Crimson Rivers Magazine 2009

Crimson Rivers Magazine c. brendan clark k im b e r l y c o u r t r i g h t im j. dansereau bob dombrowski gary l edwards benji radke albert c. kuck charles mccauley and many more October 2009 crimson rivers magazine A Word of Welcome W e finally arrived. Funny thing, Crimson Rivers Magazine almost did not happen. We got a late start after deciding to resurrect the annual. With a niche publication like CRM, the call for submissions needs to go out as early as possible. The original issue of CRM was a print publication with a limited run. It appeared over ten years ago, way before my taking the helm at First Step Press. I did not read it because, well, I could not track down a copy. I really did not know where to begin. Luckily, Lisa (Perry) had the original copy and was gracious enough to part with it long enough to get a feel for what CRM was like. Wow, was literally the first word that popped into my head. The writing was intense to say the least. I was not expecting to read what I read. However, even in the most heinous passages, there is a certain beauty in the writing. I immediately wanted to reprint this publication in our current electronic format. I communicated with as many of the original authors as I could; I asked if they wanted their work included in the reprint. The response was resounding yes. I had some submissions for the second volume of CRM, but not enough to fill the whole publication, so why not combine them? (Hence the 1.5.) Movies and music can be remastered, why not anthologies? The rest became just a matter of putting it all together, and gathering the images that compliment the text. Which brings me to my biggest thanks and to whom I dedicate this year’s anthology: to the photographers on Flickr who appear in CRM. Your talents are lauded and your generosity in allowing your work to be shared is invaluable. You help make publications like this exists. photo by i, timmy -2- contents authors c. brendan clark montrosity kimberly courtright genealogy j. deansereau memories of a cocaine wraith the guardian bob dombrowski two women in new york city the woman gary l. edwards bloody but living vampire stray cats mistress of the damned david hall i reject change tongue lies benji radke ...halls of illusions & mystics unamerica unspoken-words the doorkeeper albert c. kuck unrestraint charles mccauley shadows of class b.z. niditch about the powerless majorie mcatee the hitchhiker karen porter fork bone collector l'amour infernal of wives and lovers perfectly sane 04 gerald zipper in the land of the lizard tender souls cannibals old bedell road neal fandek heigh-ho, heigh-ho 32 33 33 33 sheila b. roark he watches chis weiss something i can never have 30 31 Crimson Rivers publisher trinae a. ross fiction editor trinae a. ross poetry editors charmyra davis lisa j. perry 05 06 07 34 08 28 photographers 12 12 13 14 ashlie j pollard i, timmy ben cooper andronikusmax fugue fabrisalvetti monroe’s dragonfly policeblue999 emagic brenda-starr welovepandas jbeauchamp grant neufeld mleeta feminapotens zayzayem said&done rob sheridan burnt out impurities hherbzilla majoracartergroup mercurialn zadi diaz triggywinkle valerie everett lizard911 mnadi clearly ambiguous pusspaw front cover 02 05 06 07 08 09 10 11 14 15 16 17 18 19 21 22 24 25 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 35 36 back cover art editor ashlie j. pollard email info@fspressonline.org web www.fspressonline.org address first step press post office box 902 norristown pa 19404-0902 Crimson Rivers Magazine (ISSN 1092521X) is published by First Step Press (FSP) annually. FSP assumes all work appearing is the original ork of the named author. FSP assumes no liability for plagarism on the author’s part. No part of this magazine may be reproduced without the publisher’s permission. copyright 2009 first step press 15 15 16 26 26 27 17 18 19 20 24 24 25 25 25 -3- c. brendan clark the rules of monstrosity He wasn’t dead, but he wasn’t alive. He had a reflection, but he couldn’t look at it. He wasn’t afraid of crosses, but he never went near them. He didn’t drink blood, but he sucked the life out of people to stay alive. And he walked in the sunlight every day. He wasn’t transformed by a full moon, but he liked to hunt by night He never howled at the sky, but he could speak like an animal. He never ate anyone, but devoured more than one soul. His bite never turned someone into a wolf, but made some victims into monsters. And he wore silver every time he hunted. His flesh wasn’t made of other men, but his identity was. He wasn’t built by another man, but he was transformed by one. He wasn’t hated by the villagers, but they weren’t his friends. He never robbed from the dead, but he took certain things from the living. And he kept a pitchfork in his barn. It didn’t climb buildings, but it took them over. It didn’t trample houses, but it made people homeless. It didn’t capture any women, but it controlled a few. It didn’t destroy cities, but it leveled forests. And the police never tried to shoot it. She didn’t have a black cat, but she had several pets. She didn’t ride on a broom, but she managed to get around. She didn’t know any magic, but she could cast spells. She never turned anyone into a newt, but she could make a prince feel like a frog. And she loved warm water. They are not immortal, but they never go away. They aren’t omnipresent, but they’re everywhere. Their stories aren’t true, but they aren’t lies. There are ways to stop them, but monsters tend not to follow the rules. And the heroes who would slay them still look for magic bullets. -4- kimberly courtright genealogy drained of my will she bleeds me dry blood of my blood whose blood-red eye fixes upon me holds me fast here where the chains of family cast intricate shadows on my fate blind obligation love and hate home is my coffin native earth carries the curse passed on at birth drained of my essence left undead empty of dreams of spirit bled blood of her blood to darkness born is it my doom the day to mourn prisoner-servant of the night stealer of spirits thief of light? will you, my love, my victim be or will your love bring sanctity? photo by ben cooper -5- j. dansereau memories of a cocaine wraith A needle explores in search of the blue veins deep under pearly flesh. Willowy, blonde, vacant grey eyes of a youth forgotten. A shroud of memories in darkened rooms illuminated only by the yellow flame beneath a blackened spoon. photo by andronikusmax -6- j.dansereau the guardian The sinew that binds blood and bone strains against the soul. Flesh heaving against its own limitations. A blue steel sword tarnished green glows pulled from its gold scabbard ghostly in amber light. A virgin blood bath it awaits to complete. Rapt in his own purity his armor rusts as he stands in a deluge. Overlooking barren fields of rotting thatched huts, a guardian for the times. photo by fugue -7- bob dombrowski two women in new york city I was in my car. I had just gotten to a light after a grueling forty minutes of intense traffic. It had take three light changes on this block alone for me to finally prepare for another block. I was on Ninth Avenue at Forty-Third Street. Hot smelly trucks and hot busses surrounded me. The desperate traffic in line flanked me for the tunnel entrance was still four blocks away. The traffic ahead was as thick as the traffic behind and it was hot. I sat at the light looking at pedestrians. I was being calm. I was under control. Crossing from the left, following Forty-Third Street, a young woman, probably thirty years old, wearing a thin-strapped black sheath dress and high heeled sandals, provided my exhausted eyes and taut nerves with a moment of pleasure. She was slender and attractive. However, from the other side of the street, crossing, was another woman, dressed exactly alike. She was a larger woman, almost voluptuous, soft, and about the same age. Everything in their walks and their dress was similar. They were equally, in opposed direction, varied from the gymnastic perfection. They really first saw each other directly in front of me, in front of my car. The stopped. I kept watching while they stood directly in front of me staring at each other. They seemed to say nothing to each other, but they stopped and just looked at each other. The light changed. Three cars behind me immediately began beeping. I waited a moment, but they weren’t moving, and I beeped. Usually I hesitate to beep at pedestrians. You don’t know what they’ll do. Often enough they’ll simply move more slowly. In another situation would have probably been more patient and I was curious about them, but it was hot and traffic was insistent. I beeped. A timid short blast. I was going to point at the changed light. I knew they could hear the other car horns. Apparently they pick up the tension of the street. From nowhere, for no reason, the car horn set them off and they began to scream at each other. I couldn’t hear them through the windshield, but they apparently weren’t complimenting each other’s wardrobe. I felt responsible and I felt guilty. My horn had create this situation. I’ve live in New York a long time. I’m as uncomfortable watching an argument as anyone, even if I felt responsible for it, and the light was green, it was going to change red, and everyone was beeping behind me. I beeped again. There was no way to drive around them in the traffic. The slender woman turned her face toward me. I saw her hatred. A flash of emotion that predates the written word. I put my hands on the window knob and watched more closely. I felt responsible and I felt vulnerable. I knew she wanted to hurt me. At that moment, when she was distracted, the larger, soft, woman attacked her. Attacked. Not a punch or slap, but she leaped and wrapped her arms around her eyes and butted the woman’s head with her own forehead. The slender woman went down. photo by fabrisalvetti -8- bob dombrowski The assholes behind me were still beeping. Both went down. I couldn’t see them, but I felt their bodies jolting the front of my car. No choice. Nobody from the sidewalk was moving. I had to get out the car. When I opened the car door, I was the spattering of blood on the pavement around my tire. The women were still locked in a frantic struggle when I got out of the car. The drivers behind me were playing a medley on their horns, frantic to move on despite any activity. Nobody looks to see what’s happening . They just beep and beep. I expected to feel a bullet whiz through the air from a stoned driver upset at the delay. Both women had knives. They held each other’s arms like dancers and they were rolling around in the street kicking at the front of my car and screaming at each other. I wasn’t going to step between them. The slender woman had already been slashed across the face. Blood was pouring from her nose. They’d both lost their sandals. As happens in these situations, someone from the crowd that was beginning to gather stepped up to them and grabbed the more slender woman’s arm. He tried to peel the knife from her hand. It was the opening that the other woman needed. She slashed out and jabbed the slender woman in the stomach. Two. Three times. She was screaming and her eyes were wild and she kept slashing and stabbing. The slender woman stopped. The shock was reaching the expression on her face and she looked hurt. The observer still held her arm and prevented her from retaliating while the more voluptuous woman kept slashing. She was running the edge of her blade back and forth across the stabbed woman’s face. I stood in absolute shock. I was frozen. The observer who’d attempted to help tried to step back. The armed woman was wildly swinging the knife back and forth in the air. No discrimination. She was anxious to slash anyone and the helpful observer had become her target. Personally I think he deserved it. Maybe he had been a boy scout. Maybe he felt a social obligation to bring human emotions to the elevated niceness of Disney’s Times Square. Maybe he was simply a macho ass. Anyway, she finally connected. She slashed him across the groin. That worked. He immediately let go of the other woman’s arm, and he crumpled like an eastern mystic into a seated posture. I was about four feet away. I couldn’t just stand in shock anymore.. I had to do something, and jumping back into my car, even if I could, wouldn’t satisfy my own sense of social interaction. Already the formidable crowd that had gathered was jumping away and shouting and pushing. People behind were pushing to get in front to see, and people who could see were pushing to get behind somebody else. Meanwhile, the light changed to red. I knew my car was going to overheat and stall. If I had to have it towed, it would cost me $250, and I didn’t have it. All the pressures were building in me. I wanted to be uninvolved. Two people were on the street bleeding. The man was screaming from his seated lotus posture and trying to hold his blood in with his forgers. The slender woman was convulsing on the street with her shredded face staring straight up into the sky. Her eyes were open but blank. Even if she lived, her face would never again be the same. The other woman was still screaming and slashing at everyone within arm’s length. The crowd was pushing and jumping, and arms from indecipherable bodies were jutting out like Shiva in attempts to grab her knife. People were yelling and banging on photo by monroe's dragonfly -9- bob dombrowski the car. The; light changed to green and the medley of horns began again. The crowd kept growing. That simple four feet distance between me and the crazy woman was impossible to cross. At least nine people were jammed against my open car door. Someone was trying to push past me to get into car to the front seat. I could hear sirens. An EMS truck was back in the traffic and couldn’t get through. It was probably on a different mission altogether, but either way, it was stuck about two blocks back and making no headway at all. The woman began slashing the air up and down instead of back and forth and she caught someone across the chin. Blood spurred from the chin like a public fountain and spattered across half a dozen people. Screaming and shouting in the crowd increased. The slashed chin whirled around and around spraying everyone with his blood. The front of my car had droplets of blood covering it that were dripping down the fenders. All I could think of was AIDS. Then, I heard the inevitable sound of breaking glass. I was still locked into the spot next to my open car door. I couldn’t close the door and I couldn’t move without some asshole jumping into my front seat. Only four feet away and I could barely see what was going on. And I was thirsty. I had become an onlooker. My guilt at initiating this mess hadn’t caused me to do something completely stupid and it was now under control. I was just another trapped driver. The breaking glass was my headlight. Two giggling teenage kids with a rock were casually working their way through the crowd and smashing at my car. Neighborhood teenagers. I couldn’t yell above the din of bleating horns and the screaming crowd, and the two kids just glared at me, giggling, and smashed in the passenger side of my windshield. One of them had the rock and the other one was kicking at the passenger door. As soon as I saw what they were doing, others in the crowd also saw. There was a lot of tension in the air that was being released. Shouts and pushing and car horns and sirens and blood and breaking glass and a dying woman with her dress pushed up above her navel and blood pumping from her stomach were all contained within a small bit of pavement by the progressively growing crowd. Drivers caught behind my car were attempting to maneuver around the mess and get out of there. When the others in the crowd saw the kids smash my window they presumed that I was involved, or at fault, and they began to shout at me and smash their fists on my car. A small sector of the crowd had turned their attention to me. All those close enough to feel trapped in the crowd but too far away to see the woman who was still attempting to slash her way out turned their attention to me. The siren was still trapped in traffic two blocks back The crowd still prevented me from moving either into or photo by policeblue999 away from my car, and now there were eight or nine people pounding on my car with their fists and shouting at me. The crazy woman had still not been subdued As far as I could tell, she’d hit a few more observers across the arms and faces, and it looked like there was more than a single knife slashing through the air. The pounding fists on my car sounded like gunshots. People will defend themselves. In the crowd, there was nowhere to go. Those in front, in the inner circle, were trapped in confrontation with a blood stained psychotic swinging a knife in the air above the stack of downed bodies at her feet. Knives were slashing back. That was four feet away. I personally was much more deeply concerned about my car and the mindless idiots who were anxious to take it out on me. This is something I have always feared. I’d thought about how it would feel to be trapped with my car somewhere while hostility grew in direct response to me. I felt terrified and powerless. I couldn’t shout and I was not looking at a crowd of rea- - 10 - bob dombrowski sonable people. I didn’t even know how many of them spoke English. Ten minutes ago they were pleasant people. Now, it was different. I carry a can of mace in my car. I knew that I’d need it. I was terrified of the crowd, of the woman, and of the teenagers. I’d always felt a little guilty about the mace under my front seat because it seemed so effeminate. Yet, I either wasn’t gruff or scared enough to carry a gun. The mace was my personal compromise. In three seconds I had the mace can and I was spraying it at the crowd who had turned their attention to me. I sprayed it at the kids and just kept spraying. Mace cans aren’t very big. I’d done in about a dozen people, and myself, and the can was empty. I’d cleared as much space around myself as the woman with the knife had. In fact, I was beginning to see her point. My eyes and the skin on my face and hand burned. I really couldn’t think clearly. My emotions had finally unlocked. They were ruling without the guiding hands of reason and fear. I don’t know what happened to the kids with the rock. They’d successfully bashed in, with their volunteer corps, the entire side of my car. The rear side window, headlight, and windshield were shattered. I’d had enough. The siren was still blaring two blocks back. New sirens were locked in traffic along Forty-Third Street and having the same amount of success making the passage. The crowd was still pressed in around the small space I’d cleared. Nevertheless, the kids were gone and the banging on my car had ceased. The person trying to get into the front seat was holding his face and coughing out “You son of a bitch.” I now had maneuvering space. I leaned against the car for leverage and with all the force my frame could channel, I kicked him in the left knee. I’m not that strong. There was no tell tale cracking sound. His leg didn’t splinter like a falling tree, but he did go down. At this point, it was impossible to tell how many knives were in use. The inevitable boom box had arrived and the churning of the crowd elevated to choreography. There was a lot of blood. I didn’t know what else to do. Now that I had space, I leaned into the car and got back in the driver’s seat. I turned on my radio. I listen to the oldies station a lot I have an old car, and I can never park on the street without the antenna being snapped off by somebody, so I can usually only receive the largest stations. Oldies are a pleasant break. And, like a metaphor in a bad novel, the station was playing “Against the Wind.” That’s always been one of my favorite songs. I sat in the car, listening to “Against the Wind,” watching knives flash and blood spurt in the center of a volatile crowd still pressed against the front end of my car. The engine was still running and, fortunately, the car hadn’t overheated. Without thinking, I began to beep my horn again. I guess I thought that if this is what started everything, this can finish it. One continuous blast of horn. For some reason, old cars have good horns. Along with the rhythms of the song bouncing from the walls and returning mingled with all the other sounds, there was the pleasing blast of my horn reaching out to infinity in a straight line, cutting through all the confusion and crowding and noise. It was a message. No decision was required to put the car into gear and drive. The light was green. I ignored the bodies and bleeding victims and screaming Samaritans and greedy onlookers. I simply began driving ahead as is my legal right to do when the light is green. People bounced from the front of the car and the tires thumped over the body of the first victim but I drove through the intersection before the light turned yellow. I kept driving as I had been before all this happened. I had been driving home and I continued driving home. The song ended and a commercial for Coca Cola came on and I remembered that I was still thirsty. photo by emagic - 11 - gary l. edwards bloody but living Nightmarish tortures From parallel dimensions Zigzag through Whirlwinds of confusion, As vision blurs Life crumbles Into a kaleidoscope Of multicolored pieces Of assorted disasters Hard, cold and razor sharp! I lie in the fragments Injured and whipped! vampire Adrift on the winds of eternity, Held captive by the night, A slave unto the passing centuries I roam, trapped forever In a world of never ending darkness. My immortal soul hungers for serenity I long to be free of this heavy gripping chain That has held me prisoner With fiends of the midnight For hundreds of years. RELEASE ME!!! I plead to roaming demons Sent forth by Satan to torment me. I wail in puddles of blood Surrounded by the dead and the dying, Feasting on the innocent lives That sustain my existence. Until, at night’s end I fall into the harsh naked earth Cold, dead and lifeless And wait for the twilight To disrupt my rest once more. - 12 - gary l. edwards stray cats They show up here every night, no later than twelve, Here on Mockingbird Street, a less than elegant part of the city. They prowl, they meow, they hiss and vandalize the neighborhood, Looking for scraps of food, we all assume. Stray cats. Many wild, ugly, unfriendly stray cats. Often in the morning, the streets are a mess. Trash cans overturned, garbage everywhere, And even small dead animals lying around, bloody and half-eaten, Mice, birds, and some children’s pet rabbits. Just another mess left by those wild stray cats. Old Mr. Willard was determined rid of them. He puts out lots of food filled with poison, for over a week. They ate it, and lived. The last I saw of old Mr. Willard, he was sitting by his back window, Waiting with a loaded shotgun; waiting for the cats. Late that night I heard a shot. Afterwards, the cats could be heard squealing, meowing and hissing, louder than ever, for hours. The next morning, old Mr. Willard was found dead. His eyes actually ate from their sockets, and tiny pieces of him scattered through the house. That was the last time anyone tried to get rid of the cats. That’s been around a year ago, I guess. A lot of people have moved away. The cats still terrorize the neighborhood at night. When it’s really late, you can hear them for over a mile, Squealing, meowing and hissing like wild beasts. Stray cats! Many wild, ugly, unfriendly, stray cats! - 13 - gary l. edwards mistress of the of the damned I’ll be not afraid… When the clock chimes twelve For then I know she comes. I find her in a whispered chant In prayers to wayward specters. I’ll be not afraid… When the lights are dimmed For darkness invites her spirit. Her eyes burn like the candle’s flame I burn to beckon her. I’ll be not afraid… When I feel a chill For her touch is sometimes cold. Her flesh as white as the face of death, But beauty to envision. I’ll be not afraid… When lost ravens sing A song they heard in Hell, As roaming demons come to observe Our carnal acts of lust. I’ll be not afraid .. When she claims my being For her kingdom of the damned, For her master sends her to me To buy my immortal soul. photo by brenda-starr - 14 - david hall i reject change Stuck in a mood one that’s condescending and sparse as the cloth wrapped around my head Storming out of that room I reject a conscious decision to change I slapped and discharged my protein I couldn’t actually believe it’s good to rip the bootay My mind is growing; my right arm is stronger; my protein is forming, like the poppy burning in a pipe I go back to that room. Before I enter, I rearrange the hair wrap. tongue lies Tongue drops licks the ice sticks to the cold, frozen; temperature drops as I loosen my belt photo by welovepandas - 15 - benji radke was heading up Cedar’s pass around one o’clock on a Saturday afternoon. There was a slight breeze, but the glaring sun kept it far from cool. I had been on the trail for about two and half hours when I came upon a small shack. I had passed a few before—abandoned, torn up, close to caving in. I hadn’t given any of them a second glance, but this one. . .1 couldn’t help, but to stop for a minute. There was some kind of noise coming from inside and a faint light (probably the sun, was my first thought) coming through the cracks in the door. I turned to continue my journey, but found myself heading toward the shack. There was a broken sign hanging in three pieces above the door. I pulled the door open, and entered the silent halls of illusions and mystics. I closed the door and looked around. Out of nowhere came a brilliant flash of light. I shut my eyes and raised my arms. Blinding, it was. When I opened my eyes I saw an infant and her mother, crying. . . weeping. A lost innocence of greed. Beaten by the lust of man. Lost in the paved fields of thoughtless enactment. The mother sat insanely babbling, head turned to the sky. Blood dripped from her eyes and nose. Running down her face. Dripping from her chin. She reached out for the infant lying still at her feet. Motionless. Fragile. Helpless. She is raging within a diaphanous shell. She is . . . no longer. Or was she ever here, in the silent halls of illusions and mystics. II I turned for the door and found it was not there. I had moved, yet I the silent halls of illusions and mystics I hadn’t moved. Another flash of light, but this time it was bearable. Red. Now my blood began to rush through III apart time and space and ... there was nothing. If anything was here to begin with, in the silent halls of illusions and mystics. photo by jbeauchamp the veins at an alarming rate. From the shadows came the demons of darkness. Crawling on their knees, yellow eyes glaring into the blackness. Their claws clicked relentlessly upon the red tile floor. Screams echoed loudly. Laughing mad, drunken songs. Dancing inanely in a plague ridden room. Fear and hate mingled outside the fire, created for the ceremony. The celebration of the forthcoming of the new millennium. Souls. Swung from the pendulum, crashing through the walls of life. Tearing No need to move. I was sure another light would come, only I was trembling with fear. The second room certainly was an ugly compliment to the first. I couldn’t imagine what was next. Bearable light again. Soft, in fact. A gentle blue. In front of me appeared a girl, smiling, full of effervescence. Clothed in white, with the soft skin to match. Full of love. A sweet soul surround by an aura; gentle to the touch; warm to the mind; healthy to the heart. So soft, so divine. Ecstasy in the flesh, the angelic face of the dawn. Flawless. Glowing. Innocent. Calling. Beckoning. Searching for the one true majestic love; Her knight in shining armor. Her soul mate. Her eternal... I stood outside the silent halls of illusions and mystics. Where you never know what you’re getting, what you’ve gotten; what is good, what is rotten; what is real, what is hidden and what you feel is forbidden. if you’re traveling the world in search of something, don’t bother. Nothing can be found where nothing is. If you’re living day to day to enlighten your mind by listening to the rhythmical droning of wisdom, don’t bother. There is no sound in an empty abyss. Only here, in this shack, can you propagate your mind and organize your damaged thoughts, walk down memory lane, straighten up all your I continue up Cedar pass. So hot, even with the breeze. I take one look back and bid farewell to silent halls of illusions and mystics. - 16 - albert c. kuck unrestraint Living in hopeless destruction Striving for relief Chewing on my gums and Grinding my teeth I’m lost in some ones twisted Dark unreal dream And even if I tried to I couldn’t even scream My life seems to go on But others stand still And only through me Are they given a thrill I tried to help everyone But my time is up I’m a grown dog now No longer a pup So unless you are seeking Some unreal pain Blood filled walls covered In a crimson stain You better lighten up And give me a break Before I decide from You to take photo by grant neufeld - 17 - charles mccauley shadows of glass popeye and descartes drew from the same well even neil diamond sobbed a sip or two but my watering hole was stocked with johnny walker wisdom stashed with leaves of weed a cellar fusion of jazz and gypsies colored by dying candles and endless smoke where ayn rand could shrug off a few objective vodkas toss back the black lights tempt me towards the clear i struggled with different bottles and intemperate fists in this bar of broken purpose sartre constructed the walls dark and long like a mystery sheltered by mirrors reflecting nothing staggered tables cluttered with empty contents stale as yesterday’s beer fill the quiet with shadow men i tend this tavern well pour my drinks deep strum shattered chords on an unstrung guitar for here i am the dark side of my own moon orbiting the well alone with a glass of melting ice photo by mleeta - 18 - b.z.niditch about the powerless So you think as the limping soul with a broken umbrella walks by the white trees always beguiled by pain on the earth’s red throat made up of angry words. It has snowed early even the darkness seems larger in a greenless nature only a sparrow is an onlooker you want to leave but it’s a poet’s sentence to be fleshly imprisoned not blindly out of sight. photo by feminapotens - 19 - majorie mcatee the hitchhiker T he hitchhiker stood at the roadside, so still as to be dead, staring a stare that might’ve seen through all the long silences and vast nothings of eternity. He was beyond the world, lost in a place all his own. Then his mind came back to him and he traveled on with steps that pained his feet His shoes were ragged and he studied them with shuttered eyes, blue marbles. Once in a lengthy while he would raise his head and search for something that eluded him in the rolling plains. Then he moved on. Four days now he’d been walking, and twenty-five miles out of Melbun he was. Cotter’s Ridge lay sleeping in the wheat, ten, maybe fifteen miles away. He could reach it this night of he hitched another ride. Twilight was dropping its blue creepers over the horizon, but he could reach it, if. . . if he hitched another ride. But he was afraid. The hitchhiker paused and put two callused fingers to his left cheek, to the healing laceration that blazed bright from eyebrow to chin. Needs stitches. That’s what the Father had said. Needs stitches, my son. But there had been no stitches. Not for him. The hitchhiker shook his head violently to clear his brain of these thoughts. In the process, a few strands of his oily midnight hair stuck to the wound. He brushed them away. The hitchhiker walked, very slowly, not quite stumbling. Ten or fifteen miles to Cotter’s Ridge—that translated into two or three days for the hitchhiker to walk. And in Cotter’s Ridge there would be shelters, with warm beds and showers .. . maybe. Two or three days. He could’ve walked much further, much faster if he weren’t in such constant pain. Bruises, fading to sickly yellow, might be internal injuries, he didn’t know. There were cracked ribs, three of them, that needled into his chest when he breathed. And that wasn’t the worst. The worst was that it could’ve been averted. It all could’ve been averted. It was a nice car. Brand new, clean, red like a hooker’s lipstick, it peeled down the highway like a stallion. There was no element of fear in the halogen headlights spilling their golden fan into the rainy dark; no screams in the glistening of the wet windshield. The car pulled over, tires popping and crunching like murky firecrackers in the gravel. The hitchhiker stood paralyzed, bails crawling and flesh on fire. He felt his bowels loosen and drop; his heart skittered like a startled rabbit and a moist lump that might’ve been a scream rose thickly in his throat. A panicky voice deep in his mind clamored at him to run, get away, not to get in this car but the next one, yes, the next one would be safe. He might’ve run; his feet were already turning, muscles twitching in adrenaline ecstasy, ready for flight. A harsh, cawing voice issued from the ebony depths of the car, “Ya gettin’ in, or what?” The spell of blind terror was broken. The hitchhiker started forward. His legs quivered, his heart thumped, but the searing dread subsided. Reason was reasserting itself—it was raining, cool, and dark; he had seventy-five miles to go till he reached Kansas City. He might have friends in Kansas City. It would be nice, after all this time, to have someplace to go. Yes, that would be almost…like paradise. The hitchhiker noticed the car’s driver leaning to unlock the door. He opened it—CHU-CHUNK—to get in, and was again frozen. Eyes .. . the man’s eyes. They were steel. And that voice again—rough, jagged voice, voice like Marlboros and whiskey. “Don’t stand there and let the rain in.” The hitchhiker didn’t. “Name’s Bob,” the driver said as the hitchhiker buckled up. “What’s yours?” But the hitchhiker had no name; none, that is, that he would’ve been proud to lay claim to. So he made one up. “Ryan. I’m going to Kansas City,” the hitchhiker replied thoughtlessly; he had so many aliases, after all. He cast his eyes aimlessly about the cab— where they came to rest on Bob’s hands. Those hands—the palms, the hairy backs—were streaked with blood. It gathered in the creases of Bob’s knuckles, clotted under his fingernails. The hitchhiker could smell it, a solid, coppery stench that clouded his nostrils. Suddenly he felt smothered; the air in the car was leaden, and his lungs could not use it. He rolled down the window. Perhaps, if he hadn’t done that, he might’ve been safe. “Roll that window up! It’s raining!” Bob snarled. The hitchhiker whose name wasn’t Ryan caught a glimpse of these eyes, those steel eyes, flash insanely, and that loose feeling again gripped his bowels. He rolled up the window, turning his eyes skyward. There were worse storms brewing in the heavens, and the hitchhiker knew it. They drove on in ghastly silence. - 20 - majorie mcatee The hitchhiker’s tongue felt papery and scraped like sand across his teeth; his mouth was a hot, red desert. His pulse pounded in his forehead like a devilish hammer. He stole a glance at Bob, and at Bob’s bloody hands. His own hands curled into tight, sweaty fists in his lap. Presently the hitchhiker heard Bob speak. The words came out jumbled and slurred. “What’s that?” the hitchhiker asked. His host paid him a weary gaze. “I said, we’d better pull over for the night.” Not knowing what else to do, the hitchhiker nodded. His headache was getting worse. The dark and the scarlet upholstery made the car not a car but the belly of a beast. The warm, salty reek of blood was still dense in his sinuses. The hitchhiker rubbed his forehead and hoped against hope that Bob wouldn’t decide to add his blood to the mess congealing on his hands. Bob pulled the red-lipstick car over. With the engine off, the silence grew immense and oppressive. The rain drilled a deadly rhythm on the car’s fiberglass exoskeleton. The hitchhiker realized he could feel the weight of his head bearing down on his spine, grinding the fragile vertebrae together. He could almost hear it. A few inches away, Bob removed the keys from the ignition, reclined the seat, and prepared to sleep. The hitchhiker did the same. Engulfed in night, he began to doze off. And dreamed: He was caught in a dark place, a tight, dark place, and he couldn ‘t get out—maybe it was a prison, yes it was a prison. He could feel the manacles cold on his wrist and there was sickness everywhere; pestilence, plague. It wouldn’t touch him because he had done something awful, something bad, something worse than murder, and he was doomed to a fate worse than death. He started awake with a strained little squeal A fleshy hand rested on his leg, midway between knee and hip, crawling with spider-like precision toward his crotch with an effort, he turned his head; it felt as if his vigor had melted. He saw only a pair of fiendish eyes and a flash of stained teeth, reflected dimly in the moon’s borrowed light. “You’re pretty, you know that, Ryan?” That voice again, like Marlboros and whiskey. Only this time, it curled around his chest like a frigid snake. Yes, very pretty.” A slimy hand fell on his cheek; wretched lips pressed against his. His mind seemed numb. It’s getting on me, he thought frantically. All that blood, it’s getting on me. Bob’s tongue was worming its way into his mouth; that vile hand had now slipped into his crotch and was stroking it. There were stirrings there—that seemed the worst of it. No , no way, not now, not here, not this. He tried to shrink away, fumbling discretely for the door handle. He couldn’t find it. It seemed to lurk just beyond his reaching fingertips, mocking him. Disgust was rising in his throat like bile, a bitter explosion that might burst from his chest at any second. He bit down hard on Bob’s tongue. Fresh, torrid blood spurted into his mouth, a taste like pennies and oysters. Bob jerked beck and roared with pain, surprise, and wrath. Motherfucker, I HOPE it’s pain. I hope you’re bleeding to death. The door handle slid into Ryan’s palm like an old friend. He yanked photo by zayzayem - 21 - majorie mcatee with all his strength, strength that was both young and ageless. Nothing happened. The door was locked. “Shit!” he hissed as a strong hand grasped his hair and wrenched his head back. A glowing line of fire bloomed on his face and gory fluid began to flow down his cheek, over his chin. There was a knife at his throat. Oh, fuck, more blood and this time it’s MINE . “Think you’re gettin’ away huh? Is that it? Don’t you want me, pretty boy?” Bob’s breath was pungent carrion. Ryan’s eyes darted. He could find no weapon. The highway was deserted—no one to help him. If only he knew who I was, if only he knew who I really was, he thought briefly, but did not speak his name. Instead another thought leaped into his head, or an image, rather: a little girl, pretty and proper, reciting something . . . a rhyme. There may be fairies, there may be elves, but God helps those who help themselves. And then, Oh please God, I’m sorry, help me now, and. he jabbed his sharp elbow into his captor’s fat gut. The blow was a sure one. Bob collapsed, hemic hands glued over the offended abdomen. Air charged from his lungs—”Oooof!“ The knife clattered away, leaving the hitchhiker’s throat only nicked. Ryan scrambled for the lock button, nearly blinded by stinging sweat and tears. His shirt was drenched. Finally he found it, pulled it. The candy-apple door swung open and the car tossed him out into the stormy night. His legs sprang instinctively, muscles bunching and stretching, tendons straining. Damp air ripped through his lungs, scraping his throat raw. The deluge pulsed on his scalp like a thousand ireful mallets, throbbed on his back in a cruel tattoo. It drizzled down his face and dripped from lip to feverish lip. His arms pis- photo by said&done toned, his heart raced like a maniacal clock. He even hoped for escape, when he heard the thunder of a vengeful engine trumpeting to life behind him. There was nothing to be done; no way he could run faster. Yet somehow he did; there must’ve been more potency in his skinny limbs and striving muscles then he could’ve ever known. So he ran—wheezing on the edge of oblivion he ran, ran with that final and passionate eruption of speed that is saved for the dying. In vain. The car’s mechanical sinews raged. Its radiator grill shimmered like the teeth of a famished lioness. It chewed up the distance and spit it out, approached him furious and snapping. It caught-him. The hitchhiker felt his knees buckle and give as the car struck his buttocks. His arms flew up and his eyes widened in a comical expression of surprise. He tried to turn, fall, anything so his head would not bash through the windshield, so he would not have to feel his skull crumple into his brain. One hand flapped futilely at the flimsy antenna, but did not fmd purchase. He had an instant to see his labored face in the glass, and raised an arm to shield himself. Before he did, he caught one last glance of these steel-colored eyes. He could’ve swore they flared with hellfire. He collided with the windshield; by the grace of some divine Providence his head did not crash through. Amidst the crunch of foundering safety-glass, a sound like wet branches breaking, and a bang of new agony boiling through his chest— those were his ribs cracking, he knew. Flipped up onto the roof, which bucked and heaved beneath his weight as he jounced around. Pitched down to the trunk; another of those branches breaking, and he screamed. It was a sound faraway and unimportant; his ears recognized the cry but not the throat that gave it birth. Flopped splashing into a puddle of mud. The car sped away with yips of delight. He paid it a feeble parting glance and minded that the passenger door still hung open, swinging like an absurd wing. Then Bob, and his red-lipstick car, were gone forever. - 22 - majorie mcatee The hitchhiker lay moaning in the rain, rocked with waves of anguish that seemed to swallow him completely. The downpour was his worst enemy; each drop was a minuscule scalpel to his tender flesh. His eyes fluttered open and he found, somewhat gratefully, that he was still alive. But he also noted a types of grey, gauzy, opalescent clouds hovering over him, as if waiting. It seemed he might die after all. With this ache, and all he had been through before the ache, it began to seem like a relief. Finally, he thought, finally, the end of time, Judgment Day. A voice called to him from the vapor, a silken sweet voice, like the faint scent of roses on a spring day. It called to him by name—his real name, and it sounded strange, he hadn’t heard it in ages. “Pontius.” the voice whispered, “All is forgiven, for you have repented . . . come, Pontius. .. come . . .” And he did. As he slipped into the dark realms of the mind where no misery reaches, he found himself praying, a prayer two thousand years old, a devotion he had no right to utter, a psalm he had first heard on a mountain top long ago. “Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on Earth as it is in Heaven . . ..” And each word, as it passed his lips, rang true. It wasn’t the end of days, after all. His eyes sprung open eons later. The mud around him was brutally hard now. The sun sat at its highest point in the sky, swathed in blue raiment. It gloated at him. The pain had receded somewhat, but still lapped at his bones dismally, threatening high tide, masking his thoughts. He stood, and his legs were of real stuffs; they trembled, but held him. He moved shakily. The world seemed over bright, as if primed for an detonation. The episode (it seemed safer, somehow, to call it an “episode”) in the rain seemed warped, surreal; it could’ve been a nightmare, but nightmares didn’t leave such dire proof behind. He managed to walk ten miles that day; he would not Walk as far in one afternoon for months hence. He again drew strength from some inner source that was bottomless. There was misery, torment, but underlying that, something else: the knowledge that he could go on, would go on, must go on. So he did, even as delirium descended with gentle feathered wings and wicked talons. He stumbled past a sign proclaiming “Melbun City Limits” in large, blatant white letters. He did not see it, did not know what it said, did not care. He did not notice that he was ascending a small flight of sunbaked concrete steps; he was not aware that, when he faltered, he came to rest on a modest, shady porch. He woke on a soft beige couch. His throat was dry and prickly; his body pulsated in dull harmony with his heart. The face of Jesus Our Savior smiled down at him from the wall, arms extended in silent, loving welcome. It did, of course, bear naught but scant resemblance to the actual man, but the irony was there—oh yes, irony in its finest degree. Or had his long-overdue prayer been answered? “You seem to’ ve had some hard luck, my son.” A priest. Standing over him, but not coming too close. Looking wary, as if he might’ve guessed the hitchhiker’s identity. Was this man privy to celestial revelation, or had the hitchhiker been mumbling in his sleep? “Why aren’t I in a hospital?” the hitchhiker croaked. The Father gave him an odd look—head cocked, one eyebrow perched high above the other—as if the idea of hospitals had never crossed his mind. “You came here, my son”—he said the words ‘my son’ as if he knew the hitchhiker could never be his son— ”and something tells me here is where you belong.” There seemed to be no argument for that. “I have to get to Kansas City.” “So you do.” That curious look still on his face. “But perhaps it’s best if you stay here for a time.” No argument for that’ either. The Father turned, began to walk away. As he reached his office, he looked back. “That gash needs stitches, my son,” he said, and that was all. The hitchhiker stayed. For two and a half weeks, he stayed. Although the Father cared for him diligently, that weird wondering expression never left his features. The hitchhiker grew to hate that expression, to loathe it more and more as his soul itched for travel. So, one day over breakfast, the hitchhiker announced his intentions. For the first time in their acquaintance, the Father did not seem surprised. In fact, he seemed relieved. The hitchhiker set out the selfsame day. As he stepped out the door, the Father pressed a small cylinder into his hand. The hitchhiker glanced at it. It was a tiny roll of cash, seventy-five, maybe one hundred dollars. Nested inside was a bus ticket to Kansas City. Something clenched inside him. “I can’t take this,” the hitchhiker stammered. “You can and you must.” There was an element of undefined sternness in the voice of this man who was God’s representative on Earth. The hitchhiker took the money and the ticket. Now, four days out of Melbun, they were still nestled snugly in his hip pocket. There was a bus station in Cotter’s Ridge, he remembered. He didn’t know if he would use that ticket or But he thought he might. - 23 - karen porter fork Suck you dry as a corn husk doll left out all winter, leave you a half-assed mummy, lizard flesh puckered into diabolic oaths. Talk before your tongue clatters to the floor. I need your earth-bound prayers tickling my undersides in a smoke-dance dalliance, smiling at your pane brain confusion in a hunt for heaven or some gilded facsimile. I eat beliefs for breakfast, butterflied hearts faith-marinated, pulsing obsessions, looking for an exit through running eyes liquefying under acid breath. You know I really think you took the wrong fork in the road. photo by rob sheridan bone collector along the water’s edge by riverbanks or softly lapping sea waves is the best place for treasure hunting although sometimes I have to dig them up or when I meet someone special I rip a living harvest from the startled unprotesting flesh washing red atop the white staining them sleek and shiny sharp as stars - 24 - karen porter l’amour infernal down there I go down there sinking into l’enfer sticky and deep warmed by furnaces of blood to banish winter’s hungry eye you grin open pale and wide spilling adolescent secrets as I snuggle in your entrails oh my love of wives and lovers The hammer claw peeks demurely from his jacket, strands of his latest conquest blowing softly in the breeze. Sucking blood from beneath his nails he rubs the scratch marks on his face and laughs. Once inside the house he drags her wizened frame from beneath the bed then chisels another notch into her forehead. He can sleep now knowing he won’t make her jealous anymore. perfectly sane I hear the whispers they think I don’t but I do disposal calls for a shaking response dirt-load suctions nervously safe away from the toad-eaters rat-tasters in the teacups and sugar tails dangling for nibbling good even though there’s not much meat most of all I love fruit the delicious warping gray of your blueberry eyes as I eat them photo by burnt out Impurities - 25 - benji radke unamerica I am the uneducated child of the system on the brink of space fading in time Lost within the woven cloth of social brigade, Soldiers of the field are dying with the Sun My father’s ghosts are my mother’s hosts The wounded belly of our breath is bleeding internally; eternally Bodies lying in the streets of your town Bodies lying in the beds safe and sound, Blood flows thick in the river Draining from our mother’s veins stains upon her gown thicken sickened to her soul she cries skies fade into the black of night light dies and d she sleeps seeps into dreams and the unknown sun shown eyes squeeze out the dead red runs down her chin down her neck down her breast down her stomach, Pain runs down her brain down her eyes down her arms down her heart. She awakens and looks upon the slaughter She knows she’s dying and fears for her daughter, She is lost within a hateful cheerful, confused world her creatures are no longer hers her thoughts go unheard her cries, ignored herAnd the cars whizz by on paved fields beneath man’s lights beneath man’s buildings beneath man’s towers beneath man’s clouds, And it’s true there’s nothing she can do the skies of blue are changing hueWho cares let’s go get a burger. unspoken-words Unspoken words of the law The political truth A ravaged and blundered mother Our harrowed feast Our growing beast A circle made of time A futuristic past in the historical future A floating feature a teacher a lover a preacher Can you reach her? Summon the crawling creature A diaphanous world an eroding sky We swim along rivers of asphalt And drowned in the noxious fumes. Wake up!!! Are you really here, now? Because, you will never be here tomorrow and some day soon you will only have been here yesterday. - 26 - benji radke the doorkeeper I am the root of all evil where kindness begins I cause the upheaval and forgave dying sins, I stand alone, high above while dwelling far below I am the definition of love and the creator of all we know, I am the promises made I am the lies we’ve spoken I am the light and shade I am the cause of hearts broken I am the ace of spades I am the last token I am the final crusade I am the dreams we’re provokin’, I am the creator of time I invented the line I made heavenly wine I made hell divine, I am lust, lush and passion I am hate, fear and death I am life, loss and confusion ration I am your first and final breath, I am the gate to the Gods I am the fiery world of the devil I am the howling pack of dogs I am each and every level, I am now and I am then I am where and I am when I am thick and I am thin I am forgiveness and I am sin I am the beginning and I am the end If you want to get out or you want to get in You must seek the doorkeeper and I am him. photo by hherbzilla - 27 - bob dombrowski the woman e was waiting in his car. Across the street, he could see the pimps in their white hats waiting for their girls. The girls themselves were all squeezed into a few protective doorways. Not even the curious whistles and slow circling cars could bring them out. It was a cold night; only the usual customers would get attention. No shopping around. No sexy teasing. Only one stop — from a huddle in a doorway to a heated front seat. The tall girl with the blue stockings had a doorway to herself. He’d watched her for several nights. For some reason, all the other girls kept a distance from her. She was alone. He was alone like that. He had no friends. Nobody would huddle in a doorway with him either, even if he stood on the same street night after night. He loved her for that. He started the car and moved it from the curb. “Hey you” He yelled through the window. “Twenty bucks for a blow H job.” She looked at him through twoinch false eyelashes. She was probably twenty years old. She’d probably been sucking strangers’ cocks for three or four years. When she smiled, her lips had that lax, rubbery look that hard service tends to give them. “Sure.” She jumped into the car. “Hello. Cold night.” Her hand was already in his pants and she was rubbing his manhood to get it hard. He hadn’t yet even driven from the curb. “Feels good.” He said. “But let’s wait until I park somewhere. I want to enjoy this.” He drove the car into the back of an open parking lot, slid back the seat, and slouched down into the classic position that anyone who went to high school in America would recognize. She giggled the usual set of inanities while she slid his pants over his buttocks. “Oh, what a big one. Oooh, I’m anxious to taste this one.” While she was crouched over him, photo by majoracartergroup her legs pulled up onto the seat and her lips slowly stroking him, he reached his hand over her shoulder and warmly held her. She gently moaned. He felt something for her frailty. He shared her loneliness. His heart opened to her—all of her. Her feminine weakness, the trap her life had gotten her into, the hopelessness of it, the desolate attempts at a small happiness, all congealed in a kind of love for her. In a surge of hatred, he pulled a knife from his jacket and stabbed her in the back. In the spasm of pain, she bit hard and her teeth ripped across his dick. He stabbed her again, but her bite wouldn’t release. Laughter, blood, and pain poured from her throat. “Damn you. Damn you.” He said, and he tried to pull her head loose by her hair. She bit harder. He stabbed her again. Blood was dripping from the edge of the car seat onto the floor. The windows had gotten steamy. The car shook in spasms that looked like the standard thing. And she kept biting. She wouldn’t stop. When he blacked out, she felt his body go limp under her. The pain from the stabs was overwhelming, but she hadn’t lost consciousness. The knife was still in his hand. Overcoming her own agony and being careful not to twist and force the blood from her wounds any faster than it was already flowing, she pulled the knife from his hand and jabbed it into the base of his dick. She could see her tooth marks just above where the knife blade entered. His body convulsed. The blade was sharp. With no effort, she turned the knife and severed the dick from his body. She knew that she had little time before she herself blacked out from the pain and the loss of blood. She also had to allow strength to walk back to - 28 - bob dombrowski her man. She slid the knife blade under his skin and muscle at the crotch and pulled it up, opening his belly. She jammed the now limp dick into the slit before the full odors from his ripped intestines could escape. She was sensitive to odors. He’s probably dead, she thought, but I hope he lives. He should have to live like this. Leaving him sprawled against the seat, she slid from the car quietly closing the door. With the little strength left, she moved, glided, as smoothly as she could, across the parking lot back to the sidewalk where her pimp should be standing. When she was sure that he saw her, she collapsed. He saved her. He always did. She was special. She actually didn’t make more money than the other girls he ran, but her reputation alone carried an aura of high mystery and the romance of intensity. It paid off indirectly. She was a specialist. Her job was to kill. The desperate in search of an abrupt end to their lives looked for her. He, himself, had no idea how these people could spot her. Actually, he was glad that he couldn’t see what they saw. She was the valve of release that even precinct politics wouldn’t touch on their regular sweeps. Nobody could officially sanction her, but her existence was a fact known as for as city hall. How the appropriate victims found her was also a mystery to the police, but they were believers. He saw her fall, and he realized that, again, she had not been quite fast enough. She‘s getting careless. He thought to himself, not quite professional. This was the fourth emergency this season. Philosophically, he thought about the hard life a pimp leads while he tried to explain the emergency to the 911 operator. “Look, lady,” he said, “I don’t know anything. There’s some girl lying on the street bleeding all over the concrete. Just send a goddamn ambulance.” He hung up and waited. Actually, he really liked her. photo by mercurialn - 29 - sheila b. roark he watches Hidden in the shadows of the night, he silently waits and watches For just a glimpse of her as she rushes to her “safety zone.” He laughs at this inanity, for she will never be safe from him. He will always find her, day and night, no matter where she tries to hide. His anger keeps him focused as he thinks of how she fled. Running from his special love has helped his rage to grow. My poor love, he thinks, you need me, come back and bring us peace. Until then, he crouches in the shadows, hidden in the black of night, he watches. photo by zadi diaz - 30 - chris weiss something i can never have sitting alone in a dark dingy basement thinking some thoughts that shouldn’t be mine the music so loud, so cold and depressing hurting so deeply for crossing the line the color of red melts all around me the flashing of days just gone by the times that we’ve had all seem so different hurting too much now to cry drowning the sorrows by sinking in darkness the pain from inside me driving like nails feeling so hopeless, so lost and so desperate finally seeing the truth this unveils tired from running, from thinking, from waiting legs are as weak as my feelings are strong hiding back here so deep in the shadows asking myself “what have i done wrong?” photo by tiggywinkle - 31 - gerald zipper in the land of the lizard In the Land of the Lizard creatures prowled eyes darting teeth snapping stealth the watchword I navigated sheer embankments treacherous straits roaring shoals Lizards stretched on rocks imbibing silky sun jaws poised teeth glistening spinning clever words I smiled bowed to pass respectfully patting combed forelock Lizard snapped its jaws swallowed me whole Twisting kicking struggling to be free straining and draining tearing Lizard breath and muscle heart and lung Lizard sighed and died I became the Lizard stalked the Land snapping jaws grinning teeth preening forelock waiting slyly for others to come seeking the more obliging ones. photo by valerie everett - 32 - gerald zipper tender souls Tender souls daring to nearly touch concealing fitful feelings memories in a fading garden of wilted loves decomposing families Remember the one who drifted away, a shadow in the night one who suffered indignities of an unrequited passion lives built on never-ripening promises recall the dreams that will never be never be the circus acrobat nor the pilot soaring beyond Andean peaks nor the Beloved of all lamentation of lost worlds. cannibals In a foreign land over scalding deserts distempered seas lived crafty creatures just like you and me except the swallowed smoke sipped fevered potions burned flesh burrow holes in body parts skinned small creatures immolated innocents ate the flesh of their dreams cannibalized their children just like you and me old bedell road There is a pain to remembering gape of dead-eye stores wheeze of decomposing houses I climb the Old Bedell Road seeking remnant of lost self farm hidden in thickets of memory crumbling road following the rampaging stream spume of remembrance spilling headlong down the mountain past tottering well-house fleeing to secret somewhere beyond the sentinels of pine tracing memories of azure sky cascading over million-year stones circling imperious oak and maple echoes filtered from a distant era telling of a boy who wandered and wanders still photo by lizard911 - 33 - neal fandek heigh-ho, heigh-ho I t’s almost morning. I can just make out the colors of the three pencils on my desk—red, green, and blue. I can see the trees and the big house emerging from the night like chalk on black paper; hear the birds stirring, my sister screaming. Another morning for her. A new age for me. I live in a little house and my sister lives in the big farmhouse where the kitchen and bathroom are. I have my studio downstairs, sleeping loft upstairs. This little house used to be a summer kitchen. It was, really, a giant oven. My sister lets me stay here rentfree. I fixed it up. Well, her husband and me. Ex-husband, I should say. A scourge, divorce. My sister is a bad cook. She also cries very much, so the screaming this morning does not sound so bad to me. I like it; it is comforting. Like the screams of Stukas. I wonder will she make me spaghetti for lunch as she usually does on Saturdays. I am an artist My expenses are low. My sister makes me pay for onehalf the utilities, and of course I must put gasoline in my ‘78 Chevy. My brother worked for the railroad until he was laid off. He is mechanically inclined and repairs my car for free, or almost, a case of Stroh’s. I myself do not consume alcohol. Or meat. It is a desecration. The Fuhrer felt the same way. He was a vegetarian, and respected all healthy life forms. To make money for books and supplies, I do courtroom drawings for the Allentown Morning Call, and sketch animals and mountains and lakes for the small greeting card shop downtown. Downtown Allentown is very sad. No one goes there anymore, everyone is in the mall. Downtown is choked with retarded people and mud people, niggers and Puerto Ricans. It must be cleansed. Last week Jimmy at the card shop looked at my latest card sketch for a long time. He said, “There’s something disturbing about this.” I said, “Disturbing? Horses in a corral?” He didn’t say anything. Then he said, “It’s the sort of thing Goebbels would have in his office.” I have seen photographs of Goebbels in his Reich office, sleek and alert behind the dark oak, and knew Goebbels would never hang up a sketch of horses. Hitler, yes. The Fuhrer loved animals and children and they loved him. But I said nothing. I took the money and shook his hand and left. He was not smiling. He was still looking at the horses. I had used my green pencil to draw the horses. Red for the corral. Hitler from his Vienna student days followed this plan: Red for an enemy. Green for a friend. Blue, when he was uncertain. Later that week I sketched a defendant for the Morning Call. He was accused of torturing, raping then killing his daughter, shotgunning his wife, small son, and mother. I used the red pencil. He had no lawyer. He defended himself. He said that he discovered his wife was not racially pure and that she consorted with mud people. So he had to sanitize his blood line to prevent further mongrelization of the white race. He denied raping his daughter, only sparing her and his son the agony of life as mongrels. His wife was racial trash. He said that killing his mother had been an accident. “Mutti,” he wept. “Mutti.” He had eyes of blazing blue, shuffling in the courtroom in ankle chains and orange jump suit with nervous deputies in brown shirts at his sides. He was proud and unbowed as a wild stallion. He sat still, so he was easy to draw. Some defendants cannot sit still and squirm around which makes them difficult to draw. He had good features, a lofty forehead, a strong chin, those blue eyes. The case had generated a lot of publicity, and the editor was very pleased with my sketches, so I was in the courtroom every day. I knew he was posing for posterity. Everyone thought he would be remanded to the state insane asylum but the judge sentenced him to life without parole. The man looked up and , smiled. “Thank you judge,” he said. “You’re welcome, said the judge.” When he hobbled out of the courtroom, his eyes locked on mine. He said something curious. “Disney,” he said. “Study Disney.” I had been thinking about Walt Disney. I looked down at my sketchpad. To sketch the walls and background during the sentencing I used the green pencil. That night I took down my Disney books and began looking. I saw things I had never seen before. Pinocchio the pure, the innocent, betrayed by lesser beings but sacrificing himself gladly to save his bloodline. Heralded by all nature, a cricket, a pure white dove. Cinderella the pure Rhine-maiden, trampled underfoot by her filth stepsisters but recognizable by subtle signs—the curve of her instep, her innate grace—as racially pure by the Aryan prince. Always the Aryan prince, the man of steel perilously exposing his breast to rescue the maiden. Snow White. - 34 - neal fandek Sleeping Beauty. Penetrating the Siegfried wall of thorns, bypassing the lesser beings, the dwarves whose number was seven—the prime number of Zionism. Then, Carol. My Sleeping Beauty. She was a clerk in a copy shop downtown where I was copying some sketches to send to a filth Jew art director in Jew York. She had long tangled blonde hair, as if fresh from the hunt. She had clear blue eyes. She had a good bust and wide hips, the true child-bearing Aryan woman. She had acne, but to me this only made her more appealing. We talked. Both her parents were German, her grandparents still alive in Nuremberg, the most holy of German cities. She said she liked the way things ran over there. Then some filth Puerto Rican with a red bandanna came in and began making self-service copies. We ignored him. But the machine stuck and he wanted her to fix it. She said she could not, did not know how and he became irate, yelling, “Hey baby, hey chocha, mira, you better not give me shit.” I walked over and kicked his kneecap and when he went down took his greasy Spic head in both hands and smashed his face on my knee then dumped the filth on the sidewalk before he could bleed on me. I asked Carol out. She looked at the small crowd forming on the sidewalk. Then she looked at me. Then she said yes. She didn’t live so far from my sister’s house. We went out. It is no mockery of her purity to say she appealed to me, as a True Woman; even that she kissed well. My sister began teasing me about leaving the Nazi Party and joining the rest of the world. One night after we had been going out for about three months Carol, seemed restless, disturbed—first distant, then snugly. I asked her what was wrong. She said, “I don’t want to go home just yet. Can we go to your place?” We went into my little house and sat down on my small couch downstairs, in the studio. Carol said, “Do you like me?” I said, “Carol, you know I do. You are my angel.” She said nothing. I leaned to kiss her good night by the dashboard light but she was already out the door. The red warning light stayed on until I properly shut her door. She was never there when I called. I thought she had forgotten about the Halloween costume party, but then she called me the night before and said, “Are we still going?” That night I wept. My angel, my pure one, had come back to me. When she came down the steps, I was breathless. She was Snow White. In the car, I told her to take off the black wig and comb her long blonde hair down and put on the armband. I was in my black SS uniform. She was Snow White and I her Aryan prince. The vampires, the werewolves, the politicians and gangsters, all of them stared when we walked in. We were myth incarnate on the parquet floor. My SS dagger gleamed red in the disco light. Afterward I took her back to my little oven house Then in the back, in the woods. Then I woke up my sister and told her of my act of love — for Carol, for my sister, for the entire Aryan race, It is not enough to believe, I told my sister; one must sacrifice that which one holds most dear. My sister started screaming and locked the door. Through the blinds, I saw her pick up the phone. I went back to my drawing board to complete the sketch. The thick forest, the clearing, the maiden on the altar, SS dagger in her chest. The Master, Disney, would have been proud. It is lighter. I can see the big house clearly now. All the shades are drawn. Through the bird song—yes, faintly— now more clearly—I hear the frantic sirens, see the red lamps flashing, comical bullhorn voices shouting. Dwarves. They are as dwarves to me. Some day they will join me to march all the impure and mongrelized into my oven. I must put my pencil down now. Heigh-ho. Heigh-ho. photo by mnadi She said, “I don’t want to be your angel. I want to be your lover.” She took my hand, put it on her breast, and leaned over, mouth open obscenely to kiss. I was excited, but also repelled. “Stop that!” I said, my hand accidentally spasming on her breast before I yanked it away. It felt firm, and soft, at the same time. I am 27, and had never felt a woman’s breast. “Why?” she said, and began peeling off her sweater. “Don’t you love me? Don’t you want me?” “Yes—but—” I said, “your purity!” “Fuck my purity. Fuck me,” and she raised her green sweater, the heavy fabric brushing against her large nipples. She wore no bra. It was like the curtain going up to a play. I threw her off and ran into the sheltering woods. When I returned, I insisted she go home. “Is it MTV? Madonna?” I asked, driving her home. “Why do you act this way when you know I love you?” - 35 - writer’s guidelines Now it’s Your Turn INTRODUCTION Crimson Rivers Magazine is back to feast upon the living. This annual looks to push horror’s razor-sharp edge to the reader’s neck. We are not talking the “It was a dark and stormy night…” type material. We are talking about material that will make the reader want to sleep with the light on. NEEDS Poetry (to 100 lines) appearing in CRM should not be afraid to push the envelope. Save the fluff for greeting cards. We are looking for visual poetry to bludgeon the reader’s senses. Fiction (to 5,000 words) should grab the reader by the throat and not let go. The lulls in the story should set up something immense. In our world, most times the bad guy wins and the boogeyman does get its victim. This isn’t to say stories can’t have happy endings; but ask yourself, are there really any true happy endings? Artwork appearing in CRM should be visceral and assault the senses. This is the world of horror, look within and illustrate what frightens you. MANUSCRIPT FORMAT Send us a cover letter with your submission. We don’t need the details of your conception, just a few lines to get to know a little more about you. Format your manuscript using either 12pt Times New Roman or 11pt Courier New fonts. Electronic manuscripts should be formatted as previously stated and saved as a Rich Text Formatted (.rtf) document. Attach manuscript and cover letter to your e-mail. Artwork must be formatted as a Portable Network Graphics (png) or a Tagged Image File Format (tiff) image. Please submit work on CD or as an e-mail attachment. We understand that not everyone has access to a computer and to help those artists, we will accept hand-written manuscripts providing they meet the following criteria: Poetry - under thirty (50) lines. Fiction and Nonfiction - under 2000 words. Artwork - camera-ready and not folded. Please enclose a SASE (self-addressed stamped envelope) with your postal submission and mail to the following address: First Step Press Post Office Box 902 Norristown, PA 19404-0902 Send electronic submissions to the following addresses: Art: Fiction: Nonfiction: Poetry: art@fspressonline.org fiction@fspressonline.org nonfiction@fspressonline.org poetry@fspressonline.org Important: Make sure you indicate either in the subject line or in the body of your email that the submission is for Crimson Rivers Magazine. We publish work under One-time Print Rights and Onetime Electronic Rights. All other rights revert to the author We accept both simultaneous and reprint submissions. Please notify us if either situation applies. PAYMENT CRM, like SSM: ALMIA is a labor of love and is presently unable to offer payment. We do have an award for the best body of work appearing in the annual. photo by clearly ambiguous - 36 - photo by pusspaw www.fspressonline.org