Indigo Rising Magazine

2012-08-19T15:19:00.002-07:00

Issue 24 is nearing completion and through the mass amount of incredible fiction and poetry we've forgotten one important detail... Art! We don't have nearly enough artists submitting their work.

If you are an artist of the surreal, experimental or otherwise interesting drop us an email at indigorising@hotmail.com and chances are your work will be included in Indigo Rising Magazine Print Issue 24.

Best of Luck to all you creators and the viewers that make it worth it.

Cheers,

Tannen Dell
Editor-in-Chief
Indigo Rising Magazine

2012-04-08T10:00:00.000-07:00

The Clock
By Rod Hamon

“Well that concludes the interview, Brad, unless you have any questions for us.”

Brad, who was anxious to find out if he’d got the job, just shrugged his shoulders and mumbled, “Not really.”

“In that case please take a seat in the outer office; we’ll discuss your application and have the result of the interview in half-an-hour.” He looked at his watch and added, “That will be at twelve, midday.”

As the door of the interview room closed Brad heard laughter from within.

He entered the bleak outer office and sat down, alone. It was a large featureless room without windows. He glanced up at the large clock on the wall opposite where he was sitting. “Half an hour – why so long?” He thought.

Brad, who was in his late teens, would much rather have been on the beach with his buddies. Unfortunately life for him had reached an all time low. He had lost his last job just weeks after taking out a loan on a motor cycle; he needed this job badly.

He gazed restlessly around the stark room, looked at his watch and then up at the clock. “Why is it that time always goes so slowly when you’re waiting for something?”

He thought about the job interview. “The way I answered a few of the questions wasn’t that smart was it? But I couldn’t see the point of some of the questions either. ’Why do you want this job?’ they’d asked. What a stupid question. Why does anyone want a job? For the money of course!”

Brad looked up at the clock again. Eleven forty! “Is that all?” He checked his watch. “This is such a waste of time, I wonder what they’re saying about me in there?”

He looked around the stark room and thought.”None of the interviewers liked me much – that was obvious – so full of themselves. Who do they think they are anyway, deciding my future for me?”

He glanced up at the clock again. “Damn it, what’s going on – the time’s going so slowly – this is crazy?” The second hand as it traversed the dial certainly appeared to be getting slower and slower.

As he studied the jerky movement of the second hand, he noticed how long it paused before moving forward again. “I’ve never realized how long a second in time is.” To Brad, time’s arrow had never been this sluggish?

He kept staring at the clock until it seemed to fill his vision. “Will the clock ever reach midday or will it continue to slow down? I know it’s just an imaginary thing but to me it’s real.

It was now just one minute to twelve and the second hand seemed to linger ever longer as each second passed. He brushed his long blonde hair from his eyes and continued to stare.

The second hand moved forward one second and then appeared to be frozen in time; motionless. It lingered for a while then reluctantly and lazily advanced – just one second. Brad stared in disbelief as the clocks hand again paused: this time for what appeared to be an eternity. He looked around the room and then back to the clock again. “The hand hasn’t moved at all!” he gasped looking down and checking his watch. It too was in some kind of suspended animation.

He jumped to his feet. “What in hells name’s going on? Have I died or something?”

“I’m not waiting here any longer,” he decided heading for the door leading to the interview room. Two of the interviewers were sitting behind the table while a third man was in the process of getting up. All of them motionless seemingly trapped in a time vortex – like wax figures in a museum. “Look at them – how ridiculous they look!”

Nervously Brad walked around the table. In front of where each man sat was an interview form with questions and tick boxes. Brad’s name was at the top of each form but there were crosses in most of the boxes. “Mm, they don’t seem to have exactly taken to me do they,” he muttered thoughtfully.

He grabbed a pen and then reaching between each of the motionless men changed the forms; wherever there was a cross he changed it to a tick. “Let’s see what these dummies make of that!”

“Ah well, not much point in hanging around here,” he said heading out of the room. But as he entered the outer office again he looked up at the clock. It still had not moved. “This is really weird,” he thought sitting down and burying his face in his hands. “I wonder if the whole world’s come to a grinding halt. At that instant the door opened and one of the interviewers came in.

“Brad, we’re ready to see you now; please come in.”

He re-entered the room and was surprised to find that everything was back to normal.

“Please sit down,” asked one of the men. He cleared his throat and began to speak. “Thank you, Brad for coming in today.” He paused uncomfortably and then continued. “Unfortunately…at this time… we are unable to –.” He stopped speaking abruptly as he glanced down at his interview form on the table. After a moment’s pause he craned his head to look over at the forms in front of the other two men.
With a confused look the interviewer began again, “Ah, it seems – you’ve – got the job!”

2012-04-08T09:52:00.000-07:00

Another Wrong World
By John Conway

His shock and interstellar meandering now behind him, Maxwell nudged through the patrons of the End-Of-The-Line Club, forcing his way to the center bar. It was the seediest tavern he could find--a backwater haven for non-human thieves and drug addicts, a hell-hole carved from the belly of an insignificant asteroid in a rubble-strewn orbit of Arcturus. No respectable sentient would set foot here. Finally Maxwell could lose himself in self pity and loathing.

"Hey!" he shouted and motioned to the tentacled bartender. "A stiff Rigelian Rye."

He slid onto the stool.

How could he have been so stupid? With all his talent and after all his training ... he
was the best pilot in the human fleet. The shining hope! And he'd been proud--cocky really. "Deliver it?" he'd quipped. "I'll shove it down their throat and poke 'em in the eye as they swallow!"

Yeah, right.

He downed the Rye and asked for another.

An exoskeletal creature perched itself on the stool beside him. It ordered an Ester Sal--a slimy bacterial cocktail favored by arthropods. The creature wafted the stench before slurping the sludge through its proboscis. Maxwell's stomach churned. But he stayed put. He deserved no comfort.

"Nice ship you got," clacked the creature.

"Yeah," he responded. "Best in the fleet. A real planet killer."

"A beauty."

Maxwell downed his second Rye.

"Ya think? Take it."

The creature shuddered in a motion that seemed to mimic a bipedal head shake.

"Why not? It's only been used once," said Maxwell.

"Long story. Had one. No thanks."

Maxwell glanced at the bartender. "Can you believe this thing? It compliments my ride, but when I offer it in a gesture of interspecies friendship ..."

The bartender blurted flatulently--perhaps a chuckle. "It's got its reasons." The bartender poured another Rye without needing a cue. "What's your story?" It slid the Rye toward Maxwell adding, "On the house."

"You don't want to know."

Conversations stopped, replaced by groans and creaking chairs.

Another blurt. "Look stranger. Everyone's got a story. And around here, a drink on the house means you spill yours."

Maxwell glanced around. So now he offended the even the lowliest scum. Crap. But did it matter? What did he really have to lose?

"Okay," he said, accepted the house gift. He emptied it with one motion and wiped his lips. "We were at war with the Canopians," he began.

"Canopus, huh?"

Maxwell nodded. "We built a planet killer to end the war." His hands trembled. His mouth felt dry. "Can I have another?"

"Stop stalling."

Maxwell licked his lips. The sound of his pulse pounded in his ear. Sweat pooled on his skin. "Well--" He drew a deep, deliberate breath and clenched his fist. He could not endure the details. He would have to be brief. "Long story short, I was the gun man, but the Canopians developed a counter-space-warp kind of--"

Maxwell heart lodged in his throat. He couldn't.

The bartender wrapped its tentacle around the Maxwell's empty glass. "They turned you around. You blew up your own world instead," it said, nodding its squishy head.

Maxwell blinked. "Uh ... yeah."

"Love Canopus."

"What?"

The bartender raised its voice. "Hey, how many here destroyed their own world by mistake?"
Into the musty air protruded all variety of arms, legs, wings, stems, cilia and tongues.
Maxwell felt numb. "I don't ..."

"Yeah, that trick is great for business. Tell you what ... one more on the house. Welcome to the Club."

2012-03-19T15:28:00.000-07:00

Poetry by Jack Peachum

A Song For The Autumn Equinox
(Bugg’s Island Lake, Va.)

Hush, now, the man in the moon is speaking,
his voice a mere whisper over water:
"Here, we rehearse the dance of lightning-bugs,
flit of light among pines,
by the capped well the cicadas have stopped singing,
seven-year-locusts departed–",
and soon, the moon herself rises into autumn,
bearing the summer in her arms.

Far From Home
Nights on strange roads,
headlights scan the future,
a two-lane blacktop twists up and away–
the moon’s a spy peering in the window,
stealing a peek from the shadows of pinewoods
– a glow behind the hills– what source that light?
Somewhere, a dark cabin awaits– the fire’s gone out–
and death is the caretaker.

Insomniac
Don’t move– be still in that dark anodyne!
A simple act of closing one’s eyes, entering time’s death,
where heartbeat of the dream is all that matters
– pulse quiets, mind steps aside–
to be awake now is slow measure of counting the hour,
and sunrise a commuter whose train is always late.
Oh, how fortunate the sleeper, breathing softly,
arriving in a country far away!

2012-03-19T13:49:00.000-07:00

Poetry by Ben Parker

Convocation of the Moth

“Numerous angel of the night
like us you are lost.
Reluctant lords of the constant light
we greet you.
To the clipped seraphs
all hail.”

Day drops from view.
Shadows spread
like surplus clouds.
A single elevated lamp
opens the dark
and brings the sound of flight.
Burnt-paper priests
descend:
ten thousand bodies
black-furred and weightless.
With reverence below
adoring crowds attend.
Flower-heads bend to the light.
Grass-snakes stir.
The dry stubble-grass breaths,
dew collects,
withered bark renews
and grows tight on the tree.
But always dust builds,
always the wing-powder
deposited by flight
obscures the torch.
The moths depart.
Silence resumes.
The shapes are eaten by sky.

Road

And sometimes it comes down to simply this:
killing the lights at 60mph
and threading the bullet-point tracery
of powered cats eyes that stud the tarmac
like vertebrae seen on an x-ray,
as the black rum of the after-sunset sky
darkens further and life is stretched ahead
like a to-do list, behind like a time-line.

2012-03-19T13:30:00.000-07:00

Six Ways of Viewing the Death
-after Nienow
By Jeff Neidt

I
To the Greeks, death was a river
to cross. To the Norse, a feast
in the Great Hall, and the Dakota
saw an intermission
in the great theatre of life.

II
The vision of death—
of white robe and golden light
—stands before us like a stray
bolt of lightning.

III
What about this death lies
in you? Or is it more of a
vision? Yet again, a ghost
that’s been haunting us
both—more like a memory.

IV
Once I dreamt you
died. Standing on a bridge,
and in a moment
like a clap of thunder,
the bridge disappeared
and you floated.
Hanging like a star
waiting to be wished on.

V
Death is not a held hand
or warm breeze. Death is
tangled root, and
copper taste.

VI
We watched your death like a trapeze act—
open mouthed, hands outstretched,
and frozen-lunged.
Unsure of what comes next.
But waiting for the fall.

2012-03-19T13:22:00.002-07:00

Poetry by Vernon Frazer

On Deadline

A cold wall stutter

intoned, its pontificated glyph

marked the surfeit’s rendered portent:

adagio lumens,

the nicety flailing the flags

of past gallantry,

a wherewithal enamored in the knot.

No freelance desists rafting

past mention of durable utterance

staking amoral claim

to lifting measured legends

past drywall custom

or fledgling nuance cast ashore

nor gall to mutter

the stale fragrance the memoir

brings to utter the present rift

Written in Stone

the barrier rose a frugal mist

in turns against the bloodline shore

its sequestered undertow

a churn toward memory

fixed as granite’s flow ebbing

a slow repose its yearning

listless memoirs unwritten

flap white banners across the sky

foreboding couriers on course

with collision its time carrier

broken open as a telling dial circles

twelve limits of its grim perimeter

2012-03-13T16:37:00.000-07:00

An Imaginery Image of Slavery Underneath the Curtain of Allegory
By Irmak Tomriz

Indifferent, slow-blooded spirit, in the ingratiating thoughts that are being judged,
The minds that circumscribe their perceptionlessness in their destined bad choises,
Isn't it the mere ego that knocks itself over and bears it again?
The sole piece of a small model of God,
Series of reasoning on the concept of exception,
Has already abandoned the nuclear reality of our world.
A process that is lived as a libertarian fidgeting oriented towards establishing a consciousness;
An imaginary slavery that moves from tribal deposits to self-consciousness under the name of deduction.
Its history is determined by a right movement among the bending thoughts,
With which we can move our joints for the last time.
Alas, it is only what you think you can imagine from the depths;
Till the concave gains transparency.
Dreams that are covered with dust, piles of bone, bee hives in the skulls...
Designs of grave that are contemplated by an indefinitely-moving God,
Which end with a death shriek of a mask that split our hearts,
As if a gross of photographs taken on our perceptionlessness.
I don't feel like tasting it.
For the sake of learning the mysteries of the century; that are kept in minds secretly.
Now it is time to go out to the soft sunlight;
It comes from the depths of a mindlessly forsaken and alien river so that it will tinkle the universe;
For this indifferent object that rummages the unreal.
Like a portrait of a universe, that questions the universe on universe,
In each if its curve, the commands of the interior sounds echos:
"How does this universe that is covered with spider webs constantly tumble while it has only one spiritual power?"
Sun melts in the water for the yet blinded irrationalist.
But, a gasply pain is slowly gnawing our thoughts,
In our breathless insomnia that we live and keep on extending.
Like the agony of a lizard in the form of God.
While seeking the mysteries in the expressionless gazes, to be able to dive into the depths of someone else's lenses.
Close your eyes, now we should get lost in the darkness of images that flows into our eyes.
The universe that watches its own essence underneath the allegory curtain and becomes the victim of a wov;
Aren't these yet an imaginery image of slavery that we seek in the black and white photos their glowing line?
Aren't these yet a country of eyes that gulps everything down?
Crash the crust of your eyes, tear them apart.
Get buried in your own flesh; in which you were drown without succeeding to ingratiate.
The mirrors that know who we are, that can spread wax from molten bodies.
With all its might, reflection attempts to render itself synonymous with its existence.
But the landscape gets blurry.
Spirit, now quickly lets itself loose.

2012-03-13T13:58:00.001-07:00

Poetry by Tom Pescatore

Cars Pass/Lazy Ears

Almost off and crashing
When I hear sound of rolling tires passing by,
Weighted pavement holds above
Streaking subway earthquake trains
Creaking dent metal hum vibration,
Signal dirty and gray labored breath
To outstretched arms and falling bronze sun,
Pull your window shade in the afternoon glow
Exchange it for environmentally safe bulbs twisted
in caring façade, lightening world snake coils under our nose-

And only
faded obscure signs
Point our way—

Hidden in sleep

Houses fixed by roadside stare

The alleys reach that parallel nowhere
Bleeding left to right one-way dimensions,
There families wait and eat and wait
Watching from protruding tri-window ledges
my olive corduroy pants and Mao cap
passing by, labored by maybe noticeable limp
and slouched posture (I’ll have to fix- sometime)
and no destination but absent-minded wonder
under yellowing sky weary blue cloud cluster dusk

2012-03-13T13:08:00.000-07:00

Crystal

By Christopher Hivner

Rampant blue forever skies

and traveling greens

packed into

the old man's suitcase.

Night air swirls

around the gems

in his hand

while he asks

for one more trip.

Wings up,

dusk approaches,

a tapestry unwinds

blank to the untrained eye

but telling a tale

for anyone

not blinded by the sheen

of the pearls

as he lets them drop

one by one

from the strand.

2012-03-13T10:30:00.001-07:00

The Ghost Ship Mipherros
By Rewan Tremethick

The ghost ship Mipherros hung in the bay, feeding tendrils of pallid green light into the water surrounding it. Ragged sails rippled in a non-existent breeze, rigging creaked as the ship rolled on the ocean’s undulating surface. Lines of flaming lamps lit up its hull. The whole ship was blurred and distorted, refracting as though it was under the water upon which it sat.

Father shuddered and pressed his hipflask to his chubby lips. His gullet burned as the brandy made its way down to his stomach, warmth spreading out across his belly. But the coldness that Mipherros had brought all too soon wrapped its arms once more around him, and a shiver sparked in his muscles. He held a shaking arm out in front of him, watched as stark white pimples rose on his skin.

In his other hand, he gripped the splintered haft of the chapel’s wood axe. Shards of wood dug into his palm, but he relished the pain, the warmth it brought to his hands. The tool-cum-weapon felt heavy, and he moved the haft slightly higher in his grip, finding comfort in the inertia of the axe head. Even so, he longed for the flintlock pistol that rested under his pillow, but that was in his cottage on the other side of the village. He was not going outside.

He took another swig of brandy, gazing down at the apparition which swayed back and forth like a candle flame.

The greenish halo it emitted seemed to have faded to a deeper colour. It almost looked inviting.

Father shook his head sharply, dashing those thoughts against his skull. He increased his grip on the axe haft, grimacing as splinters dug deeper into his skin. It was enough for his senses to return to him. They were not going to get hold of him so easily, he thought.

“Your father’s on that ship, boy,” he said over his shoulder.

Patrick felt the blood retreat from his face, and craned his neck, hoping to see over the window ledge to the apparition in the water half a mile away. He felt a connection with the ship, a sudden bond with it. It had born his father safely all these years. It was where he belonged.

The workings of his mind must have appeared on his face, as Father put down his hipflask and gripped him tightly by the shoulder. Patrick turned, only half of his own volition, to look into the priest’s shockingly pale eyes. His teeth were gritted, his flabby cheeks puffed up through a combination of fear and desperation.

“You’re hurting me,” Patrick said.

“Don’t look at it,” Father said. “Don’t listen to it.”

“Father, please!” Patrick cried, as the priest’s long nails began pressing too hard into his skin through the fabric of his jerkin.

Father seemed satisfied, and let him go. His hand snatched up the brandy flask, and he doused his mouth with it.

Patrick sat back and crossed his arms and legs. The cold stone floor stung his calves where they rested upon it. He gazed longingly at the stool at the opposite end of the window to Father. That would give him a perfect view of the ghost ship Mipherros. The thought both excited and chilled him. But he was more scared of a rebuke from Father than he was of not being able to see the ship.

“What's he doing there, Father?” he asked.

“Being dead,” the priest replied. “Why would I know, lad? P'haps he's come to recruit you.”

“Is that how it works?”

“Do I look dead?”

Patrick fell silent.

Despite his best efforts, Father’s eyes would not stop trying to make out figures on the decks. A ghostly sailor turned out to be a piece of cloth; a stray shadow became someone climbing the rigging. Yet Mipherros remained empty. Somehow an empty ship was worse; Father would have preferred it if the vessel had been swarming with dead crewmen.

Patrick was watching Father, but noticed with a start that the glow of the ship seemed to have intensified. He was now able to see the pale green light of it rising above the stone mantle of the window. Ice crept across his body.

Father’s breath clouded in the air in front of him. He tried to take a draught from his flask, then lowered it dumbly before his chest. Stretching out his arm, the priest upturned the flask. A few small flakes of ice drifted from its mouth and settled on the floor.

Patrick’s legs had become too cold. Ice had formed on the floor, and his skin felt as if it was crawling away from him. He stood up and settled himself on the stool opposite Father, the temperature of more concern than what the priest might say. The glow of Mipherros had been visible to him, and it had lured him closer. Even without the appearance of the ice, he knew he would still have moved.

“It’s really trying hard now,” Father muttered, seemingly to himself. “I thought maybe it was just reminding us all it was there, but no. It’s recruiting again.”

“What’s it trying hard to do?” Patrick asked.

Father gestured with the axe around the chapel. Every surface was coated with ice crystals, gleaming green in the eerie light of the distant ghost ship. The two oil lamps that hung from the wall had been cocooned in snowflakes. They looked like tiny suns shining through banks of thick cloud.

“It’s doing that,” he said. “Sometimes the glow is enough to make you go to it. If you’re strong enough of mind, you’ll look away though.”

He paused, aware they were both staring unblinking down at the ship. On the strip of sandy beach below and to their left, below the town, dark shapes were shifting slowly. Father grimaced again, and pined for his brandy.

“It’s got some already,” he said. “God only knows what it wants ‘em for.”

“Why is it so cold?” Patrick asked.

He drew his knees up to his chest, resting his feet on the lip of the stool, and wrapped his arms around them. He rubbed his upper arms with his hands, and let out huge steams of breath as he shivered.

“If the glow doesn’t get you, the cold probably will,” Father said. “It’s trying to sap the hope out of you. Once you feel as cold as death, you might as well join the ship.”

Down on the beach, the first of the dark shapes reached the water’s edge. Father thought he heard a cry as the figure waded unfaltering into the cold. It did not stop though, and soon the dark water was wrapped around its waist. More figures were emerging onto the sand.

“It’ll have the whole village at this rate,” Father said, his eyes large. His pupils were filled with the green glow of the ship, and Patrick buried his face in his knees to avoid having to look at him.

“Where does it come from?” he asked, hoping the question would make Father turn away from the window.

“The depths, most say,” the priest said.

The theories on the ship's origins relieved him slightly, as though establishing facts would give him comfort. If the truth – any truth, no matter how terrifying – were to be revealed then Mipherros would simply be another ship in the sea. Pick any random ship in the bay that did not glow, and Father could not give a damn what it was doing there.

Patrick raised his head cautiously, saw that the light had faded from Father’s eyes, and straightened his neck. He did not know why Father had looked away from the window; down in the bay, the first figure’s head had just disappeared under the water, and more were quickly following.

“Very few think it makes port anywhere,” Father continued, for Patrick’s curiosity had not faltered, “It just turns up whenever it needs to recruit.”

“Recruit for what?”

“A war?” Father suggested. “Nobody knows.”

“Are all the crew from this town?” Patrick wondered.

The ghost ship had first come to the bay seven years ago, when Patrick was little more than a baby. He was one of the first people to have grown up with the ship ever-present. Every night he would rush to his bedroom window and stare out into the bay. Whenever Mipherros was present, he would have only a few minutes before cries and alarms sounded across the town. His mother would rush into his room, his sister already tucked under her arm, and drag him away from the window. There they would stay, his mother praying, his sister crying. Patrick longing for another glimpse of the ship.

“I don’t know,” Father sighed. “I doubt it, though. The amount of nights where it doesn’t appear in our bay…”

His eyes flicked out of the window. The first black figure had reappeared next to Mipherros, head bobbing in the water. It reached out to touch the ghostly hull. There was a flash of green, and the figure vanished. More were approaching.

Father felt bile rise in his throat. Dizziness clouded his vision and his huge girth swayed on his stool. He rubbed his forehead with a thumb and forefinger then opened his eyes. The feeling left as quickly as it had come.

“I don’t think that thing ever stops,” he said quietly. “If it’s not recruiting from other towns when it’s not here, then it’s out there using its crew up, ready to come back and…”

His lips twisted unpleasantly, his face becoming a ghoulish visage. Looking at it made Patrick feel he would lose control of his bladder, and he screwed his eyes shut. He buried his nose into his shorts. They smelled of home, of stale hay and the fresh wildflowers his sister constantly brought back from the meadows. He felt comforted somewhat.

“But what does it need people for?” he asked, unable to reign in his curiosity.

“Do you want to go over there and ask them yourself?” Father snapped.

Patrick thought for a moment.

“Yes,” he said finally.

“Exactly I didn't think – you what?”

Father had grown paler still, a feat Patrick had thought impossible.

“One day I will,” Patrick said firmly, “not for a while perhaps. But when I'm big.”

The ghost ship Mipherros had taken dozens from his village, Patrick thought. He would have to sleep in the chapel tonight. In the morning, he and Father, wearing the sunlight like armour against their fears, would walk down into the village and see who had been taken. Usually it was men, but sometimes women and children too, all unable to resist the call of Mipherros.

Patrick wondered if his mother and sister would still be there when he returned. He had not seen how many figures had made their way towards the ship. If he had, he would have feared the morning more than the ghost ship itself.

Father craved to get drunk, to pass out and not have to face a sleepless night, knowing that when the cock crowed, he would have to lead Patrick back to a village that was almost certainly empty.

He glanced out of the window.

“Look here, boy,” he said quickly.

Patrick leapt to his feet and pressed his chest against the windowsill. His fingers gripped the cold, rounded rim of the ledge.

In the bay, the ghost ship Mipherros was sinking into the silent water. The slick blackness swarmed over the ship’s deck. After less than a minute, only the skeletal fingers of the three masts remained, and before long they too had disappeared below the surface.

It was several minutes more before the water in the bay stopped glowing. Despite the constant lack of sound, somehow the silence now seemed harsh and oppressive. Neither one of them spoke, yet both of them longed to.

Patrick made a promise to himself. One day he would travel aboard Mipherros. Not for a long time, perhaps, for he would wait until he was big and strong, but time did not matter. The ghost ship would wait for him. It would come again and again, each time testing his patience and his resolve. But he would not give in, he told himself.

Yet when the time came for him to board, the ship would need none of its tricks. It would not take the ghoulish allure of its aura, or the herding chill of ice to get Patrick to come. For one day he would know the time was right, and he would walk into the icy black sea, swim across to the ghost ship Mipherros and touch its glowing hull. In a flash he would be transported into the spirit world, and find out what bidding the ship had laid out for its enslaved crew.

The ship would call to Patrick, and he would go willingly. Perhaps that was its final trick.

2012-03-06T12:41:00.002-08:00

Haymaker
By Aleathia Drehmer

He taps the keys
hard like a war
is being fought
between his fingers
and synapses.

The repetition
of his words
drip guttural
and swing like
a haymaker
across the room.

Against the hum
of the refrigerator
I can hear nothing
but these mantras—
these hauntings
of creation
I’ve nothing to do with.

2012-03-06T12:26:00.000-08:00

Can’t Let Go of His Inner Darkness

By Linda Crate

tapestries fall at your feet as if you’re a king,

and everyone holds you in such contempt no

one is fooled by your facsimile of kindness —

yet you seem unashamed of what you are as

if embracing the chimera within is the only

way you can proceed with your life, you’ll

never extinguish the fire to become the man

you were meant to be, you would rather be

the person that is feared instead of loved; it’s

your choice to sink in the loneliness of black.

2012-03-06T12:15:00.003-08:00

Skeleton
By Adhar Maheshwari

The skeleton in the cupboard
Is banging his bones,
3/4, a frantic waltz
Kinda catchy.

I lock him up some more, just in case.
This is serious business, I say
as I breathe into my chocolate cigar.

All my life, it’s like
I've been ball dancing with a cactus.
Feels like jalapeno in the eyes.

No, I'm not masochistic,
I'm not trying to kill a part of me.
I'm just trying to become friends with it.

And trust me, I've already started.
The first step was to write this in first person.

2012-03-06T11:30:00.000-08:00

Abandoned Farmhouse In The New Hampshire Woods
By John Grey

It’s just the bones of a house,
its skin long peeled,
the frame of four unequal rooms,
and doors that usher in nothing and nowhere
out of and into the sun and rain.

The towering oak may boast
a roof of new shiny leaves
but the dwelling hears nothing
from that quarter.
Its scattered tiles are
overgrown puzzles for squirrels.
A rotted roof beam spears the mud floor
of what was once a cellar.

The everyday has totally abandoned
this hapless structure.
No one cooks, no one sleeps,
no one even stands out
on the collapsed veranda
and scratches.
No first name is called out
from the invisible window
on the second floor.
No last name will ever answer.

2012-03-05T18:14:00.000-08:00

Heartshead Pike

By Matt Tuckey

Hartshead Pike, Oldham

Druid Sacrificial Ground

Beacon of the North

Standing tall, steadfast

One hundred and thirty-six

Years of brick and spire

A Hilltop icon,

bricked-up holes make facial shape

Victorian frown

A supreme vista,

On a clear day, Wales shines white

Like distant cloud banks

Unlike close cousins,

Saddleworth, Manchester, Lees

Smog and greenery.

Thin strip of copper

A lifeline for the structure,

Unphased by lightning.

2012-03-05T15:51:00.000-08:00

Penance
By Sonney Stelling

I had just finished Midnight Mass for another year, as I let the last of the worshippers out the front door, something caught my eye. A youth no more than sixteen was standing in the graveyard, leaning against one of the headstones smoking a cigarette. He was wearing dark clothes and I could barely make out his facial features under the brim of his cap. He flicked his cigarette end away, onto another grave. Although I always have a go at my church committee members for being so cynical and presumptuous, I couldn’t help but feel this kid was up to no good.

“Good night Father”, Mrs. Perkins said as she walked down the church steps.

“Merry Christmas to you”, I responded, before closing and locking the door.

I poured myself a small glass of sherry and drank it, while I walked around checking all the lights were off and windows locked. Finally I took my coat and went out the side door, leaving the key in the hanging flowerpot for Mrs. Jones, the cleaner, to find the day after Boxing Day.

I walked through the graveyard and out through the church gates. The church was close enough to the town centre that I could hear the sounds of the nightclub music in the distance. My walk home was never a long one; fifteen minutes at most, ten if I took a shortcut through the alley on Livery Street. Normally this late at night I never take the alley, as it has no lighting and there are stories that people go there to take or buy drugs, Tonight however, I decided to take the alley, it was Christmas Day and I still had my niece’s presents to wrap before I could sleep. As I entered the alley I breathed a sigh relief, it was empty. Well except for a wheelie bin and a few cardboard boxes. Suddenly I heard a voice from behind.

“Oi, Vicar what the fuck you doin’ down ‘ere?”

I turned around and saw the youth from the graveyard standing at the alley entrance. Had he followed me here? I looked him in the eye as he started to walk towards me.

“I said what the fuck you doin’ down ‘ere? This is our patch and strangers ain’t welcome.”

“I was just walking through”, I said, my voice was crackling with fear.

“You gotta pay to go through this alley”.

“I don’t have any money”.

I had left my wallet behind. I could not fight this kid; the last time I was in a fight was over forty years ago in school.

“Don’t fucking lie to me old man, or you gonna get hurt, you get me?”

The boy was now no more than three paces away, I began to step backwards.

“Surely you wouldn’t attack a priest on Christmas morning?”

The boy swung his fist at me hitting me in the side of the head; dazed I fell hard into the wall, using it to remain on my feet. He threw another punch hitting in full on the face, the taste of blood from my nose trickled into my mouth. Before I could react he punched me again, this time in the stomach knocking the wind out of me. I staggered forward trying hard to stay on my feet. The pain in my stomach hurt far more than my face, I hadn’t felt pain like this since my heart attack three years ago. The thought that I may have another if this attack continued crossed my mind. The boy grabbed my hair pulling it hard back and upwards, jarring my neck back. He punched me again in the face sending me onto the floor. Lying on my back I was only half aware of him searching through my pockets. Relief came to me; my ordeal would surely be over soon.

“Shit man you really ain’t got any cash, you’re a dead man.”

He kicked me in the side twice forcing me onto my front. Then he kicked me twice in the head I was really struggling now to stay conscious. I knew if I passed out I might never wake up again. He grabbed me by my coat collar and lifted me to my feet, before throwing me into the wall. I hit the wall and turned around to face him, barely staying upright. I turned just in time to see him pull a knife from his pocket, at that point I looked up to the sky, it was surely my time to be with God now. I felt the blade go in my chest. It didn’t hurt as much as I expected. A sort of numb feeling. My eyes were shut as I started to slide down the wall. I felt another stab and then a third. I was sitting now and my hands were holding the wound, I felt like I was holding all of my insides in.

I must have passed out just after that because the next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed three days later. The doctor told me that I had been found by a young couple coming home from the nightclub and that I they worked on me for four hours in theatre to keep me alive. Now was not my time to be with God, I thought to myself as I stared out of the window. Just then a man approached me, he was tall and extremely well built, though that was the second thing about him I noticed. The first thing was his collar and crucifix. He was a priest.

“My brother we have a mutual friend in the good Lord, please tell me your story”.

It’s been three days since I stabbed up that vicar, still ain’t heard nothing ‘bout it from the law. Can’t believe I got away with it. Hard to explain that night, I just flipped out, lost control. I didn’t mean to go so far, think I killed him. I was pissed off anyway cuz my mate Jack was meant to sort me some gear, but he got arrested before I could see him so I was at a loose end. Just hung around the graveyard for a bit and had a smoke. Then suddenly all these people came out, what the hell were they doing in a church that late at night? Don’t even know why I bothered following the vicar; guess I thought he might have some money. When he went down ‘drug deal’ alley I couldn’t believe my luck, thought I was sorted. Anyway tonight was my first time back in the alley since then. I was there to score some coke off a bloke called Fingers; his real name was Jimmy but everyone ‘round ‘ere knew him as Fingers. Never found out why he was called that though.
When I went down the alley I saw the wall and the bit of pavement where I left the priest. Even though it was dark and I couldn’t really see the concrete properly I swear I could still make a bloodstain.

“Oi Mickey, what the fuck you staring at the floor for?” Fingers shouted at me.

He was standing there with another guy, a really tall, real hard looking fella. I’d seen him with Fingers before, Psycho Steve he was called. He never said anything but he was Fingers’ protection, no one ever messed with Fingers cuz they know Psycho would kill them.

“You got the cash?”

I handed Fingers a roll of money from my pocket and he handed me a bag. Just then a man walked down the alley towards us. We knew he couldn’t be police cuz he was alone. He was big though, even taller then Psycho this guy was at least six five and his arms were huge. Fingers gave Psycho a look and he walked towards the man. The man was dressed in black except for he had a dog collar on. He was a bloody vicar too. Psycho threw a punch at the man. The man dodged it. Then he grabbed Psycho by the throat and threw him down the alley. He threw him like he was a toy. Soon as he hit the deck him and Fingers ran, I tried but my legs just wouldn’t work. It was like I was stuck there. “The LORD is a jealous God, filled with vengeance and wrath. He takes revenge on all who oppose him and furiously destroys his enemies! The LORD is slow to get angry, but his power is great, and he never lets the guilty go unpunished. He displays his power in the whirlwind and the storm. The billowing clouds are the dust beneath his feet. Nahum chapter one verses two through four. I promise you child, I am the whirlwind and the storm and you shall be dust beneath my feet.”
I didn’t have a clue what this prick was saying but I weren’t gonna stand around and wait to get thrown like Psycho. I pulled out my knife and lunged at him stabbing him right in the chest. I stepped back and realized I’d left the knife in him. He pulled the knife from his chest and snapped the blade in half using his bare hands.

Then the wound healed up right before my eyes.

“What the hell are you?”

“I have been called many things, an Avenging Angel, Demon, even Satan. However my name is Jenova I am one the fallen, I chose to side with Lucifer in the Heavenly War and was cast aside along with all those defeated, I committed the unforgivable sin. As my penance I now work for God punishing the wicked and unjust until he sees fit for my return to Paradise. For what you have done, you could have repented and God would have had mercy upon you, but instead you chose to fight. Now God will turn his back upon you and allow me to carry out my work, I promise you only one thing. I will enjoy this.”

He walked towards me, I tried to turn and run but my legs wouldn’t move, he punched me hard in the face. I’ve been punched in the face plenty of times before but none ever felt like this, it was like his fist was made of rock. My nose exploded with blood, it went in my eyes and mouth. I couldn’t see anything now, he hit my again in the stomach, I bent over in pain and threw up. I could just about see again now; he had a knife now, with a bent tip. He stabbed me in the leg, just above my knee. I couldn’t breath now the pain was so bad. I felt myself passing out and to be honest I was glad. But the bastard didn’t let me pass out he grabbed me by the throat and lifted me in the air.

“You cannot sleep yet my child; I have not finished with you”.

He placed me back down again before stabbing me in the shoulder. He twisted the knife. I screamed at the top of my voice “Please for fuck’s sake just kill me”. I somehow knew that he didn’t intend to kill me. He then punched me once more in the face, which knocked me to the ground. I was starting to pass out again when he started to cut through my top. He started to carve something in my chest but I must have passed out cuz I don’t remember him finishing it.

The next thing I remember is waking up in a hospital bed with two police officers standing over me.

“Mr. Harding we would like you help us work out why somebody would want to carve a cross into your chest”, one of them said staring at me.

Something told me I should just tell them the truth, it was time to confess my sins.

2012-02-21T12:53:00.000-08:00

Poetry by Yulia Klimenova

Full

I was a Grecian urn,
once buried, then unearthed,
forgotten by the sea.
The wrinkles of my cracks
like fishing nets were spread
entangling shoals of sun.
The teasing salty breeze
would lightly touch my skin
insensitive through time
that heals but kills the joy.
I waited for the rain.

It came and filled me up.
I drank and overflowed
but still kept saying, 'More! '
until at last I burst
unable to resist
the water saving me
from immortality.

Now I'm a wreck, with bits
of me all strewn around.
But each one dreams about
the fullness of that day.

In a café on a bridge

They soared in the twilight
suspended between
the rain and the river,
the seen and unseen.
Two banks framed the picture –
divine symmetry –
and he drank his coffee,
while she sipped her tea.

They talked, but said nothing.
They listened and heard
the sighs and the pauses
but never - the word.
‘t was fleeting, ‘t was slipping,
the moment was gone.
Two figures retreating
to two banks, not one.

2012-02-21T12:45:00.001-08:00

Poetry by Tom Pescatore

Memories

Remember when I sat on that

couch in Hyattsville, MD, I all

but owned the first floor and the

shower in the corner past the kitchen

with its black ants crawling up the

wall and getting wet by the hanging

shower head--crawling on my clothes,

sliding into the sink--those fucking ants,

I couldn't save them and they

followed me into that small green

tiled foggy cell;

Remember how I'd watch them

uneasily while undressing, like the slugs

slithering across my kitchen floor in

dead-winter, thinking, "What the fuck am

I doing here?"

Gray

I thought about publishing a blank page
but then I started typing
and it all seemed foolish, like the sun
coming out at 4 o' clock
when it looked like rain all day
even when I walked you back to work
though I forgot what I did coming
back, I do that sometimes
think back and wonder if maybe I crossed
the street into traffic or fell
down a manhole, maybe I'm not here typing
in some serotonin nightmare final
gasp, maybe the sewer doesn't smell
as sweet as your room, maybe I'm
just suffering down here with
a broken leg; I don't know,
it all makes sense for a few seconds when
I gather up those memories and place
them one by one beside your
cold bed

2012-02-21T12:25:00.000-08:00

Poetry by Felino Soriano

Of the hand

Vertical these mores

climb

claim

certainty principles as the piano locates lavish’s

fleeing the rhythmic patterned

recollection (such recollection creating textural mobility these

celebratory notions)

collation apposition thus movement musical these

ballet themes and avifauna angles beautified

versions

organizing warmth of

aerial

exemptions.

Of the stillness

The body and awakened gradation:

excavated movement this

capsulized formation unit though apparent in the cyclic abridgement,

uncertain. Normalized health intuition aspiration

portend the faculty of desire’s momentum, squared,

splayed carriage causational silence

as though the prose of faith unfastens

into highlighted hallway of variant pauses.

Of the flash

Revelations these

original surveys

embellished

instances

clarity components subsequent developed among

motional aggregations. Of

the voices’

explanatory devotion, provider duration

deviating directional contractions

fled toward light this

momentary instance of graven

legacy.

2012-02-17T12:10:00.000-08:00

Poetry by Frank Cavano

Upside Down Cake

Reality is illusion, illusion reality.
Space is pregnant with all that is
While matter beguiles, separates
And gives birth to ghosts, ghosts.
The abstract is Loves ever flowing
Fountain; the concrete but endless
Monuments to “special” nothings.
Time is but the measurer of change
And change is testimony to Beings’
Absence. Being alone is permanent.

The artist paints without eyes this
Elusive upside down cake of Life
And the composer samples its echo.
Then, at last, all have come to dine.

Sword Dancing

dancing in the dark

swords at the ready

dancing

because

they invented music

(on which

they cannot agree).

waltz

tango

dirge

i’ll lead and you

no, i will lead!

swords at the ready.

dancing in the dark

sorry i stepped on

your toes.

not really

not really sorry

(better your toes

than your throat).

waltz

tango

dirge

i’ll lead and you

follow!

no, i’ll lead-----

swords at the ready.

swords at the ready

why can’t you do what

i want-

be what

i want you to be?

i invented dancing

and you!

dirge

no, i invented the two

of us

crazy

me---

(to dance against Me).

2012-02-17T11:50:00.000-08:00

Poetry by Robert Laughlin

The Retailer’s Use for the Failed Big Box

Now let me think…
a roller skating rink?
Or tell a local moviemaker, come and get
your private motion-picture set.
Or send out flyers:
here’s a meeting place for laid-off employees, now Occupiers.
I’d better make my mind up fast;
my company’s monopoly on empty boxes sure won’t last.

The Prize That Matters Less

The final day of Dionysia:
The tragedies have now been judged,
And all of Athens showers praise
Upon the ivy-covered head of Philocles.
Applauding more politely than the rest
Is Sophocles,
Whose Oedipus the King did not provide delight.
He dutifully smiles while brushing off a hyacinth
Intended for the garland at the winner’s feet.
A fanfare, played by flutes and blaring horns
And doubled down by choristers, attends the irony.
The losing dramatist can never know
His thoughts and feelings of the moment will recur
Within a man named Welles
In far-off AD Nineteen Forty-Two.

2012-02-17T11:33:00.000-08:00

Chelsea Kitchen 3:21 a.m.
by A.G. Synclair

I was quite sure that a teacup
pulled from the cupboard
in your Chelsea kitchen

was contemplating suicide
by jumping from the table
to the filthy floor below

it, looking only slightly more alone
than you
and the used bag of Chinese Tea

both of you
lifeless

limp

hot

and bleeding steam.

2012-02-17T11:28:00.000-08:00

Poetry by Bryan Murphy

Invicta

The cold digs deeper into our bones,
wakes us to the sight of Eiffel’s iron filigree
splayed below us as our long train rattles
over a poverty-coloured city’s rancid river.

We come to love Oporto’s ingrained aroma
of roasting coffee doused in gent’s hair spray,
its coffee houses packed with men at talk
who leave respectful silent space

around the staring eyes of war vets,
the light of their youth turned off,
cigarettes receding in their fingers,
the killing fields of Africa

heavy in their hearts.
Sent to die, they’ve made it back.
We leave, they stop the rot,
exorcise the demon with their tanks.

They’re brickies now, those lads,
merchants, teachers, voters for Europe,
whose warm trains roll cargo in from far away.
They’ll give up smoking soon.

Oporto Panorama

of self and city re-connected in these better times.
Down by the waterfront, crisis-clouded crowds
vacuum joy from each split second
of collective forgetting.

In Praça da República, po-faced façades
hide housewrecks abandoned to the birds,
the barracks themselves quail before a statue
of a general shot dead by secret police.

Everywhere, art detonates on city walls
(no longer a capital offence)
or gilds the past in galleries
converted from halls which framed
struggles to survive that came to a halt.

It’s all still there, but can I see it?

I tread with care among criss-crossing tram tracks
to show off exactly where flailing police truncheons
feathered my stroller’s back one fine May morning
in front of the troublesome Uni.

Blaring and spitting have also passed from fashion;
I am by no means the tallest on the out-of-town train;
urban poverty has evolved into the beauty of decadence,
peppered with chaos, like a more southerly port.

Sunday’s scirocco redistributes ungathered rubbish
strewn by commerce now that industry has fled.
It is hard to breathe on Eiffel’s bridge high over the river,
to inhale the exhilaration

2012-02-16T18:14:00.000-08:00

When Fall Turns To Spring
by Benjamin Kensey

Michael Kitson’s day, which had begun with his death, was about to get worse. As he lay on the grass, he was already running through the chain of events and the more stupid of the decisions he’d made that led him to fall off his third-floor window ledge. Had he survived?

“Quite a shock to the system, isn’t it?” came a deep voice from above him. He turned over and peered up into the brightness where a tall figure stood, offering him a helping hand. Getting to his feet, he looked around. There was no open third-floor window above him. In fact, Avery House and its five floors of dour apartments had gone. The London suburb that had dashed every one of his impractical dreams back had disappeared too. Everything had gone.

“Let me get straight to the basics, Michael,” the tall figure said, dressed in what those on a more Earthly plane might describe as a posh bathrobe. “In our line of work, time is of the essence and must not be frittered away. My name is Ruben and as you may have already surmised, you have died.”

Michael’s eyes had briefly swept the bare horizon like the beam of a lighthouse but turned now to Ruben. Michael’s face wore the startled look of someone recently slapped. He swallowed hard. “Died? I fell from the ledge, didn’t I?”

“You did. The landing was spectacular, but only for the two fortunate witnesses, certainly not for your poor spine or your neighbor’s car.”

“So this is heaven? I behaved horrendously throughout. Have you people no standards?”

“We certainly do, but this is not heaven. We’re not here to judge today. You’re in what we call the Mid Between. The name was bestowed by one of my less able predecessors and was never meant to stick, but has displayed uncommon tenacity and survives to this day. All my suggestions for new names have fallen upon deaf ears.”

“I don’t understand.” Michael said.

“You are between lives. Your previous life is over thanks to your tumble. As it was not actually suicide, but merely gross stupidity, you move onto your next life. My role today is facilitator.”

“Am I dreaming?”

“No, you aren’t, Michael.”

“So my last supper was burnt toast and marmite? I’ve died and there’s a fresh leg of lamb in the fridge.”

“I’m sure the living will continue to need food,” said Ruben.

“Do you have a particular life in mind for me, Ruben?”

“Your mother is already in labor. You are about to be reborn, Michael. Rejoice!”

“I’m not sure I will. I don’t want to be born again. Send me upstairs and let’s be done with it. Do I get that choice?”

“Technically, yes, you have a choice, but not in practical terms. You can choose to stay here. Trust me, you do not want to stay in the Mid Between, Michael. Very few choose that path. There are some here, maybe a hundred or so of the more troubled souls,” Ruben said, now turning his own attention to the empty infinite miles that surrounded them, “but eternity is a long time and there is little to do. Come.”

“I need time to think. This has all happened very fast.”

“It’s best we get this over as quickly as possible, lest your mother suffer too much. Dithering and delay in the Mid Between will result in a long, painful labour. You understand the need for haste?”

“Of course. So what can you tell me about this baby, the life it will have?”

Ruben led Michael to an old stone bridge that lay nearby. There was no river or stream flowing underneath, just a continuation of the grass that flowed immense and blemish-free on all sides.

“The life you lead will be full of opportunity for happiness and betterment.”

“That sounds like a politician’s answer,” Michael said.

“We cannot and do not predict the future, Michael, but we work with tendencies, leanings and disposition. Decide and you will move on in the chain of life. A full and varied existence awaits you. All you need do is jump from this bridge and the rest will be taken care of. You’ve already shown a remarkable aptitude for falling from heights today.”

Ruben smiled mischievously at Michael, the white of the sky showing itself in the sheen on his cheeks.

“Ruben, I don’t think I’m ready for another go on the merry-go-round, not as a person anyway. Make me a cat in England where I can grow fat, lie on the carpet and toast myself in the sunbeams by the bookshelf.”

Ruben shook his head. “Only the ignorant perpetuate the myth of coming back as an animal.”

Michael leant on the low wall of the bridge, peering down into an imaginary stream, recalling the happy days of Pooh sticks he’d enjoyed with his brother years before the viciousness of life had taken over.

“Why were you surprised when you thought you were in heaven, Michael? You said you’d behaved horrendously.”

“I did, I had. I was always for myself, a selfish prick. I knew that and was unashamed about it. ‘You’re on this earth for yourself,’ I used to say. I assume you know what put me on that ledge today?”

“Yes. You climbed up there to scare your wife, in short, to win an argument and now she’s a widow.”

Michael looked down to see the shoes that had let him down so badly, only to find himself bare footed.

“My brother died when I was fifteen and I made it all about me, got into a lot of bother with the school, the police, everyone. It was downhill from there. I don’t want to go back and have another life of struggle, Ruben. Are you not going to tell me anything about the life I will, could have?”

“In a maternity ward of questionable hygiene standards, a mother sweats and strains to push new life into the world. Her six daughters wait in a home that’s little more than a shack with their father for the brother and son they’ve prayed for.”

“Ruben,” Michael said, staring out at the green sea, gentle waves moving across it as a breeze tickled the longer blades of grass to movement. “It seems that I am being thrown into a difficult life in a tough environment. Is this for some failure in my last life? Do I have lessons to learn that I have so far failed to take on board?”

“There are always lessons to learn and your four previous lives have indeed been rich in that respect. Money and location are no guarantors of contentment, Michael,” Ruben replied. “I think you would be the first to confirm that. You will start your next great quest with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. You will have the faculties to see, hear and taste the wonders of the world, a world you can bend to your dreams should that be the path you choose. In short, Michael, you are being given a perfectly crafted life to do with as you want. This is no punishment for past errors. On the contrary, you are being given the gift of opportunity, to make small amends. There will be wide-reaching consequences if you don’t continue on, Michael.”

“Is that a threat?” Michael asked.

“Some who are involved in this do not have the chance to spend eternity here in the Mid Between. You should know what will happen to the baby if you choose to stay here.”

“Will someone else go in my stead?”

“The baby will be stillborn.”

Michael sat on the low wall of the bridge and thought about his brother, of having that warm glow taken from his life at such a young age, the derailing stones it had put onto the tracks of his life, the lasting damage it had done him.

“Keep me away from those slippery soles, Ruben,” he called over his shoulder as he dropped.