Night Deep by GJ Hart

At night, when loneliness

Threads its weight

Through sheets

And life gasps

like a katana, 

Cold And shining

And curling Into distance, 

I consider 

Solitude and how 

I am sunken amidst

The sparks and hooks 

Of impalpable notions. 

If only I could 

Grasp it, 

The high moon, 

A dot of faith and suddenly

You cough and sigh

And I see you

Silent and wide 

Awake at my side. 

GJ Hart currently lives in London and has had pieces published in The Molotov Cocktail, The Jersey Devil Press, the Harpoon Review and others. He can be found arguing with himself over @gj_hart.

Leading From My Heart by Bonnie Karen Carter

Stageset: Only me and another woman in a waiting room at a train station 

She is sitting in the opposite corner from where I am standing.

She is facing the wall and looking odd. I ask myself, is she hurt? or just poor and downtrodden? Not well? Hungry? Crazy? I stand unevenly, it appears I have taken on a limp, from her? Through empathy? I hesitate to go over, investigate and ask if she needs help, but I want to know if she is okay? I limp over, a little nervous about how she is going to react or respond. 

When I reach her I ask, are you okay? She faces me silently, untamed and angry, then abruptly limps out of the station waiting room. Startled, I follow her not knowing why. She clearly doesn't want anything to do with me. I am attracted for some reason. But why? She resembles a helpless waif from another time. Upon leaving the station house, to my surprise I see she is quite far down the road. I limp along intently and make good ground. 

Out of nowhere a third being appears. A bird is flying overhead, casting a shadow. It seems huge, maybe it is a condor, I think. Once, I saw one in a zoo. At that time it impressed me as a massive, unusual mythic creature instead of a bird. Observing the bird’s wing span increased my awe of this very strange mythic bird. I then think of Joseph Campbell and universal archetypes, totems, myths and meanings. What is the meaning of the condor totem? I don’t know. I am so in the moment with this woman, bird and myself, I will find out. 

The bird hovers, then leaves. Oddly, its shadow remains. I get used to it. I wear it as a comfortable cloak. I am gaining ground on the woman and don’t know why I am magnetized by her, because I actually am feeling unsafe and compelled at the same time. I reach her and she turns around. Shock! She is beautiful and gentle and kind. She is not the woman I saw in the room, but another person. How is that possible? And neither she nor I limp anymore. I am struck to see on her chest, over her heart region, a large mirror necklace about a dozen inches wide. I look into it; and see my face. Shock! It is beautiful and gentle and kind.  

Oh, now I remember what bird totems do in myths, they bring messages of a higher perspective. 

Bonnie Karen Carter of Grounded in Spirit is an energetic healer/bodyworker, author, artist. Growing up in a stressful environment, she adapted to life by ‘reading’ others for survival. This skill afforded her a vivid imagination and a unique capacity to be a conscious vehicle for information from the M-field. 

The Bay At Night by Selena Martens

Look, there’s nothing now

just the sound of the clock turning over

and the creature’s mournful call

across the bay.

In the black gloom, 

we emerge from the cabin,

a shawl draped over my shoulders,

the pine forest shielding us from the stars

our bare feet slap on the rocky shore,

where glaciers once broke the Earth’s skin open.

The lapping of the waves is quiet,

as though the elements lie in wait

the air off the water lifts a single strand of my hair,

invisible fingers run over my cheeks

miles out, the creature lows

he is the size of one of our small islands

shoulders of turf and hard scraggly growth,

prickly bracken, and burs, and needles

sprout from his back

and deep-set eyes burn like distant campfires

he moves so sluggishly

the waves grow thick and ponderous,

rolling in the night, breaking on my legs

the rocks are slippery

your hand tugs the hem of my shawl

and it falls away

but I don’t stop and your voice is afraid

to crawl up your neck

in the night, in the quiet, on the

edge of a round bay like a bowl,

cradled by rocks and pines

our secret creature.

Selena Martens is a Canadian speculative fiction author and poet. She grew up in Northern Ontario, on the shores of Georgian Bay.

Birds Roosting in the Belfry by John Tustin

Memories of you

Are birds roosting in the belfry

Of a church where I have come

To seek sanctuary

From my misery  –

The cooing, almost imperceptible,

Is beautiful

But keeps me up

Night upon night

Upon night.

In the times of silence

I lie awake

And hold my breath,

Waiting and waiting

For the sound

Of rustling wings

To sweeten

The bitter din

That clutters up the ears

Inside my mind.

John Tustin is currently suffering in exile on Elba but hopes to return to you soon. fritzware.com/johntustinpoetry contains links to his published poetry online.

Killed By A Drink by Yash Seyedbagheri

Nick’s sister Nancy is struck by a beer truck. He tries not to conjure the truck, making contact. The motion of Nancy flying into the air, crack of bones on pavement. 

He tries to block the nicknames she bestowed on him. Saint Nick, Little Nicky. Whirlwind energy, love of piano. Footsteps, loud clickety-clack. 

He wishes she hadn’t gone out that day. Wishes he’d followed her. Gotten hit himself. When people ask about her, he says it was a drink that killed her. Technically correct. A truckful. Being killed by booze seems like something mysterious and inexplicable. Beyond logic. 

It’s easier.

Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. A recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, his story, "Strangers," was nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Mir-Yashar's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Maudlin House, The Drabble, Door Is A Jar, and Ariel Chart. 

Clandestine by Joan McNerney

In the rinse of another grey day

unrolling before us like an empty film.

I want to scream out against

flat skies, tear up coarse air.

Another grey day gnawing

at me sounding metallic beats

putting me through its paces

with long lists of minutiae.

Today marches forward...another

tin soldier knocking yesterday aside.

Each night coming faster, faster.

Winds blowing stronger, stronger.

Cats howl in cold circles as

ragged leaves cling to boughs.

Raindrops fall like black ink

under small pools of lights.

Darkness gathers close…

my shadow, that long black

silhouette slanting down 

follows me into the night.

Joan McNerney’s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Poet Warriors, Blueline, and Halcyon Days.  Four Bright Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Kind of A Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work.  Her latest title, The Muse In Miniature, is available on Amazon and she has four Best of the Net nominations. 

Lilacs by Mike Turner

Let us celebrate the beauty 

Of the lilacs in the yard

By cutting them

And killing them

And placing in glass jar

Kept till they lose their vibrance

And wither to husks, dry

Yes, let us celebrate the lilacs

By condemning them to die

Mike Turner is a songwriter and poet living on the U.S. Gulf Coast. His original songs have received radio play in the U.S., UK and Europe. His poems have been published in Spillwords Press, GreyThoughts, and Red Planet Magazine.