Darker Than Black.

by Paul DeThroe

c2010

All Rights Reserved



My heart is darker than black

No more feeling it ain't coming back

Jaded? You wouldn't even know

Burnt to a crisp and put up for show


My soul is darker than black

Play life's cards that are always stacked

Jaded? You wouldn't even know

These open scars will never close


My mind is darker than black

Deep inside I'm sharpening the ax

Jaded? You wouldn't even know

Light fuse run like hell explode


My life is darker than black

Ready for war always under attack

Phantoms of past lives and devils of this

The kiss of death? Then kiss baby, kiss, kiss, kiss


Paul DeThroe lives in Batesville, Indiana and has two daughters. To check out more of Paul's horror, see his website: www.thedevilsprophet.com

Editor's Note: The upper artwork is by louis. A woodcut print; it originally appeared in the Summer 2010 issue of Ghostlight Magazine, the magazine of the Great Lakes Horror Writers Association.

Who Will Pick My Paper Flowers?

by Debbie Okun Hill

C2010

All Rights Reserved


Along the highway, grey asphalt

I used to sway to nature’s music

line my earthen bed

with Queen Anne’s Lace

white petals of wild daisies

purple loosestrife running

through my grass hair



But today, my feet are littered

with paper flowers

Tim Horton cups and

MacDonald bags

brown cardboard bent

white tissue curled

faded in sunlight

and I wonder

who will pick my cluster of

man-made flowers

now wet wash trashed

in summer’s warm rain?


Editor's Note: painting by Louis.

A Vicious Circle.

by Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved


Real growth is irreversible.

You can’t go back there now.

Personal growth, it’s a vicious circle.

Where you were before;

It must have been awful uncomfortable —

Otherwise,

There would have been no incentive.

And you would have ended up,

Right back where you started.

You have done well, my child.

Welcome to the next level.

Just like before, now you know nothing.

The circle is complete.

And now you get to start all over again.

Stuck at the Train Station.

by Debbie Okun Hill

c2010

All Rights Reserved



Standing alone, near wooden post

ostracized from adult crowd

young male teen

fidgets, kicks a pebble

outside rural train station

loose gravel crunching

beneath his feet

hot sun searing his cheeks

quick snap-pop, click of teeth

his tongue twirling

juicy piece of bubble gum

grape flavour released

ball cap turned backwards

skateboard shoes untied



In this afternoon game of waiting

he loses valuable playtime

like rolling childhood marbles

on his stepfather’s whittle wasting hours

wood-chipped seconds suspended



locomotion slow



each yellow dandelion

turning grey between thin cracks

slight breeze unraveling

unnourished seeds of his mind

wandering, blown away

when no one picks him up

leaves him feeling small

reminiscent of his days

hiding as an abused toddler

curled beneath a bench

coiled, thick wad, stale

like his gum—stuck

with no place to go


Debbie Okun Hill is an executive member of The Ontario Poetry Society and an associate member of The League of Canadian Poets. Since the fall 2004 over 150 of her poems have been published in over 60 publications/e-zines including Other Voices, Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine and Ascent Aspirations anthologies. Her first chapbook Swaddled in Comet Dust: A Collection of Award-winning Poems was published by Beret Days Press in 2008.

Introducing James Walsh.

by James Walsh and Louis B. Shalako

c2010

All Rights Reserved



Deny your place on land

When we were

Speeded up

To this and... .. .

Iambic pentameter

Panameter

Whatever

Open up your window

and tell me the sounds

that you hear outside

Another train@

Hear the sounds of the

m,

Who is to say that they're true/

Clinging to your skirt

I am the parasite of this town

two by two they rise up from the earth

a side of face

right up, up to

I am the parasite of this town

Trying a face of a mask, I

I travel far in sin

Over to the station bar

Take a look, you may see me in a cloud

For I am the parasite that hangs two by two

From your shroud into the

Past we meet to say there's only

Another page

To turn.


Editor's Note: The preceding was a collaborative effort between James Walsh, and Louis over a few virtual beers in a virtual pub.