Late at Night by Max Bindi

Late at night

Late at night

I lie awake

in a darkened room

while black phantoms

peer into my gloom

but do you see

what I see

when all ghouls

shut their eyes

and the darkness

comes eerily alive?

Late at night

lonesome wanderers

cross thin shadow lines

while unreal cities

burn in the moonlight

but do you feel

what I feel

when all spooks run wild

and the dead stars

shine ominously bright?

Late at night

spectral lovers stroll

down by the riverside

while their reflections

swim against the tide

but do you dream

what they dream

when love breaks all ties

and all faint hearts roll

like hollow dice?

Late at night

We climb over

abysmal heights

reaching out

for a frightening insight

but do you bleed

like I bleed

when the winds of sorrow

cut like a knife

and the ghost of tomorrow

weaves his uncanny web of life?

Picture of Max Bindi

Max Bindi

Max Bindi is an Italian Author/Translator/Poet. His work has been featured in Poetry Anthologies by publishers such as The SFPA, HellBound books, The Ravens Quoth Press etc. as well as in a variety of international Literary Magazines both online and in print, including: Aphelion, The Horror Zine, The Sirens Call eZine, Lovecraftiana (Rogue Planet Press), Raven Cage Zine, Better Than Starbucks and elsewhere. He was nominated for the Dwarf Stars Award in 2023.

Use by Ken Poyner

There is a skeleton in the closet. It came with the house. I don’t think we paid extra for it.

We have the skeleton arranged so what space he takes up is equally spread against floor shoe space and hanger space.

The good thing is that it forces us to consider whether some shoes, sweaters, and shirts are beyond their service lives. When we toss out the suspect clothes, the closet skeleton leaves us with neither space gain nor loss, but less useless clothing to care for.

Did the former residents apply this wonderful skeleton as skillfully as we do?

Picture of Ken Poyner

Ken Poyner

Ken’s nine collections of brief fiction and poetry can be found at most online booksellers. He spent thirty-three years in information system management, is married to a world-record-holding female powerlifter, and has a family that includes several rescue cats and betta fish. Individual works have appeared in Café Irreal, Analog, Danse Macabre, The Cincinnati Review, and several hundred other places.

Jimtown Road by Dennis McFadden

“Freak Of Nature Brings Fear To Many Hearts Last Sunday”

“…and fear, in more or less degree, descended on the populace.” 

– Jeffersonian Democrat, September 28, 1950

Curly Smathers was not a little man, but the closer he got to home, the old farmstead carved into the forest north of Hartsgrove, Pennsylvania, the smaller he became. It was a week to the day after Black Sunday. Above his head, across the sky, a skein of geese pointed him homeward like an ancient arrow, Smathers following in an old Ford pickup, clattering over the rock-hard dirt of Jimtown Road.

Just ahead, where the road crested the hill, two girls turned to stare at the truck crawling toward them, pails a-droop from the clutch of their fists. The hilltop meadow, gold in the afternoon sun, commanded a sweeping view of the colorful crowns of the surrounding hills, where the woods blazed red and orange. At the crest, the two girls stood on the horizon, surrounded by blue sky, anchored by golden ground, halfway between heaven and earth, almost afloat. Smathers shivered at the grace of the vision. A squeal escaped the brakes as he pulled to a stop beside them, watching their stares go wide, their mouths falling open. Neither had ever seen a head so bald on a man so young, with eyes so bright and gay.

“Afternoon, ladies,” said Smathers, flashing his jagged jack o’ lantern smile. The older girl closed her mouth and nodded, the younger still showing the absence of her two front teeth. “Where you off to?”

“We’re going berrying, mister,” the taller girl said.

“Where bouts?”

“Grandpa says there’s a big patch just over yonder by the edge of the woods.”

“Oh,” Smathers said. “Them’s just blackberries—me, I’d sooner eat a nice fat bumbleberry any day.”

Bumbleberry?” said the younger girl.

Umm umm. Puts me in mind of sugar candy.”

“Mister,” the older girl said, “there ain’t no such a thing as a bumbleberry.”

“Why, there sure is,” Smathers said. “Lady by the name of Carrie May—she was my stepmama—she showed me a patch of ’em one day when I was just about your age.”

“What do they look like?”

“Bluer’n a blueberry—rasbier than a raspberry. Some of ’em’s bigger’n your nose.” The little girl’s eyes widened again. The older’s were full of doubt. “Who’s your granddaddy?” Smathers asked.

“Perry McCracken,” said the older girl.

“Heck, I know old Perry,” Smathers said. “That’s his place just down the road there a piece.” The little girl nodded. “Why, I went to school with his boy Luke.”

“That’s my pa!” the little girl lisped.

“Sure, me and Luke goes way back,” Smathers said. “What’s your names?”

“I’m Mary Lou,” the older one said, “and this here’s my sister Katie.”

“Nice to meet you, ladies.”

“What happened to all your hair, mister?” Katie asked.

“Katie!” said Mary Lou.

Smathers laughed. “My papa calls me Curly.”

“I’m sorry, mister,” Mary Lou said, blushing for her sister. “Katie don’t know her manners yet.”

“Well, you ladies take care now. I believe I’m gonna go pick me some bumbleberries.”

I want to pick me some bumbleberries,” Katie said.

“No!” said Mary Lou. Then, to Smathers, “We’re gonna pick blackberries. Our Grandma’s gonna bake us up a pie.”

“Just as well,” said Smathers. “It’s a secret patch anyways. Carrie May made me cross my heart and hope to die I wouldn’t ever show it to nobody else.”

“He’s just teasing you, Katie,” Mary Lou said.

Smathers craned his neck to look up at the sky, an expanse so blue and clean he could not imagine it holding darkness. “Sure hope it stays light enough to pick ’em, though—heard tell it got mighty dark up hereabouts last Sunday.”

“It was like nighttime in the middle of the day!” Mary Lou said.

Smathers nodded. “Musta been a little scary.”

“Abner got scared!” Katie said. “He started in yipping and howling!”

“All the birds commenced their evening songs!” Mary Lou said.

“Pa thought the Russians dropped an automatic bomb!” Katie said.

“Atomic bomb,” Mary Lou said. “Grandma got scared too—she figured it was Judgement Day coming.”

“That’s what that piece in the paper said,” said Smathers. “I was setting in this here little diner in Paducah, Kentucky, last week when I seen this piece somebody was reading in the newspaper—said, they thought the world was coming to an end. Somebody’d drew a picture next to it, of where it got dark—looked like this long, black finger pointing me right back thisaway, right back toward home.”

Smathers lit up his jagged jack o’ lantern smile, and it grew. The sweet nostalgia of his homecoming filled him to the brim, and kept on filling, overflowing, spilling from his eyes. He was no longer small. How he grew, along with his smile. And still the filling went on. It was a moment so rare and euphoric that he’d experienced no other like it in his thirty years on earth; only once or twice had he come close. The whole sky filled him, all its vast and immaculate expanses, and he understood in some way beyond the reach of his knowledge the oneness of the universe and all that was in it, from the giddy heights of heaven to the two bewildered little girls before him.

At the bottom of the hollow, just past the plank bridge where the brook was the color of rust, Smathers Road forked off Jimtown Road, heading up the hill through the deep, cool shadows of the forest. On either side were banks knee-deep in lush fernery. At the top of the ridge, the road followed cleared pastures—Smathers wondered who farmed them now—to more woods, even thicker. These were the woods he knew, where he’d trekked for hours, gun in hand, bloody meat in his poke; these woods were virgin timber, dark and hilly, scattered with boulders like the marbles of God. They extended forever northward, becoming the great Allegheny Forest. Two miles up Smathers Road, the woods on the left thinned, then ended—more or less—where the first of the No Trespassing signs appeared, at the beginning of the old Smathers farm, eighty acres over four fields, now being reclaimed by the forest: young saplings and evergreens, thick undergrowth, a tide of browning ragweed speckled with Queen Ann’s Lace. Up the easy slope, the road dead-ended at the farm.

At the sight of it, the memory of Carrie May stirred in his mind like a flower in the morning sun; the memory of the old man quickly followed, and his stomach rolled. He stopped the pickup where the road ended and the crabgrass commenced, near the burnt-out ruin of the barn. He was small again, incredibly small, the vast universe shrunk to this old farmhouse, boards weathered raw, tin roof curling to rust. He stepped from the truck, running a hand over his gleaming scalp, taking in the dereliction of the place: A few apple trees in the remnants of the orchard, and an unkempt garden near the house—scraggly corn stalks, tomato plants—were all that remained of the fertile acres, while the ragweed pasture beyond the charred relic of the barn hadn’t been grazed upon in years. A scattering of scrawny chickens strutted and pecked. By the tilting outbuildings, a scramble of roses gone wild: Carrie May’s roses. The surrounding woods inched closer and closer, a pack of wolves circling in for the kill.

He remembered going into the hen house the first time alone as a youngster to fetch the eggs; when the rooster had squawked up a ruckus and come straight for his face, he’d panicked and run, his heart slapping like the wings of the bird. Carrie May had marched him right back in again to face him down, insisting he be meaner than the bird. He’d left home, maybe ten years later, a couple of years after Carrie May was gone. It occurred to him that maybe he hadn’t been leaving for the reason he told himself—to find Carrie May’s aunt—maybe he’d been running away again. He felt his pulse reaching out to the tips of his fingers.

The old man stood on the porch, leaning into his stare. “I’d recognize that head o’ hair anywheres!”

“Papa,” Smathers yelled, heading toward him. The old man came down the steps. A puppy scrambled down beside him, a brown, knee-high, yipping bundle of energy.

The old man sized him up. Big Vern was still bigger than his boy, who’d been Little Vern before he became Curly. The old man’s cheeks were sunken, as were his eyes, frosty as his boy’s were warm. His mustache might have dripped like dirty icicles from the ragged white thatch of his hair. Smathers was oddly comforted by the sight of his papa’s shotgun, Old Aimee, still dangling from the crook of his hand.

“Your face looks familiar,” the old man said, “but your feet has grown out of my knowledge.” Then, to the puppy, still yipping, leaping like a trout around Smathers, “Bonehead, shut the hell up.”

“Jesus!” Smathers said. “He’s pissing on me!”

The old man nodded. “Happy to see you. We don’t get much company.”

“This here’s a brand-new suit.”

The old man nodded again. Then he kicked the puppy hard, and the puppy yelped away across the yard. Smathers’s ribs throbbed at the sight, old bruises rolling over. “Mighty fancy suit of clothes,” said the old man, in his lusterless overalls.

Smathers shook his dampened leg. Neither man moved close to the other. “He your guard dog, is he?”

“Bonehead,” the old man muttered. “So you’re alive?”

“Alive and kicking,” said Smathers. The old man spat in the dirt and turned back toward the porch. Smathers said, “Damn dog’s happier to see me than you are.”

The old man turned. His mustache rustled, hinting smile. “Hell, c’mon up. I’ll be pleased to piss on your leg for you.”

Smathers had to grin as he started toward the porch. Because he glanced down for the first step, he never saw the old man’s backhand coming, a wallop so hard it knocked him backwards, where he sprawled in the rubble of the yard.

The old man stood on the top step. “That’s for running off. And never letting a body know whether you was dead or alive.”

“Damn, Papa,” said Smathers, rubbing where the gnarled knuckle had torn his cheek. He felt like giggling, so giddy was he in relief and delight. “You made me rip the ass right out of my pants.”

The old man nodded again, and Smathers thought he saw an actual smile this time. He was happy to see him. “Them fancy suits of clothes don’t wear too good up here in the country,” the old man said.

***

Smathers had worked up an appetite and his mouth was watering for fresh meat, not for the venison jerky and tinned beans begrudgingly offered by his papa. He set off with his old hunting rifle, a Marlin 30.06, down the easy slope of the wasted pasture, parallel to the road. He remembered sliding wild across the snow crust of this same field with Carrie May—he couldn’t have been more than four—wedged between her knees in a cardboard box, her shrieks of delight as they tipped near the treeline and rolled laughing in a spray of snow. Carrie May was a splash of color on a gray slab of memory.

She’d been Carrie May Wonderling until, orphaned by a car crash on Sugar Hill, she’d married Vernon Smathers, recently widowed when his wife bled to death giving birth to Little Vern. Carrie May’s age, halfway between that of Smathers and his father, made her an odd hybrid of sister and mother, daughter and wife. She was a small woman with large, capable hands, and a wide face full of eyes. When her eyes went big—in curiosity, concern, wonder, delight or any of a hundred other emotions that caused them to widen with every other blink—bright green irises floated free in pools of white.

When Smathers was ten, Carrie May’s aunt brought her to Paducah to see Aimee Semple McPherson and her Foursquare Gospel Evangelical Revival. Carrie May came home converted. Her eyes were never bigger as she described the experience to her Little Vern—the glory and the joy—how she actually felt the Lord entering her body and taking her soul in His warm, loving arms. Then she set about, as Smathers later suspected her aunt had intended, the conversion of the old man and the boy.

The boy was an easy mark. Having lived all his life at the mercy of the moods and whims of an almighty father, the leap from Papa-fearing to God-fearing was not all that great. He never knew when the wrath of the father might be visited upon him, when the cruel blows might rain down again—for a chore poorly done, for the look on his face, or for nothing but being in the middle of his sleep like a nightmare when the moonshine fumes hung heavy on the air. So he prayed with Carrie May because it pleased her, though he never knew for certain what became of the words once they left his lips, and nothing ever entered his body, that he could feel.

The conversion of Big Vern was less successful. From the first day Carrie May suggested he set aside his jug, the friction mounted. Little Vern sensed it for the most part, too young to see this cause or that effect, except for one: how much harder the old man now hit her. He’d never suspected him of pulling his punches before, when Carrie May, often as drunk as him, fought back, feisty and fearless, until afterwards, when she began turning the other cheek.

Then Carrie May was gone, simply swallowed up by the forest. Little Vern was thirteen, coming into manhood, and his papa thrashed him more viciously than ever, beating him for two, out of loneliness and rage, beating him for challenging his manhood by the mere claiming of his own, for pushing him headlong toward the grave. And almost overnight, not long after Carrie May was gone, Little Vern’s hair fell out. Within a week, he was bald as Old Aimee’s butt, and the wrath of the father was forever altered; it intensified, while becoming less physical. Having lost respect for him, he beat his boy less, cursed and derided him more, sneeringly calling him Curly, despising him for his perversion of the natural way of things, for his weakness, his softness and smoothness, for his seeming reversion to infancy—for challenging his manhood by the abandonment of his own.

Now Smathers was back, brought home by the long, black finger of God, to face down his demons. After her conversion, Carrie May told him she faced down her demons every day. She confessed to all her sins, past and present: drunkenness, waste, lust, wantonness—the latter two Little Vern had never suspected.

He remembered her chattering as she fried potatoes for breakfast in an iron skillet, his papa at the plain board table contemplating his cup and his jug, his overalls stinking of silage and muck. He remembered a prosperous farm, a hired hand, the legend of his great-grandpa Smathers clearing the land with an ax, a farmhouse trim and fresh. But his visions of the past and present farms were unconnected. They existed in separate times and worlds.

Smathers thanked God from whom all blessings flow as he spotted a doe and two fawns through the trees, grazing on the forest floor, tails working in nervous blinks. He crept into range, distracted by the breeze on his backside. Sighting down the barrel of his Marlin, the raw flesh of his wounded cheek was tender on the gunstock. Smathers squeezed the trigger, the doe dropping in a heap amid a shower of golden leaves before the report had finished echoing through the trees and off the boulders. He gutted her where she lay, then dragged her back through the woods. Emerging from the trees, the sun low in his face made it impossible to see beyond the moment, so he remembered Carrie May, unaware of the long shadow stretching out behind him, connecting him to the tree line, to the mountains beyond, to the very dawn of time.

They cooked venison steaks and roasting ears on an open fire Smathers built at twilight near the ruins of the barn. The old man butchered the doe, Smathers watching how he relished the wielding of the knife. After Smathers had rigged a spit to roast the meat and tucked the ears of corn into the red-hot coals of the fire, he and his papa munched on soft tomatoes and stunted apples. It had been a hungry day’s work. The old man never offered to share the jug from which he took his frequent pulls, so Smathers fetched himself water from the spring. Bonehead lay quiet and drooling, transfixed by the smell of the sizzling meat. After they’d eaten, Smathers foraged for dead wood to feed the fire as darkness spread over the farm, and they listened to the forest and fields come alive with the noises of the night.

“Where was you at last Sunday?” the old man asked.

“Illinois,” Smathers said, “eating beans.”

“Git dark up there? In the daytime, I mean?”

“Nope.”

“Got blacker’n the inside of a grizzly here, middle of the day. I ain’t lying. Got all dark and cold, but it wasn’t no dark like night, and it wasn’t no cold like winter. Some kind of a sign, I figured—wasn’t no good sign neither. I figured the Lord was fixing to call me on home. Why, I said hallelujah.”

“Read where some folks believed it was World War III commencing,” said Smathers.

The old man spat into the fire where it hissed. “Chickens all went to roost. Middle of the goddam day. Old Bonehead, he lays up there on the porch shivering in the corner like a coward. Quiet, too. Like a grave. I figured it was Dooms Day come. I was listening for the trumpets.”

“Hallelujah, Papa.”

“Chester Craven down at the store told me what it was was smoke. Forest fires up there in Canada. Wasn’t true. You couldn’t smell no smoke. I can smell a fire a mile away, and there wasn’t a goddam whiff of smoke.”

Clear on the air came the sound of baying hounds, from the far ridge, miles off, carried close and loud by the echo over the hollow. Below, fog had begun to float from the ragweed, low puddles of cloud forming down the pasture. Hearing the hounds, Bonehead looked up from the bone he was gnawing and began to howl.

“Newspaper said it was fires too, Papa. Must of been too high up to smell it.”

“That wasn’t no smoke, you little piss ant, you wasn’t even here. What it was was a sign.  Wasn’t no good sign neither.”

Smathers said nothing. Bonehead howled.

“Put me in mind of a bruise,” the old man said. “First it gets all yellow, sickly yellow, then it goes to purple before it gets black. Like the worst shiner you ever seen in your life.”

“You oughta be a expert on shiners.”

“Wasn’t just the sky, mind you. It was all around you. Almost like it was coming up out of the ground. Like you was setting here in the middle of a goddam bruise.”

“Like maybe the Lord give the whole world a licking?”

The old man stood to piss. Smathers saw a shooting star over his shoulder give a dazzling counterpoint to the puny, sputtering stream in the firelight. “Then you turn up.”

“Lord works in mysterious ways,” Smathers said. “Carrie May was always saying that.”

“Bonehead, shut the hell up,” the old man said to the howling puppy. But Bonehead howled on, at the far sound of the baying hounds across the hollow. “Half expected her. Figured maybe that’s what the sign was for.”

“She’ll maybe turn up yet.”

The old man took a pull from his jug. “She’ll turn up all right. Come Dooms Day, she’ll turn up.”

“And the earth shall pour forth its dead. Ain’t that in the Bible? Something like that?”

“You’d have to ask Carrie May.”

“Maybe she just up and run off. Like I done.”

“She never would of left less she was dead. She needed me to beat the devil out of her. You might not of thought so, boy, but we got along pretty good. Even cats and dogs get pretty sweet on one another once they been laying down together a while. We kept one another in line. She was a mean little jigger, she was.”

“So how’d she get dead, Papa?”

Bonehead never knew what hit him. The old man caught him in mid-howl with the butt of Old Aimee, and he ran yelping into the darkness toward the house. “Goddam puppies, never know when to shut the hell up,” the old man said. “For a long time, I blamed you.”

“Blamed me?” Smathers ran his hand over his smooth scalp.

The old man nodded, then drank from the jug again. “I figure she got herself mauled by a bear up in the woods. Musta been a sick bear, maybe hurt. Then for a while I was thinking, if you’d of been with her like you usually was, like you should of been, that bear never would of took the both of you. But then the more thought I give it, I figured you’re such a little piss ant anyways, he probably would of. Took the both of you.”

“So you forgive me then? I thank you kindly.”

They tried to pin it on him, the old man told him indignantly. He told him about the sheriff and his court papers and his bulldozer digging up half the farm, and Carrie May’s kin—the Wonderlings from over in Dagus Mines—trying to burn him out, and the retaliations by Old Aimee and himself.

Smathers heard the baying of the hounds across the hollow growing louder. God works in mysterious ways. The old man’s suspicions were contagious. It might have been a sign; after all, hadn’t it pointed him homeward?

“What brung you back?”

Smathers shrugged. “Ain’t had nobody to call Papa in a long time.”

The old man spat. “So you done a little time, did you?”

Smathers was impressed by his papa’s perception. “Done a little.”

“What for? Spitting on the goddam sidewalk?”

“For sticking a city slicker.”

“What’d you stick him with? A hat pin?” The old man tried to chuckle, a cracked sound, the joy all withered out of it.

The sound of the baying hounds across the hollow grew louder still. It was too loud to ignore, but Smathers said nothing about it, and neither did his papa.

The old man stood with Old Aimee and a wobble, then bent unsteadily to retrieve his jug. He started toward the house. “When you leave, leave quiet. Me and Bonehead needs our beauty rest.”

“So that’s my homecoming, is it, Papa?”

The old man turned and swayed. “Ain’t your home no more, boy.”

The fire popped and hissed, sending red embers dying toward the stars that speckled the black of the sky. Smathers made no connection between the dying embers and the old man, nor between the embers and the stars. He could only wonder at how so many points of light could try and fail to illuminate the night.

The hounds yowled on, an incessant mantra. From the porch, Bonehead soon took up the chorus, realizing the old man was safely inside.

Smathers lay on his back, awed by the first skyful of stars he’d seen in twelve and a half years. He drifted here and there on the pain and glory of the howling and the baying. Vividly in his mind, as much rumination as dream, Carrie May became Aimee Semple McPherson in a towering pulpit, arms outstretched like the wings of an angel, dazzling white robes flowing down like honey from heaven. Beneath the robes she was naked as the day she came into the world—naked as the day she departed. Naked as the woman he’d watched skinny-dipping in the moonlight. Her eyes of round delights shot lightning from above as the congregation cowered in awe, and trumpets sounded. She warned of damnation, fire, brimstone. Black smoke rose up all around her. She promised salvation, streets of heaven lined with gold. With the laying on of her hands, she could heal the sick, the infirm, the insane.

Could she also raise the dead?

Smathers had killed his mother claiming his own life. That knowledge had always fortified him, leaving him impervious to pain. From the porch, Bonehead’s howl was full of terror, terror at the message of the hounds, terror at the smell of the smoke, terror at his utter inability to associate the wrath of the gods with his own howling, yipping, unalterable behavior. Smathers stood by the dwindling fire, stretching. Growing. Dew was beginning to dampen his new suit of clothes, and a half moon had topped the horizon. A few yards away the pickup hulked like a dark creature. Smathers went and lifted the tarp in the bed, like peeling back the night. A righteous chill of goosebumps swept up his back toward the pure, clean skin of his skull, where the moonlight glinted like a halo.

He walked toward the house, ten feet tall. Picking up a rock from the rubble in the yard, he crushed the puppy’s skull. There was already blood from the doe on his pants, so a little more wouldn’t much matter.

He wondered if the old man would hear him. He figured not; he figured him to be too deaf to hear thunder by now if he hadn’t heard the ruckus of the hounds searching for the McCracken girls across the hollow. The Trumpets of Dooms Day would sound, and the old man would miss them as well.

Sure enough, he never stirred as Smathers came into his room, tiptoed over Old Aimee, and sat on the edge of the bare bed where the old man lay shrouded in burlap. Moonlight cast a pale glow. In the shadows at the foot of the bed, Smathers detected the old butter churn, wondering for an instant why it was there before the image came to his mind of Carrie May, sitting churning on the porch, glistening with sweat, smiling, eyes wide and dancing. When his papa opened his eyes, Smathers held the glistening knife in front of his face.

He wondered if the old man could hear. “This here’s the bone-handled knife I stuck that city slicker with, Papa. Same one.” Smathers lit up his jagged jack o’ lantern smile, bigger than the night. He wiped the blade of the knife on the burlap. “Dragging that doe up through the woods there kindly put me in mind of Carrie May. Yes sir, Papa. They say you always remember your first.”

Picture of Dennis McFadden

Dennis McFadden

Dennis McFadden, a retired project manager, lives and writes in a cedar-shingled cottage called Summerhill in the woods of upstate New York. His short story collection, "Jimtown Road," won the 2016 Press 53 Award for Short Fiction; another collection, "Lafferty, Looking for Love," is forthcoming from Cornerstone Press. His novel, "Old Grimes Is Dead," was selected by Kirkus Reviews as one of the Best Indie Books of 2022. His stories have appeared in dozens of publications, including The Missouri Review, New England Review, The Sewanee Review, The Massachusetts Review, and The Best American Mystery Stories.

Sacrificium – Part Two by Andrea Modenos Ash

As we walk down the street to the park entrance, there is a barrage of activity. Several police officers are hurrying about, pushing homeless people into a van, and tossing makeshift tents and sacks into a garbage truck. I crane my neck to make sure none of the people being taken away are him.

One of the herded breaks away and rushes towards me. He is lithe, blonde, his eyes ice blue.

He whispers gruffly, “In the meadow. Near the Oaks. Past the lake.” And then he flees from the cops and sprints down into the park, disappearing. A messenger.

“These homeless are out of control!” my husband yells out. “Don’t go in there at all today. Walk on the sidewalk.”

“I’ll be okay,” I say, pushing away from him as he tries to kiss me goodbye. As soon as I enter the park, the eagle screeches above me. I follow it and head further in, where the messenger said: down past a tunnel, across an empty field, and off the beaten path.

Looking around, the crowds are gone—no joggers or bicyclists or Tai Chi. The world feels eerie. Before today, I would never have wandered to this part of the park alone. But am I really alone? I feel 10,000 eyes on me; hidden in the brush, behind trees, beneath the dirt. And then I spot him.

He is lying down on the wet ground beside a bench, an old tarp beneath him. His eyes are closed and he’s shivering. He looks gray.

I rush towards him, the wheels of my carriage struggling on the wet ground. I kneel down and touch his forehead.

“Leave him!” A harpy screech. A middle-aged woman, shoe polish dyed brown hair painfully pinned to the top of her head, dark painted eyebrows arching maniacally, and red lipstick smeared across the top of her lip and her yellow teeth. She glares at me. Her eyes are as crisp and blue as his.

“Leave him,” she snarls, rushing towards me. She is wearing a moldy old fur coat with large holes cut throughout. She probably found it in the trash of an upscale store, the slashes made so the poor can’t wear them. A tattered old silk scarf with the feathers of a peacock hand painted is wrapped around her blue-veined neck, its frayed turquoise edges floating in the wind.

Her feet are strapped into silver sandals with thick tube socks. They are wet and dirty. She smells as bad as him. She hovers near me, hissing. I pull away.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Is he okay? He looks sick. Does he need help?”

But she isn’t listening to me. She circles the carriage, clutching at her throat, her eyes wild, staring at my baby, frantic.

“Fuck shit fuck shit fuck, you fucking shit,” she stutters, tearing at her head. “Is this one of his?” She shrieks and the baby wakes and cries, and then…she smiles.

“Oh, brown eyes!” She cackles, clapping her hands. “How dull.”

Her demeanor completely shifts from batshit to regal as she glides away from me and daintily sits on the bench next to him. She laughs again but then stops short, noticing something on the ground. She leans down and picks up a dirty cigarette butt. She fumbles in her shredded coat and finds an old pack of matches. She struggles to get one lit. Finally, she does and puffs the tarred stub until it comes to life. Crossing her legs, she chokes on the acrid smoke.

“Did you bring him an offering?” she asks, spitting smoke in my face.

“I did,” I say, and I rummage through the diaper bag. I hand her the little parcel.

“Who are you?” I ask. She snatches the sandwich.

“Me? Why I’m his…Sister!” she says laughing again.

An old woman appears next to her. A Crone, darkly wrinkled, mouth sunken, whisps of white hair beneath a woolen scarf sitting upon her head. An old dirty winter coat covers her thinly layered house coat, knee high stockings, and torn sneakers. Brambles and burs from the bushes and from sleeping on the ground adorn her. Her hands are gnarled, joints swollen.

“Have you seen my daughter?” she cries, grabbing at my lapels. She seems demented, but her eyes are as crisp and blue as his. I firmly push her off me.

“She was in the meadow, picking daffodils,” she says. “Have you seen her?” She points to the barren field full of mud and snow. She walks over to the carriage. I barely see her feet move as if gliding on air. She peers at the baby.

“Kori?” she whispers breathless. She reaches to touch her with her dirty hand, and I push the carriage away.

“Easy, Sister,” the woman with the fur coat says. “Here,” she hands her a piece of sandwich. The old woman sucks on it, savoring the flavor without her teeth.

The old man groans on the ground, unmoving.

“What happened to him?” I ask.

“He is waiting,” the Crone says, her mouth full of lamb.

“For what?”

“Where is your offering to the god who saved you, girl?” the woman in the fur coat cries, flicking the still-lit butt, and even though the ground is wet, it catches fire and burns steadily. The air has shifted, as if I’ve stepped into a dream. I feel uneasy but can’t pull myself away. I fumble through the diaper bag.

“I have this,” I say, and as soon as I pull out the flask of wine, a young man appears from the fog. He’s thin, no coat, sleeveless t shirt, his arms pock marked from addiction. Dark oily ringlets adorn his face, once-beautiful, now sunken and hollow. He’s wild-eyed, dirty clothed, the collar of his t-shirt cut down low, exposing his chest. He must not feel the cold. His dark curls bounce in sync with the movement of his body. He takes the flask from me, opens it and sniffs. His eyes close, and he weeps in recognition. He drinks.

“No!” the woman in the fur coat cries and snatches the flask. “This is for your father!” She pours it into the wet mud next to the sleeping old man. The young man writhes in a dance around him. The two women ululate, and the man on the ground wheezes as the color returns to him. He glows a golden hue. His ice-blue eyes snap open. He seems to float up, hovering off the ground.

“More!” he gasps, his hand out to me.

“More!” the dancing man says to me, pushing the flask in my chest.

“I don’t have any more. I’ll go to the liquor store!”

“No,” the old man says, unstable on his feet. The women help him sit on the bench.

“What do you need?” I ask.

“An offering, you stupid girl!” the woman in the fur coat hisses.

“An offering!” the young man says, writhing ecstatically around me.

“An offering!” the Crone cries, as if in pain.

“An offering,” a young woman calls, jumping from a high limb of a tree, landing flat footed on the muddy ground right beside me. She is sallow, wild-haired, a string of dead rats adorns her neck.

“An offering?” I whisper.

“TO BURN!” the old man cries, his iced blue eyes aglow. He grabs me. He is rough—his dirty fingernails scrape my hand. I’m breathless, aroused, and I feel like hot melting wax has been poured on my skin.

The young man blows a strange dust into the fire, and it explodes high, the wild smoke stinging my eyes and nostrils. I become woozy. The old man smiles, his eyes wicked, his teeth sharp, and horns seem to grow from his head. The young man dances wildly with the young woman.

“More!” they cry. “More!”

“I am the god that saved you!” the old man bellows. Thunder cracks and my mind splits inside my skull.

My eyes go dark. I hear the eagle screech, and I am back on the crag of the cliff. The bull saunters to me in slow motion, hot breath steaming from his nostrils. It licks the wounds on my breasts. I look down, and my daughter, now a young woman, waves up to me from a field of daffodils. Then the earth opens, and she is swallowed into the darkness.

I cry out to try and save her, and then I fall. Backwards, down, down, into an ancient dark labyrinth. I am chased by a naked man with a golden bull mask—he is hard, aroused. He grabs me. I pull the mask off and it’s my husband. I startle as he pushes me down to the dirt to lie on top of me, but when he tries to kiss me, he morphs into the old man. His sharp canines tear into the flesh of my neck as I am sucked into the mud beneath us. Swallowed up. Buried alive.

A hand pulls me out. It’s the young woman with the rats.

“Let’s hunt!” she says and hands me a spear.

We run wild through the mud. I feel free, like a wolf running with its pack, my nostrils full of blood scent, my skin tingling with excitement of the chase.

We run together, in synchronicity, through dirt and then hard ground. The snow comes down harder as we rush into a maze of stones and tall grass. Then she stops short and puts her fingers to her lips. I hunch down, silent, holding my spear to my side. She motions. I peer out.

A lioness is sleeping, lazing in the sun.

“She’s yours,” she whispers, her breath hot in my ear.

“An offering,” I whisper back. She nods.

Every sense of me is awakened, on fire. I silently stalk it and then pounce, tossing the spear, killing the screaming lion, then tearing at it with my hands until it stops moving. I hear screams and then…

Blackness.

And then we are standing at a massive marble altar, the lioness burning, its fur singing the air with acrid smoke that stings my eyes, my throat.

The old man stands before the altar and blows the smoke towards me, wafting it all over my body. He smudges me, cleansing me. The fur coat woman holds a golden chalice full of red wine to my lips. I drink.

It’s blood.

She smiles at me, the blood pouring from her mouth, staining her teeth and lips.

“You have been purified,” she says as they all surround me, howling. I spin around and around.

“I’m alive!” I scream. And they scream, and I spin until I fall, and then—

I open my eyes. I am lying in the mud. The old man is alive, grunting. The fur coat woman is bent over the park bench, and he’s thrusting into her. She stares at me and moans like a cow, then licks her dirty red lips, and laughs.

The old woman is holding my baby, cooing. The fire soars higher, it smells like burnt hair and meat. I jump up and grab the baby from the Crone.

“No!” she cries and tries to snatch her back, but I push her away, and when I do, I catch a glimpse of orange fur in the fire.

Oh god. Is that the bodega cat? Did I kill it? I’m confused, dizzy.

Then sirens scream, flashing lights. The old man and the rest scatter like roaches and disappear into the mist. The cops encircle the fire. They stop. They stare at me. I am alone, full of mud, clothes torn, scratched. My baby is crying.

“Miss? Are you alright? Miss?” a policeman asks. Their flashlights blind me as I hear the eagle scream above me. 

Picture of Andrea Modenos Ash

Andrea Modenos Ash

Andrea Modenos Ash is a hard-working, full-time accountant and mom by day, and a writer of all things strange by night. She has a degree in Classical Studies, and her love for the gods has continued through her writing. She lives in Long Island with her family and a menagerie of pets: two dogs, two guinea pigs, a hamster, a gecko, and a bunch of fish. Her dream is to be a full-time writer, organizing and reconciling words instead of numbers.

The Movers – Part One by Zack Zagranis

“Move, for Christ’s sake!”

Jeremy Collins knew yelling at the cars wouldn’t make them move faster, but he found it cathartic. He sighed and glanced at his phone. It was 7:05, which meant he was already late.

“Goddamn it!”

Jeremy sighed again and started drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. He hated sitting still. Moments when life seemed to stand still, like now sitting in traffic, drove him crazy. The desire to move forward gnawed at him. He fiddled with his rearview mirror just to give his hands something to do.

What a great way to start the day!

***

By the time Jeremy got to school, his first class had already started.

He powerwalked down the hall to his classroom, stopping briefly to tuck in his shirt before entering the room.

“Mr. Collins! How thoughtful of you to join us!”

He grimaced. Franklin Price had taught at the school since Jeremy was a student there—possibly since Jeremy’s father was a student there. It was hard to pinpoint just exactly how old Frank was. He looked like he could be sixty-five or eighty-five. After fifty, it all looked the same to Jeremy.

“Hey, Frank, sorry I’m late. The traffic was—”

“Mr. Price in front of the students, if you don’t mind.”

Jeremy rolled his eyes but corrected himself, nonetheless.

“Excuse me, Mr. Price, sorry I’m late. Traffic was a nightmare, and I—”

“Yes, well, that is why one should endeavor to leave for work a few minutes early every morning just in case one should run into any unforeseen circumstances.”

The students sat quietly, watching both men like hawks. They were still at an age where watching two adults argue in public was a novelty.

“Of course,” Jeremy said through gritted teeth, “I’m so lucky to have a seasoned veteran like yourself around to dispense such sage advice.”

“You certainly are,” said Mr. Price, matching his tone. “Anyhow, you’re here now, so I shall take my leave. I already took attendance.”

“Thank you,” Jeremy said, putting his backpack on the floor beside his desk.

“My pleasure,” said Mr. Price as he walked out of the classroom.

As soon as Frank left, Jeremy made a silly face and a rude gesture in the direction of the door, prompting laughter from his students.

“All right,” he said, addressing the class, “where did we leave off yesterday?”

“Um…I think we started talking about those things that can’t be true one way but can’t be true the other way either…” said a boy in the front row.

“Parallaxes!” shouted the girl in the seat behind him.

“ParaDOXES,” Jeremy corrected her. “We started discussing paradoxes. I remember now.”

“Can we do the one where the cat is dead but alive at the same time?” asked one of the students.

“Schrodinger’s Cat,” Jeremy said with a smile. “That’s a good one, but no. Today I’m teaching you about my favorite paradox.”

He walked to the blackboard and picked up a piece of chalk.

“Has anyone here ever heard of the arrow paradox?” he asked the class. He finished writing on the board and clapped the chalk dust from his hands before facing his students.

“Anyone?”

No one raised a hand.

“Ok, well, here it is in a nutshell. Motion is not real.”

“Movement,” continued Jeremy, “is an illusion, at least according to Greek philosopher…” He pointed to the blackboard where he had written the word Zeno.

“Ok, but like, I’m moving right now?” said a student in the back of the class. The teen waved his arms around frantically, prompting laughter from everyone, including his teacher.

“Of course you are. All of us are constantly moving. That’s what makes it a paradox. Jeremy chuckled. “Zeno came up with a thought experiment that, when spelled out, makes it seem like nothing ever moves. But since we know things move constantly, it’s a contradiction.”

He could see by all the blank faces that no one was getting it.

“Ok, before anyone blows a logic circuit trying to figure out what I’m talking about, let me explain. An arrow is flying through the air towards a target—”

A student’s hand shot up.

“Yes, Rebecca?”

“Who shot the arrow?”

“Doesn’t matter. Your mom shot it. How about that?”

The whole class chuckled.

“So an arrow is flying through the air. Let’s say you take a picture of it while it’s flying. In the picture, the arrow isn’t moving, correct?”

Most of the class nodded.

“Ok, good. For the sake of argument, let’s say you whipped out your phone and took a bajillion photos of the arrow during its journey. If you can break down an arrow’s flight—from the bow to the target—into an infinite number of still images, that proves the arrow’s movement is an illusion, right?”

The class uttered a collective “Huh?”

“Here’s another way to think of it. If a car—”

The bell rang and cut Jeremy off.

“I’ll explain it better tomorrow, I promise!”

***

The rest of Jeremy’s day chugged forward slowly, without interruption, until the last bell. After work, he went straight home. He graded some papers, ate dinner, took an edible, scrolled through TikTok for a while, and passed out.

***

Jeremy woke up with the vague feeling something wasn’t right. The back of his neck felt prickly like someone was staring at him. He opened his eyes and looked around the room. The hair on his arms crackled with static electricity like someone had rubbed them with a balloon. He couldn’t shake off the feeling something was lurking in his apartment. Just out of sight, but there, nonetheless.

Jeremy threw off his comforter and sat up in time to see what looked like a hand disappear under the bed. A thick blanket of morning fog covered his brain, giving his thoughts a hazy quality. He blamed what he saw on some forgotten dream lingering in his subconscious and headed for the bathroom.

His bladder felt like it was going to burst. Distracted by the need to pee, he didn’t notice the other pair of hands helping him raise the toilet lid.

He stared at the wall and hummed as he relieved himself. When he finished, he flushed the toilet and turned on the faucet to wash his hands. A tiny creature stood in the sink, pulling strands of translucent thread from the tap. It took Jeremy a second to realize those threads were water. He rubbed his eyes and looked again. The tiny thing shimmered in and out of existence like it only had one foot in the third dimension. His eyes tried to focus, but the creature continued to slip from his vision. Jeremy felt a migraine forming behind his eyes. The pain worsened the longer he stared at the thing in the sink until it ached so bad he had to look away.

He had better luck with his peripheral vision, but it was like looking at the color magenta—his brain couldn’t process what it was seeing, so it made something up. Jeremy watched out of the corner of his eye as the tiny goblin continued pulling the stop-motion water from the faucet. He would never know what the creature really looked like.

He turned off the faucet, and the creature stopped what it was doing and scurried down the drain. Jeremy stepped back and looked in the mirror.

“Am I going insane?” he asked, his reflection.

He wondered briefly if the organism could have been a hallucination from the edible he’d taken the night before but quickly dismissed the thought. He’d been smoking pot on and off since he was fifteen, and it had never caused him to see anything like that.

Maybe I’m still asleep?

He knew he wasn’t, but he was running out of explanations for what he saw. He decided to make some coffee, hoping the caffeine would help him think more clearly.

Jeremy went to the kitchen sink to fill his Keurig but couldn’t bring himself to turn on the water. He grabbed a Diet Coke from the fridge instead. He chugged half the can and paused to burp before drinking the rest. He went to toss the empty can in the recycling, but something grabbed it as soon as he let go. A tentacle-like appendage carried the can through the air and placed it in the bin.

A wave of dizziness washed over him. He struggled to remain upright as the tentacle’s owner stood beside the recycling bin, pulsating grotesquely in and out of focus. The creature was somehow every color imaginable, yet no color Jeremy had ever seen.

He sat down at the kitchen table until the dizziness passed. His eyes wandered over to the beast standing next to the recycling. Its whole body seemed to beat like a heart flickering on and off like a faulty Christmas light. Every time Jeremy thought he had an idea what he was looking at, the creature became slippery and hard to make out.

He picked up a drinking glass from the table and attempted to drop it on the kitchen floor. As soon as he let go, the recycling bin monster waddled over and plucked the cup from his fingertips. The beast lowered the glass to the floor, where hundreds of tiny imps suddenly appeared to break it into shards. The inch-high creatures scattered the jagged pieces around the floor as if the glassware had shattered organically.

The whole thing happened so fast that Jeremy could barely follow what was going on. He got up and walked carefully around the broken glass to the cabinet above the sink, where he kept his cups and plates.

He took out a coffee mug and raised it above his head. The creatures—big and small—stood there throbbing but otherwise entirely still. He let go of the cup, and the same tentacle snatched it out of the air. Once again, it guided the cup to the floor, where the imps waited. They had the mug broken and scattered around the floor in less than a second.

“What the hell is going on? WHAT ARE YOU???” Jeremy screamed at the group of strange life forms skulking around his kitchen.

The larger beast turned what his brain registered as an eyeball in his direction but didn’t make a sound.

He backed slowly out of the kitchen and into the living room, where he collapsed onto the couch and closed his eyes.

***

What could those things be? Jeremy wondered. A man of science, he immediately ruled out anything supernatural, like demons or ghosts.

They have to be interdimensional. Jeremy reasoned. That would explain why I can’t see them very well. They must exist at a frequency beyond what humans can comfortably observe.

That still didn’t answer the biggest question: what were they doing in his apartment?

A nagging voice picked at the back of his skull the way a vulture picks at roadkill: What if it’s not just your apartment?

Jeremy jumped off the couch and sprinted toward the front door. He stopped when he realized he wasn’t wearing pants and ran to his bedroom instead. He went to his dresser and threw open the drawers, looking for something to wear. A freakish squid-like being leaned against the side of the dresser, helping Jeremy open each drawer. It had several limbs, some ending in claws, others in gaping orifices that secreted a viscous fluid of unknown origin. A couple of appendages even ended in fleshy nubs that resembled fingers that hadn’t developed properly in the womb.

A grotesque curiosity overtook Jeremy, and he reached out to touch one of the creature’s limbs. His fingertips screamed as the nerves in his hand shorted out. The squid thing felt hot to the touch but also cold at the same time. The creature’s skin, for lack of a better word, crackled with electricity.

The being recoiled from Jeremy’s touch and howled in a pitch not meant for human ears. Jeremy’s nose began to bleed, and his eyes bulged painfully in his head. He collapsed on the floor, writhing in agony until the creature stopped.

He slowly got up, keeping his still-aching eyes on the squid creature. It dipped in and out of reality like the others, contributing to his migraine. He grabbed some clothes, taking extra care not to touch any part of the squid-thing, and went to the bathroom to change. He sniffed at his armpits and made a face in the mirror. Blood was still trickling from his nose, and he looked haggard.

I could use a shower.

An image of the creature pulling the water out of his faucet popped into his head, and he shuddered.

Maybe just some deodorant, then.

He rubbed on some Old Spice and called it good enough. He threw on his clothes and left the apartment.

***

Jeremy stepped out his front door and into an eldritch hellscape. A school bus moved down the street carried on the back of a giant millipede. The gargantuan insect’s countless legs skittered across the asphalt, clacking like an old typewriter. It left behind a trail of putrefied jelly as it went.

A mutant the size of a gorilla pushed a child on a bicycle. It had a deformed paw on the child’s back, guiding the bike forward. Bones poked through the soft tissue on its feet, scraping the concrete as it walked. He winced at the sound it made—like teeth grinding.

Something soared above him, carrying a pigeon. The airborne terror gripped the pigeon tightly, flapping the bird’s wings like a toy. The flyer looked like something from the lowest circle of hell. Looking at it made Jeremy’s teeth itch.

Across the street, a slug with four arms was posing a mail carrier as if she were a Barbie Doll. Another creature—this one an indescribable jumble of tooth, nail, and fur—was doing the same thing with a jogger. The two women met, and the creatures pushed and pulled them into the correct stance to converse. The whole scene resembled a twisted children’s fantasy come to life. It reminded him of how he used to pose his GI Joes as a kid.

“Excuse me!” he shouted at the mail carrier.

The slug creature turned the mail carrier’s face toward him while the toothy furball did the same with the jogger.

“Excuse me, ladies,” Jeremy said as he ran across the street toward them.

“Can I help you with something?” The slug moved the mail carrier’s jaw up and down like a ventriloquist dummy.

“Just had a quick question.” He was unsure whether to look at the mail carrier or her disgusting puppeteer.

“I was just wondering, er, have you seen anything weird today?” As soon as the words left his mouth, he realized how stupid he sounded.

“Weird, how?”

“Well,” said Jeremy hesitantly. “Like weird creatures, or—”

“Um, we were having a conversation, buddy,” interrupted the jogger puppet. “You’re being incredibly rude right now.”

“Uh…”

He suddenly felt uneasy talking to what were essentially two life-size marionettes.

“Do puppets know they’re puppets?” he mumbled to himself.

“What?” asked the jogger. The creature controlling her had placed the jogger’s hand on her hip to punctuate how annoyed she was.

“Er…nothing. Sorry to bother you.”

He turned away from the two women and started walking. Everywhere he looked, repulsive horrors of all shapes and sizes were moving humans around like pieces on a chessboard. Jeremy’s brain glitched trying to process everything, and he bumped into a woman carrying groceries.

“Hey, watch where you’re going!”

A creature that was nothing more than a giant mouth wrapped a fleshy, mucous-covered tongue around the woman’s arm and moved it to get a better grip on her grocery bag. The tongue slithered up the woman’s arm all the way to her face and pushed down her brow in a look of disapproval. He groaned and backed away.

He was in such a hurry to escape the woman—and the gaping maw behind her—that he didn’t see the stray cat crossing in front of him until he tripped over it. A footlong cuttlefish opened the cat’s mouth so the poor animal could cry out in pain. Jeremy struggled to regain his footing and stepped directly on one of the tentacles dangling from the cuttlefish’s face.

The creature howled in the same demon pitch from earlier. Jeremy covered his ears with his hands, but it did no good. The sound vibrated in his bones and shook the fillings in his teeth. More creatures joined in, creating a cursed symphony that grabbed him by the stomach and squeezed violently.

Bile crawled up his esophagus and scorched his throat. Blood ran from his nose and ears, and his eyes felt tight enough to pop. The screeching droned on, driving Jeremy toward complete and utter madness. He bashed his head against the concrete sidewalk in a desperate attempt to get it to stop.

The monsters eased their discordant symphony before he managed to do any permanent damage to his skull. Shallow breaths escaped his lungs as he lay on the sidewalk and stared up at the sky. The air high above him seemed to ripple and slither like a snake. He imagined a great cosmic wurm, Leviathan herself, wrapped around the Earth, slowly spinning it and dragging it around the sun. Maniacal laughter erupted from his diaphragm and didn’t stop until the paramedics came.

Picture of Zack Zagranis

Zack Zagranis

Zack Zagranis is punk rock Jedi slumming it in New Hampshire. His short horror stories have appeared in anthologies from Creature Publishing, Black Hare Press, and Sinister Smile Press. Occasionally, people pay him to string words together haphazardly. Zack is a husband, father, geek, misanthrope, feminist, and caffeine addict—not necessarily in that order. A mentally ill college dropout, Zack started writing later in life following a string of dead-end jobs, mainly convenience stores and fast food joints. You can find him on Twitter, Facebook, Instagram, TikTok, and on his couch, scrolling through his phone instead of working.

Pursued by Joan McNerney

My dark dreams scatter across asphalt streets. Rain splashes

ebony ink, winds snarling my damp hair. My mind in knots

and snags. Throat dry raw as I step over cobblestones.

 

It follows me, this long shadow, waiting to cover me,

to encompass me.

 

Now I am passing a field. My worn shoes sink into moist grounds.

The soil offers up scents of mild vegetation, promises of spring.

Gusts tangle trees, calls from lost trains resound through night.

 

It follows me, this long shadow, waiting to cover me,

to encompass me.

 

I keep climbing a hill. My mind twisted into knots. How can

I breathe? White walls meet me head-on.

The rough concrete presses my fingers as I push in.

 

Following me again, covering me, swallowing me

into this black heart of night.

Picture of Joan McNerney

Joan McNerney

Joan McNerney’s poetry is published worldwide in over thirty-five countries in numerous literary magazines. Four Best of the Net nominations have been awarded to her. The Muse in Miniature, Love Poems for Michael, and At Work are available on Amazon.com. A new title Light & Shadows has recently been released.

Accident by Joan McNerney

If only it had not rained

the sky black and wet as

we hurried across streets.

 

Perhaps, had he worn a

light coat it would have

been easier to spot.

 

Maybe, if the cab driver

were not so tired, if

headlights shone brighter.

 

How many hundreds of things

lead him to that corner.

For instance, staying late

to check computer printouts.

 

The cab driver had felt like

going home at six but had

a recent rent increase.

 

Everything led to the cab

slipping along 3rd Avenue.

Him in front of his office

and then lunging out to

avoid a puddle.

 

There was no one to blame

nothing to blame really

not the rain

or the dark coat

not the dim lights

nor the cab driver

who would remember this always

and sometimes blame himself.

 

It was part of a series

of events of time and place

leading to this conclusion.

 

An ambulance screamed

down the avenue. His eyes

wide open as he lay

facing the black night.

 

His time finished

eyes opened as if

staring at something

quite different now.

Picture of Joan McNerney

Joan McNerney

Joan McNerney’s poetry is published worldwide in over thirty-five countries in numerous literary magazines. Four Best of the Net nominations have been awarded to her. The Muse in Miniature, Love Poems for Michael, and At Work are available on Amazon.com. A new title Light & Shadows has recently been released.

Falling by Joan McNerney

Down through blackness

into dusty subterraneous

tracks where trains race.

 

Silver rods speed through dream

stations transforming tunnels

with bolts of blue white sparks.

 

Falling

 

On a steel car looking out my

window. How many times will

this bullet train spin off rail?

 

How many times must I ride

that dark horse called nightmare?

in air off course tumbling down.

 

Falling

 

Dangling on thick utility cables

over edge, through trees into lights

crashing fast against buildings.

 

Now flying through space.

Careening in pitch black night,
my silver train shattering glass.

Picture of Joan McNerney

Joan McNerney

Joan McNerney’s poetry is published worldwide in over thirty-five countries in numerous literary magazines. Four Best of the Net nominations have been awarded to her. The Muse in Miniature, Love Poems for Michael, and At Work are available on Amazon.com. A new title Light & Shadows has recently been released.

Fear by Joan McNerney

Sneaks under shadows, lurking

in corners ready to rear its head

folded in neat lab reports charting

white blood cells over edge, running wild.

 

Or hiding along icy roads when

day ends with seagulls squalling

through steel gray skies.

 

Brake belts wheeze and whine,

snapping apart, careening us

against the long cold night.

 

Official white envelopes stuffed with

subpoenas wait at the mailbox.

Memories of hot words burning

razor blades slash across our faces.

 

Fires leap from rooms where twisted

wires dance like miniature skeletons.

We stand apart inhaling this mean

air choking on our own breath.

Picture of Joan McNerney

Joan McNerney

Joan McNerney’s poetry is published worldwide in over thirty-five countries in numerous literary magazines. Four Best of the Net nominations have been awarded to her. The Muse in Miniature, Love Poems for Michael, and At Work are available on Amazon.com. A new title Light & Shadows has recently been released.

A Home to Go To by Fabrice B. Poussin

Where might she go this eve

the end of another week

full of treasures and surprises

for her friends.

 

Lights still shine down the corridor

she sits still before the neon screen

wondering whether she may stand

take a chance

 

As she had the day before

left alone in the space of an odd meaning

sweating away at endless reports

without meaning.

 

She fears what may happen as she will

rise and drive to her abandoned domain

cold as a realm forgotten by spring life

with no warmth to find.

 

She may cry in secret

for to them she loves in delight

her chest tight as in the grip of a vise

desperate for a gentle smile.

 

Soon she will depart this world of plywood

bright fibers flavored with aromas of a

stale brew sterile as the desert of Antarctica

to go home. What home?

 

The envy of the man who shivers

the modest abode just a place to rest

seems safe so long as she remains unaware

of the loveless hours.

 

She may dream and she may scream

in the unforgiving cold of lonely nights

yet she knows it is a brief respite

within the terrible cycle of hopeless years.

Picture of Fabrice B. Poussin

Fabrice B. Poussin

Poussin is a professor of French and World Literature. His work in poetry and photography has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and hundreds of other publications worldwide. Most recently, his collections In Absentia, and If I Had a Gun, Half Past Life, and The Temptation of Silence were published in 2021, 2022, 2023, and 2024, by Silver Bow Publishing.