What Fears Become Part 30

THAT STRETCH OF ROAD.

by Teresa Ann Frazee.

That stretch of road lies between home and somewhere.

Celestial light slices through the mahogany sky Lured by ancient shades of boundless galaxies Which hold the power to charm the mortal eye.

Neglected on the map of transient dreams The road takes on dimensions of infinity Right on course into the pa.s.sage of fate As the span of time monitors obscurity Onward we travel toward our destination Through miles of air the road approached a hill Trees rustle among us like whispering kings And in the hushed black of night they're reigning still THE ROADSIDE ROSE.

by Teresa Ann Frazee Amid the glow of haunting flares A rose blooms there in the night She stands against a boundless sky Charming the last shards of light She cradles the sweet breath of Eros In each sultry curve of her petal's fold Velvet thorns blush behind bursting buds According to the ancient legend told.

Some say her nocturnal appearance Is only for amorists upon days close Many a romantic still wander here And hope for a glimpse of the roadside rose.

About Teresa Ann Frazee.

From Florida, Teresa Ann Frazee has been a visual artist for over twenty years, with juried and international exhibitions including solo shows in galleries, museums and other venues, receiving many awards and honors. At the same time, Teresa has been perusing her other love, writing.

She is a published poet, and her works have been displayed in Skyline Magazine, Hudson Review and Poetry Shelter. Inside her world of make-believe, she paints and writes what she knows to be true. Within her creative force, she leaves reality entirely up to you.

SEVENTY YEARS LATER.

by John Grey.

Spanish moss drips from trees.

House sheds s.h.i.+ngles.

Old rusty knocker clanks against rotting doors.

Cracked windows rattle.

Floor-boards groan.

Pipes clatter.

Two bent and withered sisters crouch together in one threadbare satin chair amid the dust and webs of the ancient family sitting room.

Older brother Tom, in tattered b.l.o.o.d.y gray uniform, is slumped into the shabby sofa, eye-sockets blank, flesh green as moss, but skeletal fingers still tight around his rifle.

"Quiet out there," whispers Amanda.

"Maybe the war is over at last," rasps Esther.

Amanda shakes her weary head.

"Sad. So sad. A million of our boys dead."

"A million and one if you count Tom," adds Esther.

CONSEQUENCE.

by John Grey I ask myself, heart and head, is someone there?

There is someone.

A shape like a flower blooming under snow.

A wisp like the last draught of sun between the trees.

A presence like the mist on a cold lake's surface.

But then I wonder what does this visitor want of me.

Memory, a wildflower spark in the thick forest of my forgetfulness?

Feeling, a mote of tenderness toward all that's pa.s.sed before?

Revenge, for my living, its threadbare subst.i.tute for existence?

So I'm sorrowful, sympathetic, and terribly afraid.

I'm not alone this chilly midnight.

Oh I have lived a dark and shameful life these past few years.

I'm here with my consequences.

SECOND FLOOR.

by John Grey I arrive by night as moon gilds honey on dark, unb.u.t.toned wind, the sky in the oblivion of its fetal stars, my hunger pa.s.sionate but still enraged, up wall, through window, to bedroom, parting the golden curls of your throat with my tongue, pressing home my bleak horizon with long white fangs, your face, a startled deer fetching its own end from the unreal thunder shake of my eyes, immense night of exalted blood, as ancient world inhales life, exhales a luscious mirror of my face, pale, feminine, and dripping crimson.

HANGING TREE.

by John Grey Its outer limbs Reverberated against the shake of its dead leaves as if a body had just been cut down and it wasn't until late May that the reluctant sun finally burnt off the thick chunks of ice that shrouded its vein-like roots.

About John Grey.

John Grey is an Australian-born poet, but moved to the United States in the late 1970s. During the day, John works as a financial systems a.n.a.lyst.

John has been recently published in Connecticut Review, Kestrel and Writer's Bloc, and has more poetry upcoming in Pennsylvania English, Alimentum and the Great American Poetry Show..

THE RULES OF THE ABYSS.

by Christopher Hivner.

In the tunnel leading from the abyss, I climb, dragging myself over jagged rock.

leaving trails of blood behind.

Like teeth, the stone rips apart my body.

I keep reaching, stretching for the next foothold, searching for the light.

The darkness has existed so long it owns my veins and pumps through my fractured heart.

I pull harder, inching forward over fangs of stone incising through my cold skin.

The pain shuts my eyes and inside my own world, I see light.

I believe in light.

Every tunnel has a beginning, a source, and the light bursts from it.

It must exist.

So I re-open my eyes to find shards of black piercing my temples, driving through my brain and telling me, whispering to me sweet blessings about the easy embrace of the chasm.

In the lull of sing-song voices I see a pinp.r.i.c.k of light, maybe only in my world but maybe in the real one.

So I reach and pull and struggle and the darkness recedes, cheated.

LITTLE RED THE HOOD.

by Christopher Hivner On the way to grandma's house with her basket full of goodies; eyeb.a.l.l.s that saw too much and tongues from those who can't keep their mouth shut.

I WILL MEET YOU.

by Christopher Hivner I am the gathering thunder feel me deep in your belly I am the coming flood run, it excites me I will lurk in the aftermath to pick up your scent I am the voice you hear.

in the decaying midnight air I am the presence you feel at the foot of your bed, hovering, watching I am the light that soothes you I am the eyes of your lover I am the threads of the sheets you wrap yourself in Crawl to your dreams.

my sickly pet I will meet you there.

About Christopher Hivner.

Christopher Hivner has work published in Black October, DecomP, and Niteblade among others, and was nominated for a Rhysling Award in 2008. A collection of short horror stories, The s.p.a.ces Between Your Screams, was published in 2008.

http://www.chris.h.i.+vner.com.

WHAT IS IT?.

by Jean Jones.

When Orpheus asked his critics what they wanted from him, they all said, "Astonish us!"

Can you do that? Astonish your critics?

Robert Frost claimed that it "got lost in translation." And Sandburg claimed it was a sack "of invisible keepsakes." What is it to you?

I would claim that the key lay "In the hands, something in the hands, surely it must be that."

My friend, Andrea Young, asks me, "Are you reaching toward being a true poet?"

What is it, Andrea? What is it?

Ralph Waldo Emerson wrote, regarding the true poet the following: "The true philosopher and the true poet are one, and a beauty, which is truth, and a truth, which is beauty, is the aim of both.

"My friend, Howard McCord, wrote to me and said, "Poetry is whisky. Prose is mash. DISTILL!"

I still wish to be astonished.

EVERYONE ALWAYS LEAVES THINGS BEHIND.

by Jean Jones Everyone always leaves things behind, sc.r.a.ps of it, for miles and miles.

A friend once told me that h.e.l.l is the place where everyone goes to find the things they've left behind, sc.r.a.ps of it, for miles and miles.

LAST MOMENTS.

by Jean Jones Have you ever seen a picture that haunted you of someone just before she was murdered, like those photos of those women and children at My Lai before they were shot to death their crying voices screaming for help to you in the land of the living?

Yet there's nothing you can do about it, for in minutes photos reveal the dead bodies where the women and children stood, like that famous photo of the dead girl running with her murderer beside her her haunted eyes say to the camera, "I'm trapped, yet there's nothing I can do about it, help me," and her body is found days later, brutally raped and murdered.

What are we to do with such images?

Like the man from the Tet Offensive, the mayor of Saigon pulling out this revolver and executing him on the spot, blood spurting from his head the whole time, or those films of that man who gets his head cut off courtesy of the Taliban in Iraq or Pakistan butchered like pigs before our eyes, some screaming for their lives as the knife slits their throat...

What are we to do with such images?

Go back to church and pray for G.o.d's will?

Rorschach, the madman vigilante from the graphic novel and movie Watchmen, reveals to a prison psychologist why he was known as Rorschach.

After discovering a missing girl's bones being ripped up by the killer's dogs, Rorschach proceeds to butcher the dogs and the killer himself.