

again.

I shall follow the road towards the light,

and leave the dark behind,

again.

But I have found that the dark always follows.

Catches up with me, as if it were the past.

If I hurry maybe I’ll escape it this time.

Maybe I’ll catch the light

and hold on to it and

not let it break

again.

Lynn White lives in north Wales. Her work is influenced by issues of social justice and events, places and people she has known or imagined. She is especially interested in exploring the boundaries of dream, fantasy and reality. 

Find Lynn at: https://www.facebook.com/pages/Lynn-White-Poetry/1603675983213077?fref=ts and lynnwhitepoetry.blogspot.com.

This House by Ryan Stone

never recovered from the storms of '93
when lightning stroked shingles, shorted out circuits;
left one side wind blown and sagging.

Tufts of moss sprout from the bowed memory
of taut boards. A plague of crickets
lurk beneath stairs, creaking their arthritic chatter.

From a threadbare recliner in a ramshackle room
I gaze over fields at a familiar view,
distorted by windows broken and rheumy.

 

Ryan Stone writes after midnight. His short fiction and poetry have appeared in publications including Eunoia Review, The Drabble, Algebra of Owls, and Silver Birch Press, and placed first in a number of competitions at venues including Goodreads, Writers’ Forum Magazine and Poetry Nook. He lives in Melbourne, Australia.

Secret, Savage Garden by Linda M. Crate

the secret garden
of my heart
won't open for just anyone
there are roses and there are thorns
should you trespass 
there again
you will only know of my fury and my thorns
that will cut you into ribbons of 
silence
i loved you
a part of me loves you still,
but i know better than to trust a silver tongued devil
who speaks of heaven when he's everything of hell;
you splintered me with your nightmares once
it's my turn to return the favor
an imagination like mine is bound to have more monsters
than you could ever dream of
you may be paranormal, werewolf,
but i am a vampire that won't burn even under fire
so go ahead and wrap your head around that if my flowers don't
choke you first.







Linda M. Crate's poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have appeared in numerous anthologies and magazines both online and in print. She has five published chapbooks the latest of which came out in January 2018: Splintered By Terror (Scars Publications).

Street Serenade (Afterglow) by Wayne Russell

I walk upon these
dilapidated streets,
rose petals once red,
now black as starless
night.

Booze and blood flow,
into the sewers, along
with a myriad of dreams.

Windows shutter in the
looming red brick buildings
and halfway houses,
afterglow.

Reverberate, I can see the
heartache, I can taste the
tears, a smoky cat strolls
down by the railroad tracks.

There’s no way out, from
this small town, hallucination;
we are all trapped here, for all
eternity.  






Wayne Russell is a creative writer and amateur photographer from Tampa, Florida. Wayne's work has been published in The Literary Hatchet, Black Poppy Review, PPP Ezine, and his own Degenerate Literature, which has sadly and recently gone into temporary hiatus.  

Thirst by Stephen Jarrell Williams

Within the microscopic fluttering of mist

void of sharp lines defining life and death

she glides angel-like in the blur

silent strokes of wings and see-through veils 

her breath a breeze of unfelt disease

inhaled by those too close and unfocused

she is on them

before they know with understanding

foggy cloud of spittle juice

suck of the succubus

her silhouette mixed with enticing secrets

absorbing all senses of decency

her white eyes hypnotizing

temptress supreme she smiles

bite within a kiss

embrace of emptiness

systematic squeeze of the soul

dripping down to the hollow underworld

full of fluids where nothing floats

all hope like rain that never falls

she is from below and already here

coming within the exhale of hell

your tears swallowed like grapes.

Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write and draw late into the night. His work can be found here and there and in-between. 

Another Broken Home by Jeff Bagato

paradise so often becomes hell
when a king bears himself up
on the false pillars of pride
which he carved alone
in a legacy of dreams

wind blows across time,
stripping the houses from those pillars,
a culture from its bones

a princess goes mad
under the influence of wind;
the king must die—he who killed 
her favorite brother—the son
whose greater strength sealed 
his doom

as his children died,
the king built a pillar, one by one,
and so they fell in time,
eleven broken stones releasing souls;
one pillar stands today, 
the soul of the patricide 
trapped as if forever
in the rock:

a mushroom stone
like a fist raised
with a cry 

A multi-media artist living near Washington, DC, Jeff Bagato produces poetry and prose as well as electronic music and glitch video. Some of his poetry has appeared in Empty Mirror, Futures Trading, In Between Hangovers, Otoliths, Your One Phone Call, and Zoomoozophone Review. His published books include Savage Magic (poetry), And the Trillions (poetry), The Toothpick Fairy (fiction), and Computing Angels (fiction). A blog about his writing and publishing efforts can be found at jeffbagato.com.

Ghosts / Nocturne by Timothy Hobbs

Ghosts

They dance on slender threads of midnight

And whisper hollow memories from the

Dark corners of a dream.

 

The moon an austere brother.

The night wind a cold, brittle breath

Of their passing.

 

They search our souls for infinity,

For hopes we treasure

And fears trapped in the marrow 

Of our bones.

 

We sense their bitter hunger,

Their yearning for a taste of life,

For something they have long desired

Buried in the gray mist of their eyes,

Lost in the jewels of their tears.

 

We all have them

We all have ghosts.

 

 

 

Nocturne *

 

She emerges from a frosted mist,

A bitter moth dancing on the breath of night.

Hunger summons her from the damp of the grave,

Bears her in a soiled, linen dress

To satisfy my yearning for eternity.

 

Whispering of obsidian pools

Where stars shimmer beneath melancholy waters

She guides her feline tongue across my throat,

Presses cold, pale breasts against me.

 

She feeds and the mournful cry

Of a night bird dances through

The open window with a nocturne

For my restless soul.

 

* (originally published Summer 2016 by The Horror Zine online journal)

Timothy Hobbs is a retired medical technologist living in Temple, Texas. His flash fiction piece Luna appeared in the Deep Water Literary Journal. His anthology Mothertrucker and Other Stories and novel Veils were published through Publish America. Novels The Pumpkin Seed and Music Box Sonata and novella The Smell of Ginger were published by Vamplit Publishing in the United Kingdom and republished by Visionary Press Collaborative. Netherworld Books published his novel Maiden Fair.  A collection of flash and short fiction, In the Blink of a Wicked Eye, was published in 2015 by Sirens Call Publications. Tim’s author page can be found at amazon.com

Drum by Laura Lovic-Lindsay

There is one bright dancer among them. Her hands trace the music onto air. The “U” of her hips sways, telling bedroom stories. Melodies float her toward the youngest doumbek player, barely bearded. 

She bends to him, smiling, flirting even, to the ululating tongues of all her watching sisters but as the hafla pauses to draw a collective breath, I see the truth: her focus is not the drummer. She shines for the pulled-skin drum. 

An elderly man leans near me. “It is all that remains of her husband.” 

“He played?” I am confused. 

He shrugs. “He had enemies.”

* First published in April of 2016 at Entropy2.com

Laura Lovic-Lindsay left Penn State University with a literature degree in hand in 1993, having written no more than a few poems at that point. She has won poetry and fiction contests (PennWriters Poetry Contest, writerstype.com, writersweekly.com, Writing Success writers' conferences), and had pieces accepted for publication (Fireside Fiction, Fine Linen Magazine, Boston Literary Magazine).

Laura lives and writes in an old farmhouse in a small Western Pennsylvania town, but her heart roams realms both real and imaginary.

What I Haven't Said by M.J. Iuppa

Water trickles onto a depression

where sandy soil lets it bubble up,

reluctant to pop before it settles

in a spot where it soaks down

to roots twisted in a silver knot.

A ghostly place that gives me

shivers, watching water disappear

to a trace that settles the shock of

cold water pouring over bare

feet, over flesh that pinks with

surprise—toes curl instantly in

defense—wanting words to kick    

& scream, like blossoms lasting

on a cactus tree.

M.J. Iuppa, Director of the Visual & Performing Arts Minor Program and Lecturer in Creative Writing at St. John Fisher College, and a part-time lecturer in Creative Writing at The College at Brockport, was awarded the New York State Chancellor’s Award for Excellence in Adjunct Teaching, 2017.

Evocation by Sravani Singampalli

The pillows on my bed
Are not stuffed with cotton.
They are stuffed with
My mother’s old sarees
And lots of other childhood memories.
The picture hanging there on the wall
Is still full of vigour and charm.
The nail hammered into the wall
Ten years ago with precision
Appears rusty yet very strong
Unlike decaying minds
And constipated thoughts.
The flower vase gifted 
To my aunt by us
Is a part of the soil now
In their backyard.
It hasn’t lost its shape
Just the colour has faded
And scratches have deepened.

Sravani Singampalli is a published writer and poet from India. Her works have been appeared in Scarlet Leaf Review, Labyrinthine Passages journal, Criterion journal, Spillwords press, Setu bilingual journal, Delhi Poetry Slam and many other literary magazines and anthologies.         

The Birds Weep by Steve Carr

     The air is thick with the scent of pine. Rays of purple, blood red and golden yellow are fanned out across the twilight sky. Kyle walks among the trees holding a bouquet of wilting lillies. Lost, he searches for signs of the path he wandered away from. As the sun sets, owls hoot from their perches and hawks screech as they circle about in the oncoming night sky. 

     At a fallen pine tree he sits on a branch and tries to remember the direction he was going. He puts the flowers to his nose. They have lost their scent. He watches the sparrows, juncos and blackbirds as they fight the cold wind on the way to their nests. The cry of a loon from a nearby lake reverberates through the forest. It gives him a sense of direction. The lake is near his destination. 

     Night sets in fast. The black sky is suddenly splattered with clusters of stars. The coos of mourning doves fills the air. He walks on, sensing he is now on the right track. When he reaches a clearing among a grove of sycamore trees he stops and gazes at the small group of cemetery headstones surrounded by a black fence. 

     He passes through the fence and finds his grave. He lays the lillies on the mound above his coffin. As he slowly disappears into the earth he knows that was the last time he would wander the Earth. He heard the birds weep.

Steve Carr, who lives in Richmond, Va., began his writing career as a military journalist and has had over a hundred short stories published internationally in print and online magazines, literary journals and anthologies. His plays have been produced in several states. He is on Facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100012966314127 and Twitter @carrsteven960.

The Witch Turns / Beckoned by Alarie Tennille

The Witch Turns
 
Go back!  You think I can’t hear
you swishing through the grass
for the fierce wind – the very wind

I conjured from screams of women
left broken by your kind. Sarah
Good, Rebecca Nurse, Susannah Martin –

those poor innocents proved by death
they were not witches. Never
will I stand trial. Never.

Your stench stalks me like a shadow.
So be it. Even without trees or ravines
for cover, we’re secluded. I, too,

am counting on that. Closer, closer,
closer you come, never guessing
this very ground is under my spell.

Nothing can touch me here. Nothing.
You’ll learn soon enough.
I half turn, cast my one-eyed curse.

You smirk just like the others.
I say nothing, for your kind cannot hear.
One step closer – a shriek of wind

your last memory.





Beckoned                                                                                     
 
Don’t go, don’t go in the woods,
my parents repeated.
I knew that I would. 

Little Red Riding Hood comes
at bedtime. Hansel and Gretel chase
even my dreams away
from the beckoning darkness.

They warn of poisonous
snakes and mushrooms, hungry
bears, coyotes, werewolves.
I yearn to join the fairies, feed
the deer.

Don’t go, don’t go in the woods,
my parents repeated.
I knew that I would.

You’ll never find your way
home. You’ll miss your cats, books,
baby brother. You’ll be lost
forever, FOREVER.

Like that other little girl?
What girl? asks Mama.
The little girl at the edge
of the woods who motions to follow.

Don’t go, don’t go in the woods,
my parents repeated.
I knew that I would.

They call a realtor. Put up
a For Sale sign. You’ll have more
friends in town.

I’ll go to the woods tomorrow.

Alarie Tennille graduated from the University of Virginia in the first class admitting women. She serves on the Emeritus Board of The Writers Place in Kansas City. Since retiring, Alarie has been letting the moon lead her poems to darker places. Her newest collection is Waking on the Moon.  alariepoet.com

Night Sounds / Around Midnight by Steve Klepetar

Night Sounds

Here you found a map colored 

with six shades, a legend 

bidding you to mind your step

on the way down. 

And here is a gray door streaked with rain. 

Only now, when sunlight 

fades, can you feel the grit 

in your eye. It’s true 

you’ve hiked a long day, and your belly growls. 

Now the night sounds begin. 

Standing in the wind may drive you 

off course, send you out through tangles 

and swamp. Still, you remain ready 

for what comes next, the whisper 

of wings or songs of starlight filtered through leaves.

Around Midnight

I came out into the field.

The houses burned with light.

I might have been dreaming, 

I might have fallen a long way 

through a hole in the sky. 

No wonder leaves drifted 

around my body 

and danced in the autumn breeze. 

After a long absence, I had come home. 

The blue door opened 

and the inmates carried me away. 

In the dining room, plates 

and cups and wine. 

We feasted on fruits of the earth, 

we carried a thousand flavors 

wrapped around our tongues.

There were turnips 

and parsnips and butter and salt, 

carrots still rough with garden dirt. 

Garlic, and peppers and so many 

onions frying in the pan.

Our eyes rained tears.  

Even the walls were merry then, 

and the floorboards rattled with mirth.

We tripped upstairs into soft beds. 

Half asleep, we lay there tasting darkness 

and the silver silence of our heated breath.

Steve Klepetar lives in Saint Cloud, Minnesota. His work has received several nominations for Best of the Net and the Pushcart Prize, including four in 2016. Recent collections include Family Reunion (Big Table), A Landscape in Hell (Flutter Press), How Fascism Comes to America (Locofo Chaps), and Why Glass Shatters (One Sentence Chaps).

Eclipse / Home Again by Michael Keshigian

ECLIPSE

 

What darkness is this 

that infiltrates the golden air,

that even the reddest roses

are shaded and in the moment 

become ashen,

that my vision, as I peruse the landscape,

becomes a black door

closing quickly on the heavenly flame,

creating a world which

no one seeks, from which

no one returns,

a world toward which

everyone travels.

Clarity of choice and possibility

adjust themselves

to the change of venue,

an onset of the unknown

while the sun vanishes 

in the wake of floating debris

that ascends

from behind the serrated mountains, 

and a new world appears,

an infinite yet empty

claustrophobic tomb of black

that swallows reality whole,

becoming what all will remember.

 

HOME AGAIN

 

Abandoned house, are there 

only spiders and rodents

residing amid your rooms?

I see my distorted image

upon the fogged glass 

of the old storm door,

and feel like a prowler,

appraising the value of items

upon your walls

or tucked in your corners,

when, in truth, I seek

to rekindle precious memories 

and reconstruct pictures

the recent days

have begun to obscure,

events the rain of years

are washing away,

remembrances,

trickling indiscernibly  

through the pitted window 

of my mind’s eye

as I rap my fist

against the glass, 

hoping the ghosts will answer.

Michael Keshigian, from New Hampshire, had his twelfth poetry collection, Into The Light, released in April, 2017 by Flutter Press. He has been published in numerous national and international journals including Oyez Review, Red River Review, Sierra Nevada College Review, Oklahoma Review, Chiron Review and has appeared as feature writer in over  twenty publications with 6 Pushcart Prize and 2 Best Of The Net nominations. (michaelkeshigian.com)