KARA ZABLOCKI SHAW
Dusk spooked
Dusk draws near
Little hands warm with
Anticipation- the gooey treats await
The night falls
It is damp, dark, winds howl
Night calls the spooked, the feared, the imagination
Wanting to be afraid and excited, running down the sidewalk
Hearts pounding- giggles and boos
Tricks shouted
Strangers appear- offering the Treats
Grabbing and Running
Next, Next- go faster
The more the merrier- filling the orange plastic pails
W. JOE HOPPE
Monster Poem
“You better ask my momma how to make a monster”—Lux Interior
Mention monster and my heart puts out a welcome mat
Godzilla as nuclear metaphor
(explained very early on by my mom)
Frankenstein’s Adam
vastly superior yet cast out by his maker
Grendel full grown
still living with his mother
Sweet Quasimodo
who never harnessed his fearsome appearance
Give me the least human of any superhero team;
Night Crawler, The Beast, Sasquatch, Swamp Thing
Iron Giants and Red Tornados
possess an undeniable otherness
I still long for
We Calibans
we grouchy Oscars in garbage cans
we consumers of cookies we huggable Elmos
Max’s Wild Things in continuous rumpus
protectors and guardians of Tibetan Buddhism
whose wrathful aspects of form follow function
Ratfinks and Weird-Os hotrodding the streets
lend our mythos to movies and energy drinks
Saturday matinee Creature Features
gave us sympathy for the misbegotten
victims were always normal people
but if we ever met those unspeakable things
that made the average citizens scream
we’d somehow be simpatico
because we know
we’re all just pretending
to be human anyhow
NINA BUCKLESS
Le Réveil
When the one who says peace is possible
and the one who says peace is impossible
meet behind the shadow of earth
on the field of the birds of time
below the lake of dreams
where time exists
as the shade of a curved bell
that mourns the sound of its own swing
a second of stars that cries out
on the tides of nightingales
asleep on the backs of bears
tossed to the echoes of glacial light
when dust no longer has shadows
to drink from or give birth to
and when everything moves
backwards and forwards in wake
of a new tune, yes, when the dance rises
and when everything and nothing
settle into slumber together
is when something has come
that is bigger than you or I.
Nina Buckless is a fiction writer and poet. Poetry or prose have appeared in Santa Monica Re-view, Tin House, Unsaid, Georgetown Review, Absent, Burrow Press Review, Midwestern Gothic, Big Muddy Review, Turkish Literature and Art, The Wayne Literary Review, Poémame, and other places. Her short story “Deer’\” was nominated for a Pushcart Prize, and her poetry has been published and translated into Spanish, Chinese, and Turkish. She is a graduate of the Helen Zell Writers Program and the recipient of a Zell Fellowship. Nina is a veteran of Jim Krusoe’s creative writing workshop in Los Angeles as well as a member of the Poetry Club at Washtenaw Community College. She received two scholarships to attend Community of Writers Workshops for fiction in Squaw Valley, California. Currently, she is working on a new novel, Cave of Idols, a story told in prose and poetry.
SARAH SMITH
Shadows of the Human Experience
The monsters introduced in horror stories at a feeble, young age, told and retold over the years no longer scare me. These creatures are mere symbols for the true monsters lurking among us, in everyday life.
The energy vampire feeding off of the emotional energy of others, draining them by one-sided, incessant rants, fueled by immaturity and the lack of consideration for others and the toll their actions take on them.
Narcissism at its finest, the energy vampire preys on others out of pain. Yet, instead of eliminating their own pain, they drain the life forces of those who cannot stand up for themselves, those who cannot say, “no.”
The evil witch cursing others for personal gain, using their magical gifts to manipulate, to control, to yield power over others in order to further their own agenda. Motivated by what they want, rather than what would be best for the collective good of all.
The zombie, a mere shell of a human being, undead, walking among this earth lifeless, numb. Going through the motions without passion, happiness, or joy.
No longer able to experience painful emotions, yet, no longer able to experience what makes being human worth it, either. Never able to find true peace as they are not truly living and they are not truly dead.
The ghosts of chapters long past, appearing to the bearer of such memories through flashbacks caused by the reminders of daily life, the instances that feel so grand they must be more than mere coincidence; they must be a sign. All remnants of another lifetime ago.
Ghosts are nothing more than pieces of the past coming back to haunt the present, preventing the haunted from moving forward into a future away from such dark chapters, a future where the shadows are left behind.
The siren who lures cursed “loves” to their heart’s end, with the allure of charm and manipulation, using what they know about their target to curate the perfect sentiment, compelling them to believe that this is real love when in reality, it is a fallacy. Nothing more than mere infatuation.
True love does not manipulate or control for power. The siren uses the illusion of love to capture the hearts of which it desires, only to break them once the illusion is shattered.
The demons within that feed off of our insecurities, the pain of a traumatic past survived and the coping skills used to survive it.
The darkness of an empty void being possessed by the incessant lies that we are never to be loved as we have been deemed unworthy and inadequate, filling the heart with hate, or even worse, apathy.
Insidious aspects of humanity, shadows of the human experience, the darkness of the human psyche, the pain of being human. Such shadows creating monsters out of humans.
Surmised of trauma, pain, heartbreak, gone unaddressed, coming out in unhealthy, toxic behaviors. These frighten me more than any fictional monster ever could. They’re real.
TOM ZIMMERMAN
Lonesome Road
The Zoom-screen mirror: sick of it. You’ve popped
a cork, the water’s on the boil. Ricotta,
peas, prosciutto: check. The parsley ready
to be chopped, the pappardelle raw
and waiting: like a wedding night. Your ’90s
indie playlist: fine, you’ve mixed in Joni,
Billie, Ella. Nights like this, the shaped
quotidian might morph its cells, its selves,
and recombine to terrify. Relax,
you tell yourself. We dream departures and
arrivals: flame-wheels burning down the lonesome
road, damp dollars stuck along the shoulder,
angel wings fresh-clipped. Most love’s a code
to crack. Your lover’s gone. And who comes back?
SARAH SMITH
Haiku(s): A Choice
The shadows of the
human experience have
the potential to
overshadow the
light within, consuming one’s
spirit, until one’s
true essence is no
more. A choice must be made in
the face of hardship:
fight for one’s life, one’s
light, one’s essence, or allow
the darkness to cloak
the mind and steal one’s
spirit. The shadows are a
mere fragment of one’s
identity, not
the entire story. Never
giving into the
shadows of human
experience, peace can be
found, one’s core essence
and identity
preserved, intact. Inner spark
beaming. Radiant.
Sarah Smith is a published poet, writer, artist, and certified creative arts therapist from Cleveland, Ohio, USA. Smith manages a WordPress blog entitled Chronicles of a Disillusioned Optimist: https://chroniclesofadisillusionedoptimist.wordpress.com
Smith also has poetry anthologies available for sale on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Sarah-E.-Smith/e/B07SVW5VDC
ZAKERIA ALMAJRABI
Where do I go?
When I don’t know where to go
I follow my shadow
It asks why I’m here
It asks in fear
I tell it I don’t know
So it just went on with the flow
It started to race
I started to chase
It was starting to sprint
I stopped and decided to squint
I couldn’t believe it so I didn’t
It felt like I was running in place
My stress started to progress
As I noticed everyone around me was faceless
I started to panic
Heart sinking like the titanic
I bolt to my house as I was already near
I kick open my door to glance at my mirror
It was my screams I tried to suppress
As I noticed I too, was faceless
It was by the people with badges noticed started my outlashes
I was then put in chains glared at like I was insane
It felt strange
They took me in a strange place
I couldn’t see their face
I was given sedation
I wake up to know this was all my imagination
I still have some questions though.
Why can’t I find my shadow?
TOM ZIMMERMAN
Atlas
We’ve fed the dog and spread the final bags
of mulch out back. I’ve cracked a beer, of course.
Now Thumper, Dad’s old pasta pot, is rocking
on the stovetop. He’s been dead . . . how long?
Mom, also gone, collapses time: “I push
you out. And now . . . around. Suck in your gut.”
I see our neon lights for Halloween—
a purple skull, an arch-backed cauldron cat—
lie deadly on the kitchen table. Your
HGTV fixation holds. An Atlas
of my own imagination, I
am ruptured holding up my world. Inside
or out, fair weather darkens with my fate.
Am I the same young self that ate my shadow?
Pop psychology. God’s love is crushing
me. Dark angel smiles: “Survive this. Try.”
SARAH ROLAND
DIANE M. LABODA
Something about Pumpkins
Something about pumpkins scares me.
They hold a deep silence which begs
to be filled—once by a carving knife,
once by a candle, once by a voice, deep,
gravely, full of flat-seeded teeth
that chatter in the night.
Why had we chosen the roundish,
orange fruit to become the epitome
of buck-toothed strange?
Do we sense its shadow falling away
or following? Perhaps melding
with our own as hostage?
Yes, something about pumpkins
gives me a chill. Do they know
who they are to become? Do they know,
sitting in the field that I will choose them
above all the other orbs to give homage,
gut and skewer?
Or do they all roll around at the choosing
to match their carving partner’s
ghoulish needs?
WCC POETRY CLUB 