Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category
September 1st, 2009 | 
Author: 
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traditions
by Brett Matthew Graham
lightning bugs flash in the dark,
but they’re red.
no.
I’m seein’ the eyes
of the demons again.
but I’ve still got wood to chop…
I hurry, but I hear their
screeching
crunching leaves as they approach.
I grab an armload and head inside
where my wife and my newborn son
sit in a rocking chair.
she says “They’re coming out sooner.”
I nod “I know”
and set the wood by the dwindling fire,
throwing a log on.
it immediately catches
and I relax.
they can’t get in here.
there’s too many crucifixes on the doors
and I have a shotgun;
a double barrel loaded with shells
blessed by the local preacher
just this morning.
he’s the only other one that knows.
he understands
and says that he’ll help in any way he can.
everyone else thinks we’re recluse.
they think we’re just
creepy mountain folk,
only showing up in town
when we need
supplies.
but they don’t know about my father,
the bankrupt farmer
and the deal he made to get this land.
they don’t know about what
he offered the devil;
every other child
starting with himself
and continuing on
with my son.
he expects me to have another after
so he can take me.
then my second son will grow up
and father a child
just to give him away.
just to have another
and die himself.
just to have this land.
it is beautiful, though.
crops grow within days of planting.
the well is always full of water.
the animals always offer clean meat.
but you only get so long to enjoy it
because there’s a quota
and you have to fulfill it.
you have to go with it.
but I don’t want to cooperate.
I don’t want to give up my son.
his first words were “Daddy…”
muttered in a peaceful voice on a rainy Sunday morning.
I don’t want his last words to be “Daddy!!!”
echoing in a horrible shriek
as he’s pulled into the darkness by the demons,
their eyes blazing
their laughter resonating.
I can hear them outside now,
scratching on the roof,
at the walls,
the front door.
but we have the crucifixes;
seventy two in all,
lining every doorway
and every other possible entrance to the
house.
the crops are tall.
the well is full.
the animals are sleeping, content.
but me, my wife, and my son
cower in fear.
we hear them scratching
just like last night
and the night before.
I am determined
to stop them
from getting my son.
just like last night
and the night before,
I will stay awake
because I know they have a
potential agent,
an outsider in the deal;
my wife.
they will try to
possess her
and use her
but she doesn’t know any of this.
my wife thinks I’m protecting them both,
but really
the shells,
the shells had blessed by the preacher,
they’re for her.
I only let her hold my son
so she doesn’t get suspicious,
but this has gone on long enough.
too long.
I know, deep inside of me
I know
that I will have to kill my wife tonight.
that’s why I had the shotgun shells blessed
this morning.
the demons scratch outside, laughing.
I stare at my wife, forcing a smile
to assure her that we’ll survive
another night of this,
but I know
she won’t.
because there’s more veins in her face than usual.
she’s swallowing more because she’s thirsty.
because hellfire is hot.
it dries you out.
she gets up from the rocking chair,
holding our son,
and tells me that she’s very tired
and she wants to go to bed
and I say
“Yes, my love. Go to bed.”
she puts our son in his room;
the doorway lined with crucifixes
and staggers into our
bedroom
and I follow,
shotgun in hand.
I stare at the lump of sheets on the bed,
watching it rise and fall with every breath,
waiting to pull the trigger.
my father kept a journal
that describes, in detail
how my mother acted
before she took him.
the woman will claim she’s tired
and go to bed.
once asleep,
the demons invade her,
corrupting her.
there’s no stopping it.
it’s bound to happen eventually.
it’s exactly how they got my uncle’s son.
he used to live a few acres away
before he killed himself.
so I watch the sheets
rising and falling on the bed,
waiting for them to slow
then turn panicked.
and that’s when I fire.
one quick blast, and everything stops.
I stare at the lump of red sheets
for what feels like an hour
before I hear crying
then I run to my son’s room,
shotgun ready,
and see that the window has been shattered
and he is gone.
I hear a faint scream.
“Daddy!!!”
I fall to my knees,
cursing God for letting
his enemy run rampant.
then, I notice that the crucifixes
I personally put over the window frame
are scattered all over the floor.
they’re getting smarter.
they got to my wife before I did.
the last time I saw her alive,
she was sitting in the rocking chair.
she looked normal.
she told me that she loved me.
then she put our son to bed
and removed the crucifixes.
how long did they have her?
she acted so normal…
the next day, I wake up alone.
I tend to the tall crops.
I get water from the full well.
I feed the healthy animals.
after I’m done, a car comes up my drive
it stops and
a woman gets out.
she’s very beautiful.
she tells me that she’s lost.
I give her directions
to help her on her way
then she tells me that
she’s been traveling for days
she tells me that
she’s very tired
and could really use
a cup of coffee.
and, over coffee and pleasant conversation,
it hits me.
this woman will be my next wife.
she will father my next son.
the son that will replace me.
when the demons come again.
I take another sip of my coffee,
listening to her talk about her brother
thinking all the while
about the other blessed shell that sits in my
shotgun,
awaiting my decision.
the crops are tall.
the well is full.
the animals are healthy.
I lean across the table and kiss her,
sealing another deal,
another tradition.
Everything Bleeds
by Michael R. Fosburg
She fell, again, scraped her knee
on the sun-warmed curb
and came crying
to my side.
She had never before
seen blood.
I shushed her, unfolded
a bright blue band-aid
across the weeping gash
and cupped her cheek.
(Scars on my palm
pale like dried canals)
“Everything bleeds,” I said,
and sent her off to play.
Even us, now.
I savored the thought,
our mortal stink
and sweat
sweeter
than all of Heaven’s stardust.
Blackened Borderland
by Peter Diseth
The barbed wire fence
On a dusty dirt road
Lies broken in the middle.
A gaping rusty hole
Painted thick with crimson fire
Drip-drips from ragged wire.
A bit of bubbly flesh
Clinging to the post
Reeks of the lesser beyond.
What tried to escape
May not have succeeded;
What tried to intrude
Left a public mortal mark.
There is no sun on the road at night
No moon in the ink black sky.
But the Hound’s wet nose
To the ground, beneath
Will find you just the same.
Will find you where you lie.
Peter Diseth has published a number of poems, short stories, and essays both online and in print. His most recent poetry credits include Sinister Tales and MindFlights magazines. He currently lives in New Mexico with the love of his life, and if you can’t find him at his computer writing like mad, then he’s probably out on the balcony with a Spirit in one hand and a gin and tonic in the other.
From Your Balcony
by Melissa Marriott
I have stood on your balcony
Ten moonless nights.
I sing my nursery songs,
Sometimes in a roar,
Sometimes in a whisper.
You clutch your pillow
On your ear,
And think your humming
Will drown out the sound.
Are you sorry yet?
I have stood over you
Ten sunless days
As you scrub the cobbles
Beneath your balcony.
The stain remains.
You hear my laughter on the wind.
It will continue
Until your blood
Mingles with my own.
What’s for Dinner?
by Ash Krafton
She only ever smiles
and says, “Your favorite.”
And he beams at her, obviously thinking how lucky he is
to have such a doting wife
even though he plays around with the waitresses at the truck stop
and thinks his wife never finds out
and who cares, right? because those girls
never stay in town long enough to cause problems.
So lucky, lucky, lucky to have the best of both worlds.
She, on the other hand, is only too happy to
peel baby onions and carrots and pig potatoes
to put around the large, sumptuous roast
of questionable origins and morals
(roast beast, she said once, and laughed at her own joke,
earning a chuckle from the pandering bastard
as he cracked open his second beer. He hadn’t
even finished his salad yet, for chrissakes.)
This could never pass as a dish served coldly,
not when procured by such hot passions.
And she smiles back at him—
she may not be his favorite,
but at least she’s not left-overs.
Free Fall
by Holly Day
he told her it would only hurt
for a moment, about how important
the loss of one life would make
in an end she would never see, and now
there was no turning back: falling
faster and fast toward the small
square beneath her, shadows becoming windows
dots becoming people. the packets of explosives
strapped to her body weighed nearly as much
as she did, they weight her down
dragged against her and the wind blowing
through her hair, against her breath.
it was like sunrise when she hit
the skies broke open to let the blaze
pour forth, encapsulate
it would have been beautiful if anyone
had been left alive to see it.
Alien Beauty
by Guy Antibes
Two tentacles of pink and green
Festooned with some metallic sheen.
With gossamer threads of silky blue,
Then speckled with an eye or two…
A bulbous bottom sheathed in pink,
A thorax green completes the link
With painted plates o’er genitalia,
Our beauty moves on silv’ry cilia.
Next on stage a shimmering tube
Discreetly hid, a wat’ry boob.
The filmy, wav’ring yellow robes
Accentuate the eye-sac lobes.
And now the winner comes to view
With spots of pulsing chartreuse hue.
The fins contained in golden sheath;
The shining, filed, and so-sharp teeth,
The compound eye with lashes long,
The eyestalk, red. There’s nothing wrong
With pincers clicking to the beat
Of movements made by orange feet.
The crowd erupts in massive cheer.
These males cry out and then they leer!
And then they rush our pulsing queen
And eat the winner… pick her clean.
The Dragon and the Troll
by Marge Simon
With velvet gaze,
dark as licorice,
she stoned me.
From that moment,
I was hers.
Her mother wept,
her father swore,
yet she was as stubborn
as she was fair, and thus
we paired for life,
I in my cave,
she in her grotto.
Summer days,
she’d hop on my back
for a glide along the beach.
She sang to me of love
in her strange tongue
as we covered
the steps of the sun.
I fell ill once,
a malady peculiar to dragons,
my scales wept gold.
But she stayed by my side,
to wash my brow,
prepare my medicines.
Delirious, half mad,
I lashed her with flame,
but she forgave.
During hunting season,
troll pelts are highly prized,
even more than dragon teeth.
In the end, I wasn’t there for her.
Men skilled with spear and sword
claimed my family as well,
yet by fateful intervention, I was spared.
Nothing left for me but to play dead,
be dragged away for mass burial
with my brothers and sisters,
as dragon rites proclaim.
But first, I’ll go to her den,
place a flower on the moss.
