It is poetry all the way this week with new poems from four writers – Annie Neugebauer + John Reinhart + James Dorr + Miki Dare – writing about topics ranging from King Kong to unicorns. Enjoy...


I am running
by Annie Neugebauer

I am running
and she is skipping
but I am panicked,
her laughter chasing me
like a pack of bloodhounds,
only it sounds like
the tinkling of bells
on an ice-cream cart,
but I am terrified
as I flee through a tunnel
of blackness coated
in the thickest stench
like the underbelly of a beached whale,
and I am running
from what – or who – she might be.


* Annie Neugebauer is a short story author, novelist, and poet with work appearing in over forty venues, including Black Static, Fireside, DarkFuse, and Buzzy Mag. Her poetry manuscript received an honorable mention in the 2013 Stevens Competition by the National Federation of State Poetry Societies. She's the webmaster for the Poetry Society of Texas, an active member of the Horror Writers Association, and a columnist for the Writer’s Digest award-wining website Writer Unboxed.


sipping time
by John Reinhart

she ladled a dollop
off the moon from the lower corner
of her window,
dropped it in her steaming tea
and drank, swirling nebulae
and tea leaves, reading future
and past together – 
she switched off
the moonlight so a future lover 
parting the curtains could allow 
a silvery path to extend
along the floor, across the bed,
up two long bare legs,
reflecting a round face,
asleep, dreaming of long shadows
in an old garden of somnolent morning
glory and wisteria posing like
jaguars in early National Geographics, 
observing the stellar 
pebbles directing the way
home, past the moors and dunes
to a salt shaped hovel yet to be built
on the edge of sea
where the world’s turtle plods onward
across the sparkling sand,
headed to heights reflected in depths
as the incoming tide promises tales
of a thousand moons thousands of miles
away where her lover’s boat drifts into the
horizon, into a ladleful of moon
absorbed by the dream of steaming tea
and a quiet face illuminated in moonlight


* An arsonist by trade, eccentric by avocation, John Reinhart lives in Colorado with his wife and children, and beasts aplenty, including a dog, cat, duck, goats, chickens, and probably mice. His poetry has recently been published in Interfictions, Star*Line, Liquid Imagination, Being Human, and Songs of Eretz.


On The Other Hand
by James Dorr

King Kong would have made 
a lousy husband. 
Sure, he'd be good for a romp in the hay -- 
and as "big" as all outdoors -- 
but even though Fay Wray was athletic too 
and game for adventure, 
she would have found life in the jungle no picnic.  
It's dirty and smelly, with spiders and snakes, 
not to mention occasional dinosaurs, 
monsters, 
mercurial natives, 
all easy enough for Kong to cope with 
but constantly in and out, 
tracking mud over freshly waxed floors, 
and that's not even mentioning tigers and lions. 
No, Fay was a city girl when it came down to it, 
wishing for nothing more than a nice apartment to go to 
when quests have ended, 
a restaurant and dancing, a slinky low-cut gown, 
and no excursions up sides of skyscrapers 
or battles with biplanes. 


* Indiana writer James Dorr’s The Tears of Isis was a 2014 Bram Stoker Award nominee for Superior Achievement in a Fiction Collection. Other books include Strange Mistresses: Tales of Wonder & Romance, Darker Loves, and his all-poetry Vamps. For more, readers should visit his blog at http://jamesdorrwriter.wordpress.com


Unicorn Girl
by Miki Dare

A rare golden beast 
Wandering a forest of ghostly white trees
Whinnies an ancient melody
Shakes a silver mane of falling stars

A man steps forward silently
Eyes fixed and narrowed
 Axe gripped tightly in hand
Greedy for a horn of gold

Moonlight arrows down from the sky
Strikes the magical creature aglow
A mist surrounds her changing form
Slowly reveals a woman of mythical design

Argent locks descend upon her curves
Her golden skin gleams
While silver tattoos spiral her body
And brown eyes stare with eerie intensity

He steps forward boldly
Eyes fixed and wide
Axe now fallen and forgotten
Desperate for a girl of gold

Bronze-red lips part
Her magic ever strong
She impales him
With a word


* Miki Dare is a Canadian writer whose work has appeared in Analog Science Fiction and Fact and Inscription Magazine. You can find out what she's up to at www.mikidare.com and follow her @mikidare on Twitter.  

Just one story for you this week. A little longer than our usual fare, One Year After by Wendy Nikel deals with the problem of the "ex" who you thought was out of your life forever. (And the Jett character is spot on – we all know people like that!) Wendy's work has appeared in Daily Science Fiction, as well as other ezines and print anthologies. She is a member of the SFWA.


ONE YEAR AFTER
by Wendy Nikel

Ruth Baker's ex-boyfriend Todd had been unpredictable in life. She ought to have known he'd be unpredictable in death as well.

"What are you doing here?" she asked when she opened the door and saw him on the stoop – standing, breathing, living. He clutched an enormous bouquet of roses to his red flannel shirt and regarded her with a dopey, love-struck smile, reminiscent of their better days together.

"Are you surprised?"

"Yes... What's going on?" Ruth stepped out to the porch, pulling the door behind her so that it was nearly shut, but not latched. "You're dead. I was at the funeral. I saw the body."

"I know," he said, shaking his head. "Don't freak out, but I thought it'd be worth it for the look of surprise on your face. Happy anniversary, Ruth."

He was right about one thing: it would have been the third anniversary of their first date. 

He was dead wrong, though, if he was expecting a look of delighted surprise. All Ruth could manage was a weak smile of befuddlement. There were no chapters about "what to do if your ex-boyfriend comes back from the dead to wish you a happy anniversary" in any of the piles of relationship books she'd read after he'd suddenly, inexplicably dumped her last year and then died six months later. Any warm-fuzzy feelings of "Oh, how sweet" were a year too late.

"Are you... okay?" He tipped his head in that puppy-dog way she'd once thought was so cute.

Considering their past, she thought she was handling his sudden return to life pretty well. She hadn't burst into tears or gone after him with a zombie-killing chainsaw, both options which would have been logical under the circumstances.
"Yeah. You look... healthy," she said. Especially for someone who was supposed to be dead. "But how?"

"Since the doctors only gave me a few months to live, I took the money that I'd been saving to buy you a ring and used it on a time travel trip instead. I could only afford a few hours. Today is – for me – our second anniversary, but since I knew that I'd be gone before our next one, I thought I'd surprise you with one last date together, an opportunity to say all the things we might not have gotten a chance to say. I even got tickets to the basketball game tonight." He stared into her eyes expectantly.

"Oh."

Well, at least that explained his appearance here. This was pre-breakup Todd. Pre-death Todd. The Todd from a whole year ago.

"I know this is a shock," he said. "Do you want to talk about it? I could come in for a bit, the game doesn't start for another hour."

"I don't think that's a good idea..."

The door creaked open behind her.

"Hey, hon... who is it?"

Ruth didn't even have to turn around to know that Jett stood right behind her, a surprised smile forming dimples on his cheeks. "Oh. Hey, Todd."

"Jett? What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same thing."

"Time travel," Ruth explained. "Just give us a minute, okay?"

"Oh. Wow." Jett retreated into the doorway. "Ah, sorry about the whole... dying thing."

"What was that about?" Todd shouted. "How could you? I can't have been dead for more than... well, how long has it been?"

"Six months."

"And you've moved on already? And with my best friend? How long have you been seeing him?"

"That's irrelevant."

"Irrelevant!?"

"I can explain—"

"No. Forget it. We're done." He chucked the roses into the bushes and stormed away, despite Ruth's half-hearted protests. What more could she say? What difference would it make now?

And yet... he'd gone through so much trouble. And their relationship had been good. Just seeing him here made all those feelings rush back.

"Todd! Wait!" she called. "Please. I want to go with you. I want to have this one last night."

"Not a chance."

Jett was suddenly at her shoulder, whispering in her ear. "Ask him if we can have the tickets."

"Shut up," she hissed, but Todd had heard.

He turned and pointed an accusing finger. "Over my dead body!"

This week we have three microfiction stories for you and their diverse subject matter features Jack Hillman on the need for Parental Control, even if your are God – then it's over to Edd Vick with Christmas Gift and the horror that would follow if your wish "it could be Christmas everyday" really did come true (thank you Roy Wood and your 1973 hit song with Wizzard). And, finally, we have Holly Schofield with Breaking Up Is Hard To Do (another title with a pop music reference – originally by Neil Sedaka in 1962) on to the limitations of even the most sophisticated 3D printers. 

Wescosville, PA, based Jack Hillman is an underwriting consultant and freelance writer whose credits include a fantasy trilogy from MUSA Publishing and a story in the initial issue of BuzzyMag, along with appearances in Sorcerous Signals, Amazon Shorts, Jackhammer,  Nuketown, Brutarian, the Ruins Extraterrestrial anthology and most recently in the Strange Mysteries III anthology. He can be found at www.jackhillman.com 

Seattle-based Edd Vick is a Clarion grad with about thirty published stories. The most recent are Red Bait with Plan B Publishing, Senseless in Dark Bits anthology, the Certainty Principle in First Contact Cafe anthology, and Ashfall is forthcoming in Analog. 

Holly Schofield is based in Canada and her work has appeared in many publications including Lightspeed, Crossed Genres, and Tesseracts. For more, visit http://hollyschofield.wordpress.com/


Parental Control
by Jack Hillman

The sun exploded in a sphere of fire, eating away each atom of matter in its path, leaving only cinders as it spread into the solar system.  He watched from a fold in space as it reached the third factorial of its expansion.  He tapped the control key and the sphere collapsed, only to blaze forth again in the programmed sequence. 

Suddenly a voice interrupted.  He shut down the cascade.

“You boys quit signaling with flashlights or you’ll be sorry,” Father called up from Heaven’s stairs.



Christmas Gift
by Edd Vick


Just like every morning, the pattering thuds of her parents' feet overhead woke Annie. She had gone to sleep under the decorated tree, next to all the wonderful presents. Now here it was, the most wonderful day of them all. Christmas! She waited until the footfalls came from above and behind her, at the top of the stairs. Then she chose a present to open.

The present. It was the best one of them all. It wasn't the biggest, hardly the best wrapped, really more of an afterthought, she'd heard her mother say. Just some piece of costume jewelry from a garage sale.

She tore at the wrapping, revealing the repurposed cottage cheese container. Popping the lid off, she rooted in the shredded paper to find the ring she knew was there. She'd found it so many times before.

Her mom and dad pounded down the stairs. "Stop, Annie," yelled her mother. Sometimes they fell, but not today. "Annie! Don't do it!" screamed her father.

She put the ring on and blurted the habitual words. "I wish every day was Christmas!"

Her parents skidded to stops. Grins forced themselves onto their faces. Her father walked into the kitchen, yawning, to start making waffles, while her mother sat on a hassock and said, "Why don't you open the rest of your presents, dear?"



Making Up is
Hard to Do
by Holly Schofield


After Jerry's girlfriend threw everything he owned off their apartment balcony, he silently piled up the smashed pieces of his life. Then, he rented the largest portable 3D printer available.

While a crowd gathered on the sidewalk, he fed in the broken items. The printer whirred, refabricating layer by layer. His favorite speakers; their photo albums; his coffee maker.

Above, Melinda's curtains twitched occasionally.

Finally, he drew a red symbol, slowly ripped the paper up, and fed it into the machine. An error message flashed.

Just as he'd thought. The printer could put back together almost anything.

Except his heart.

Two short pieces of flash/micro-fiction for you this week. Both feature protagonists who are on quests although of entirely different kinds, and both contain a strong urban/dark fantasy element. Our first story Eyes of Fire is by California-based writer Preston Dennett whose credits include sales to Andromeda Spaceways, Perihelion and the Future Embodied Anthology. Next, we have Seeking Ore by Seattle-based writer Alina Rios, who spent the first part of her life in St. Petersburg, Russia. "And like all early experiences," she adds, "it's deep in my bones." Her work has most recently appeared in The Colored Lens, Apex Magazine, Starline, Beorh Quarterly, and other fine places.



Eyes of Fire
by Preston Dennett

The man, old and stick-limbed, bent over the fire. The audience murmured. He wasn’t moving. His flesh should be charred by now. Somebody screamed. When he finally stood and smiled, we all jumped up, applauding. I was impressed. A proud pyromaniac, I’d seen fire-eaters, fire-walkers, fire-jugglers.I studied under a magician and I knew about fireproof lotions and salves. This wasn’t any of those. This guy was genuine.

“Teach me,” I begged, after the show.

He studied me, saw my eyes of fire.

“Okay,” he said.

Years later, I lay next to my fiancé. We were getting married tomorrow. Time to reveal my secret.

“I need to show you something,” I said, unwinding our limbs. I left the bed and stood before the fireplace.

“What?” she asked. She was so beautiful. Those eyes.

“Watch.”

I called forth the fire spirit. Flame erupted from my fingers. Fire enveloped me, then raced to the hearth, igniting the firewood.

Gina began laughing.

“I’ve got something to show you,” she said.

She sat up, raised her arms, pointed to the fireplace. A jet of water rushed from her fingertips, extinguishing the flames instantly.

I turned to her, surprised. Only then did I truly see her eyes of water.

What can I say?  

Opposites attract.  



Seeking Ore
by Alina Rios

Ore, the writer’s daughter, stands at his graveside. In her hands his last book, the one she wasn’t supposed to find. She is 14 and determined, and she finished it a month ago. It’s about a young girl who discovers a door to the underworld. Ore followed the clues from the book to an abandoned train station, overgrown with moss and vines. No door. 

“Show me the real way,” she says to the gravestone, her eyes narrow behind thick-rimmed frames too large for her face. “Or I’ll call your bluff. You always hated that.” 

A crow caws in the distance.

A large white dog approaches and stands at her side. Ore reaches for his shaggy nape and gives it a scratch, then digs in her dress pocket and pulls out a meat stick. The dog sniffs it and exhales sulfur and brine. 

“Do you ever eat?” She puts the stick away and crouches at the gravestone, running her fingers along the engraving. He lived in two worlds. The dog settles down beside her and she leans into his side. 

“He’s waiting for me,” she says and begins to cry. She buries her face in the dog’s fur. 

When the girl is calm again, the dog rises.

She looks up. “Leaving?”

It’s twilight and the dog’s eyes – two fires reflected in hers. She gets up too and they begin to walk, her hand on his back. They follow a path between the graves, the moon behind them, girl’s silhouette no more than a shadow. Soon they are gone.

Two longer poems for you now, both on the theme of unrequited love and loss - but all with an element of Grievous Angel dark fantasy and sci-fi unease! We start with Freak Seeker by Joe Nazare and follow on with Loss by Ken Poyner...


Freak Seeker
by Joe Nazare

MrDark&Handsome didn’t abandon the chat room
When she confessed to her congenital defects,
Didn’t erase his own screen name
When she mentioned her extensive tattooing.
He actually wanted to see the skin scripture,
That insidious handiwork of her fanatical parents.
After cajoling a photo from her
He assured her he treasured her difference,
Promised to steal her away from her present situation.

So daring to hope there could be love
Even for the unseemly likes of her,
She arranged to meet the stranger in the flesh.
The rest is ignominious history.
All her lonely life she’d avoided bars
Yet ironically ended up encaged.
After the ill-fated assignation
He never showed her the world, but rather her to it,
Putting her misery on display for the price of a ticket.


* Joe Nazare has sold fiction/poetry/nonfiction into such markets as Damnation Books, Pseudopod, Shroud, Lovecraft eZine, Star*Line, and Butcher Knives & Body Counts: Essays on the Formula, Frights, & Fun of the Slasher Film.



Loss
by Ken Poyner

I mourn in the only way I suspect that I can:
An imitation of what I have seen before;
Sensory array low; claws loose; the base
Rolling about in a mathematically designed
Course which, to anyone without my processor capacity,
Appears random. I do not do this
Because it is my embedded response.
I do not do this because it comforts
The customers. We two workmates
Side by side were as close
To hebot and shebot as any pair
Of factory tooled service appliances can be.
My expectations of him still linger.
I sense the remains of his precision,
And I find myself embracing operating norms
That are only half my own, and still half his.
It will take countless cycles to adjust
To even the smallest idiosyncrasies burned
Into the unaccustomed firmware of another.
Loss lies in the unclocked timing of shared utilities.
In later models, this will be a sales feature.


* Norfolk (VA)-based Ken Poyner says "Every writer has a feel-good length, and for me a lot of my poetry edges around 40 lines. In fiction, I tend to expire at the 1700 word mark. But I do occasionally have shorter work. I've done mainstream poetry from 1974 through to now, and even early on did what some would call science fiction poetry. But I did start trying to develop a rocket-fixing theory for it, or a specific approach that I wanted to front for. Of late, my SF poetry has been in Analog, Asimov’s, Star*Line, Abyss and Apex, and several other places, including mostly mainstream magazines/sites such as Menacing Hedge and The Adirondack Review". His most recent collection is Constant Animals, 42 unruly fictions available in paperback and ebook via www.kpoyner.com & www.amazon.com