Tuesday, July 26, 2011


"SIGNPOSTS" - Kaarin Vanderway

whorls and ties
bound me to you. the release. gritty, a rebellious life to crave
words and lies
brought me death. deceased. a pity, for all the love I gave
worms and flies
will bring them to me. the police. out of the city, here to my shallow grave
but whisps in skies
of ghosts and spirits. pleased. will signpost you, my pretty. and enslave

BIO: Kaarin has shelves crammed full of notebooks containing poems she's been scribbling since her early teens and plans on one day collating them into some sort of order and hopefully doing something with any that aren't total rubbish.

More than a feeling


Have you ever seen a movement out the corner of your eye?
Or heard a whisper somewhere near but couldn’t work out why?
Have you felt the sweep of fingertips, brush across your hair?
But when you’ve spun about you’ve found there’s really nothing there?

Have you sometimes walked into a room, and felt a sudden chill?
You check the windows for a draft but the air is calm and still,
And yet you feel a presence there, a sense you're not alone,
and you try to shake the feeling you're not completely on your own.

Perhaps you’ve paused atop the stairs, once or twice - or more
Before you’ve turned the key that lead you through the cellar door?
Do you lie in bed at night; stare at shadows on the wall,
But convince yourself you’re seeing things, that there’s nothing there at all?

So often after midnight, do you wake up with a start?
Then strain your ears for any noise, with your hand across your heart?
Or peer into the hallway, holding tight to every breath,
Just in case there’s something out there that will scare you half to death?

Yes you do, I know you do, I’ve seen you late at night,
Trembling under blankets and clutching pillows tight,
You think your house is haunted by, a spirit you can’t see,
And yes you’re right, I know you’re right, because that ghost is me

Don't expect the rocking chair to cease moving by itself
Or books of yours to rest quietly, undisturbed upon the shelf
Floors will creak and mirrors fog, of this you needn't doubt
Because I'm here to stay no matter what; you'll never ever chase me out

BIO: Anna Harris lives in Australia and has prose and poetry of varying genres published in her home country as well as in the USA and the United Kingdom.

Saturday, July 23, 2011

Chilling in the Morgue


I'm relaxing down the mortuary
I have a few old friends with me
My worries, now I haven’t any
I’m just chilling in the morgue

Lost a duel with a massive truck
I guess I just ran out of luck
Now my life’s no more, it sucks
So I’ll just chill out in the morgue

I came in just two days ago
Or maybe three, I don’t know
I’ve a tag upon my biggest toe
Now I’m chilling in the morgue

It’s not so bad, as life was hell
I wasn’t feeling very well
My body had this rotten smell
So I have to chill out in the morgue

With problems gone for now, at least
I can now just rest in peace
Things are cool when you’re deceased
When you’re chilling in the morgue

BIO:  Dean writes quirky songs and poetry as a hobby and is delighted to list over 350 various radio stations and podcasts on which his works have been played. His poetry has been published in horror mags and Trembles & Scream Magazines. “The Monsters Ball" song became the opening theme tune to an internet TV Show series titled "Late Night at The Horror Hotel " which was produced by Horror Shop Films. Dean’s song "666" topped the UK Unsigned artist top 40. You can find more of Dean’s songs here: http://www.youtube.com/results?search_query=DEAN+FARNELL&aq=f and read his poetry here: http://deanfarnell.typepad.com/blog/2011/06/the-horror-poems.html

Thursday, July 21, 2011


"FOREVER" - George Wilhite 

Awash in despair, Fred stared at Gina for a long time.
This just was not fair. They were supposed to
be together forever, just like in the movies. Star-crossed lovers, yes, but they worked through all that. Their families tolerated one another when necessary. But they would never start one of their own for they waited too long and now she was gone from his life.
This sucked.
Dreams are meant to be broken, he supposed. What purpose was left in life now that they were apart?
Gina didn’t know he was looking at her. That made him feel a little guilty but then he just got angry instead. She had closure, he did not. His denial remained steadfast.
She still looked beautiful as he observed her from above. Dressed in her favorite outfit, just as he remembered her on their last night spent together, her auburn hair brushed back from her lovely pear shaped face. Her eyes were closed for the moment but no worry there. His mind filled in the detail of her dark brown orbs. He had memorized very part of her body.
They'd met in a park not far from here - six Octobers ago, leaves falling from the trees, a chilling breeze. She wore no coat and he'd offered his. At first she laughed in disbelief such chivalry existed then eventually took him up on the offer. The first day in many more together, the start of something special, until it all spiraled downhill last March.
“Why, Gina?” Fred whispered to the air. Perhaps somehow his voice could descend the chasm from here to there and she could hear him. “I loved you. Why wasn’t that enough?”

His eyes moist, through the obscurity caused by his tears he saw the scars. Her  slashed wrists radiated in the night, bitter reminders of her selfish act that ruined everything.

Looking around, assured he was alone for as long as the deed required, Fred took control of the situation again. One way or another, he would be with his wife forever.
He pulled her gently from her unearthed grave and made haste to his car.

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at Yesteryear Fiction, MicroHorror, Eschatology Journal and The Fringe.

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Senryu #4

"SENRYU #4" - Marion Clarke

creaking floorboard —
creature straight from
my imagination

BIO: Marion Clarke from Warrenpoint, Northern Ireland, has had poetry, short stories and non-fiction articles published online and in print. She has two stories included in The Infection Anthology, which has just been published as an ebook, later to become available in print. The creatures from the anthology provided the inspiration for Senryu #4. Marion began studying and writing senyru and haiku two years ago and has become passionate about the form.

Wednesday, July 6, 2011

Spirit of the Château


The boy is dressed all in black. His loose trousers and shapeless top are black. Even his footwear is black. I suppose he is a boy, at my age anyone under thirty seems young. His hair is long and dark. It moves, gently blown by a breeze I cannot feel. His face is pale, too pale for summer, for health. He looks sad, lost. I follow as he wanders around the Château. I cannot hear his footsteps echoing through the empty rooms. His feet don’t seem to touch the same floorboards that I walk upon. He has a hazy indistinct appearance, as if not quite of my world. I shake my head, I’m being fanciful, the sad reason for this visit is clouding my imagination.
I think I’ve seen him before; I may have done. There was a boy born here, a cousin of mine. No, that was too long ago, perhaps this is his son? I’ve visited so often, seen so many people, that it’s difficult to remember. People and events are confused in my memory. Time passes quickly now, a whole summer passes and seems no more than a few warm days. People I remember as laughing children, picnicking in the gardens or rowing on the lake are now grey, or gone.

My early years are clearer, my happy childhood spent in this Château, the ponies I rode in the grounds. I remember friends and the games we played. I remember the handsome young woman I became, my love affairs and heartbreaks. Grand parties were held here, in this very ballroom. The gilding is peeling from the walls now. The once glittering chandelier was removed years ago. I hope it sparkles from another ceiling.

The boy moves toward the sweeping staircase and ducks under the coloured tape that warns the structure is now unsafe. He seems to care nothing for the potential danger. Perhaps he feels, as I do, that the Château can never harm those who love it. I see him in profile as he turns. I was right; he is one of the family. Men who were my ancestors had a nose like that, eyebrows just like his. I’ve seen their portraits. They were bigger, more substantial men than this boy. Their smiling faces watching me from the canvas seemed more alive than this slim, pale child. He is one of us though; those features will be carried through my family for generations to come.

I remember him now, how could I have forgotten the little boy who occasionally wandered this very hallway at midnight? He crept quietly, keeping to the shadows, looking for something he never found. His disappointed face saddened me whenever I caught a glimpse of it. He does love this place. I see that now as he slides his hand over the cracked wooden panelling. I know he is trying to see the fine detail gleaming with centuries of care and polish. That’s how I see it, the beauty, the magnificence is still there, just beneath the neglected surface.

I have to concentrate to keep the present and not the past before my eyes. I remember the luxurious furniture that once graced these empty rooms. I can almost feel the warmth from the open fires, although I know the grates hold nothing but fallen soot and accumulated litter. The echo of voices is faint now. To anyone but those who love this old decayed Château there is nothing here but crumbling plaster, rotten wood, and weakened bricks. To them it won't matter that men will come tomorrow to demolish my old home. Perhaps they’re right, it doesn’t really matter, wherever I am, I will still have my happy memories.

The boy is in the bedroom that was once mine. He looks up. Sun streams through the hole in the roof. He looks away from the light and into the shadows; looking for something. Surely, he knows everything of value was taken long ago. Since then the curious, the homeless, the lovers seeking privacy have walked through every room, searched every secret corner. There's nothing here but my memories, my love for this place and now, the boy. He walks to where the window once was. The glass slipped and fell so long ago, the frame shortly afterwards. I smile, recalling the mornings I’d leapt from bed and thrown open the heavy curtains to see what kind of day I would have. There were the Christmas mornings, when I longed for snow. There had been long summers with skies of unbroken blue. There had been rain and wind and sun, but always joy.

The boy turns to face me, his eyes widen and then he smiles. I know that t he sees what he sought. He sees me; the Spirit of the Château.

“I’m glad to know you’re real,” he whispers.

“Of course I’m real, why did you doubt that?”

“Because although I heard all the stories, I never saw you. Whenever I stayed here as a child I’d stay up late, hoping you’d appear, but you never did.”

“I was here.”

“Then why didn’t I see you?”

“The living often can’t see us.”

Together we take a last look around the château that had, in life, been our home, then we leave to join our ancestors.

BIO: Patsy Collins lives on the south coast of England, opposite the Isle of Wight. Her stories appear in magazines in the UK, Ireland and Australia. To learn more about her and her writing, please visit patsy-collins.blopgspot.com

Sunday, July 3, 2011


"SELKIE" - George Wilhite

Beneath the pelt lies
Bewitching beauty
The witch from town
Nursed it/her to health
She pines for the ocean

Red sky at night
Fair weather coming
But turmoil broils
Below, within the hold
She croons for salt and foam

Ghost ship in harbor
Search of the deck
Yields only mystery
Crew vanished
Into thin air
One pelt missing
She lives once more in the sea

BIO: George Wilhite is the author of the short fiction collection On the Verge of Madness. His work has also appeared in numerous print publications and online at Yesteryear Fiction, MicroHorror, Eschatology Journal and The Fringe.

Dark Passages

"DARK PASSAGES" - Ron Koppelberger

Genuine bond, restless souls and night-time seasons
Of damp moss, between the cracks of a stone path,
Leading to hedgerows and secret forests of swollen smiles
And pointy ears in black boodle and tender blush,
The lure of long gone beauties in dark passages
Of Eden.

BIO: Ron is aspiring to become established as a poet and a short story writer. He has written 102 books of poetry over the past several years and 18 novels: Ron has published 550 poems, 405 short stories and 86 pieces of art in over 166 periodicals, books and anthologies, and has had work accepted in England, Australia, Canada, Japan and Thailand. He loves to write and offer an experience to the reader. He is a member of The American Poet’s Society as well as The Isles Poetry Association and The Dark Fiction Guild. Ron's art is viewable on Facebook under will806095@bellsouth.net by clicking on profile and looking under photo albums. He hopes you enjoy his work.