Author: Blake Garlock

Dolls By Brian Koester

Dolls By Brian Koester

The dolls only move

when you’re not looking.

They wait til deep

in the night.

 

I am an action

figure

as fragile as

a peppermint stick

and as easy

to dissolve.

 

The music box plays

Dark Eyes;

our bodies listen.

 

Who will get sick?

Who will go

matryoshka?

Who will steal blood?

 

The dolls talk.

The dolls choose me.

 

Under silk,

under velvet,

under satin,

their skin.

 

I only survive

by the luck

of the rising sun.

 

Brian Jerrold Koester is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best of the Net Anthology nominee. He lives in Lexington, Massachusetts and has been a freelance cellist.

The Enemy By Brian Koester

The Enemy By Brian Koester

 

The sound of footsteps in the sound of footsteps.

Stop and listen. Nothing.

 

Start, they start; stop, they stop.

Strain to hear.          Where nobody goes

 

look over the shoulder

for what just ducked around the corner.

 

From the closet in the dark

breath on the back of the neck

 

a hint of a fang, a glint of a razor,

the enemy wearing the face in the mirror

 

Brian Jerrold Koester is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best of the Net Anthology nominee. He lives in Lexington, Massachusetts and has been a freelance cellist.

 

The Prophecy By Brian Koester

The Prophecy By Brian Koester

The demon perched on the child’s chest

And whispered doom into his ear.

A shriek! then sobs and no more rest:

The demon perched on the child’s chest

In pitch dark. With a hellish zest

Now laughing, relishing the fear,

The demon perched on the child’s chest

And whispered doom into his ear.

 

Brian Jerrold Koester is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best of the Net Anthology nominee. He lives in Lexington, Massachusetts and has been a freelance cellist.

Lullaby By Robert Beveridge

Lullaby By Robert Beveridge

The sweet song of the dead

as their hands hold shy flowers

to their nonexistent faces

 

I hand you a long rose

and you take it, scratch

your slender finger on a thorn

you touch it to my lips

and I hear

the sweet song of the dead

in the taste of your blood

 

Robert Beveridge makes noise and writes poetry in Akron, Ohio.

Buried Alive By Fern G. Z. Carr

Buried Alive By Fern G. Z. Carr

Shovelfuls of earth

thump, thump, thump

onto a coffin;

inside, frantic gasps

for the vestiges

of oxygen

rationed

by your

subterranean

prison.

 

So speak, shriek

scream, yell,

you will still be trapped

in a living hell

 

a l o n e

 

with only your bones

to bear witness.

 

Fern G. Z. Carr is a former lawyer, teacher and past President of both the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and Project Literacy Kelowna Society.

Vampire Dreams By Fern G. Z. Carr

Vampire Dreams By Fern G. Z. Carr

“Ah my dear, have no fear,”

Snarled the stranger in the night,

Whose lupine eyes could mesmerize

Any creature in their sight;

“For I have only just returned

From my Transylvanian flight,

When I spied your classical beauty

By the full moon’s light,”

He whispered beguilingly,

Sharp teeth glistening bright.

Spellbound maiden hearkened to

This pallid stranger’s plight:

“As a count, it is not my custom

To be so forthright;

Although it is a pain in the neck,

I had to drop in for a bite.”

 

Fern G. Z. Carr is a former lawyer, teacher and past President of both the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and Project Literacy Kelowna Society.

Severed By Fern G. Z. Carr

Severed By Fern G. Z. Carr

worms squirm

through eye sockets

and nasal cavities,

maggots

feast

on left-over strips

of putrefied flesh

hanging spaghetti-like

from the cranium

of a severed skull,

mandible agape

frozen in an eternal

muted scream –

a skull,

 

severed

 

from its former body

bound and found

in a different part

of the woods

 

Fern G. Z. Carr is a former lawyer, teacher and past President of both the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and Project Literacy Kelowna Society.

A Love Poem By Elijah Rokos

A Love Poem By Elijah Rokos

A mouthful of wildflowers
a mind full of tea leaves,
steeping.

 

Sun brewed tea
lavender and lemon,
ice cubes in the swimming
pool, the bird’s song pecking,
off key and off beat.

 

An open sail
billowing in the breeze
of the Chesapeake Bay,
the smell, the smell,
the salt and the sting.

A mouthful of hornets
a mind full of poison ivy,
tangling.

 

Elijah Rokos is an English major. He enjoys tea, gardening, and reading.

Take a Sip By Elijah Rokos

Take a Sip By Elijah Rokos

Each grey tree

a sharpened claw to gouge the sun,

every wall of the mountains a brittle
and black paycheck.

 

     The bears rendezvous

in the dumpster, snouts stuffed
in carry-out, and they don’t close

their eyes anymore.

 

The elk departed

in the road, too sudden to avoid,
is pummeled by tentative tires

and feverish tears.

 

Somewhere in the gnarled roots

of the ponderosa pines,
there lies the Fountain of Youth

and someone has pissed in it.

 

Elijah Rokos is an English major. He enjoys tea, gardening, and reading.

 

Wind-full Thinking By Emily Waclawski

Wind-full Thinking By Emily Waclawski

The wind does not speak

It listens.

The wind can hear every whisper,

Every scream.

The wind can hear every thought,

Every secret.

It listens.

The wind witnesses every heart-felt memory,

Every heartbreak.

It sees.

The wind witnesses every sweet embrace,

Every slam.

It sees.

The wind can hear everything.

And for that reason:

The wind does not speak.

It listens.

 

Emily Waclawski is a 20-year-old English major at HCC. She has been an active writer and poet since she was 12. Other than writing, Emily enjoys playing guitar and ukulele, singing, and enjoys playing with her two cats: Mabel and Perseus.