Sag e Cig ar et t es

Mag az ine
S amhain 2019

r af amr v
 Tabl e of Cont ent s
Ru pt u r ed Look in g Glass by M ar t in a Rim baldo......................4
M ist ... by M ar t in a Rim baldo......................5
Ridin g Dar k Hor se Nigh t m ar e by Joan St at el......................6
Fear by Joan St at el......................7
I Plan t ed m y Gar den by Joan St at el......................8
Dr eam Blu e by Joan St at el......................9
A Scar y St or y by Sam u el J. Fox.....................11
Rit u al by Sam u el J. Fox.....................12
Popobaw a by Rich ar d St even son .....................13
El Cu cu y by Rich ar d St even son .....................14
Old M an in Black by Rich ar d St even son .....................15
Ch aos Ow l by Tu ck er Lieber m an .....................16
Set t le Dow n , Y'all by Lar r y D. Th ack er .....................17
/ / Pr ocedu r e/ / by Lar r y D. Th ack er .....................18
Silen ce by Sh an n on Elizabet h .....................19
Fr eyja's Bir t h by Cein w ein E. Car iad Haydon .....................20
Cu r ses by Cein w ein E. Car iad Haydon .....................21
Ou r Ar m ageddon by Cein w ein E. Car iad Haydon .....................22
Gh ost Tr ain by Kevin Den sley....................23
We Ar e Now M yt h by Ken n et h Pobo....................24
Dia De Los Locos by Sh an n on Elizabet h .....................25
Th e Win dow by Holley Cor n et t o....................26
Bat of t h e Un der w or ld by Ik ech u k w u Obior ah ....................27
Hau n t ed Hospit al by M icah Bau m an ....................28
Win t er at t h e Gir ls' Asylu m by Jill Kiesow....................29
Ser pen t in e Seas by Car a Bovair d....................30
Gr aveyar d Dan cer Dan cin g by Sh an n on Elizabet h ....................31
Th e Er lk in g's Dau gh t er by St ef Nu ñ ez ....................32

2
Not Son of Sam by Don St oll....................34
D ear Readers,
Halloween has always been my favorite time of the year. There?s something about dressing up as whatever I want,
and making my innermost self a reality that leaves me feeling fulfilled for the rest of the year. I worked seasonally at
party stores for a few Halloweens more so that I could wear a different costume every day than for the money. They
say that on this day, the veil between the living and the dead is the thinnest so it?s extra important that you indulge
in some spooky self-care. Here are some tips fro the SC team:

- Listen to some spoopy jams (e.g. ?Don?t Fear the Reaper ? by Blue Oyster Cult, or the cover by Pierce the Veil)
- Do a foamy face mask and pretend to be a ghost (you look boo-tiful!)
- Have a scary movie marathon (we highly recommend adding Trick R?Treat to the list)
- Build a Frankenstein monster in your basement. Unless you live in Florida, we don?t have basements here.
- Listen to the ?Spooked? podcast! Every episode has interviews with people telling their true experiences
with the paranormal.
- Last but not least, read our magazine! There?s tons of great poems, stories and artwork to help you set the
tone for spooky season.

3
M ar t in a Rim baldo

Ru pt u r ed Look in g Glass

Moonlit casting his pale hands upon her window glass

Infatuated with its layer of dust

Uninvited guest observes from afar

As young maiden fashioned in a flaxen la Ce long gown

Sits on a baroque Chair combing her ash-auburn hair

Breathing heavy summer air

Wall-ticker heralds midnight

Minute after bedchamber victorian looking glass suddenly ruptures in half

Scared to the bones, Maiden jumps off her chair

Wonders how could it occur, something so obscure

Her mother opens the door in a fury

Reads out loud the telegram letter just received

Fragile voice shakes in dolor

Her cousin of only 18 passed away ?

Maiden espies the looking glass and glowers, freezing in the unbelief

The mirror crack evanescence?

4
 M ar t in a Rim baldo
M ist ?

Close your eyes

Be quiet
Listen to the silence
While mist hides chaos and terror
Who slowly tides it s ropes around you

Don't be frightened
Mist as a womb protects you
Nobody can do you any harm
This night is warped with light
It will find you
And embrace you like a mother
Embrace you with it s love
Endless love

5
Joan St at el

Ridin g Dar k Hor se Nigh t m ar e

to prison library
where sewer
backs up flooding
cages of books
my brains are washed
by a short scientist

detectives trail me
arrested by police
giving up to
handcuffs ether

now on train
calendars peel
off cars
1942 1962 1982
2198 1892 1294
passengers screaming
screaming off track
burning 3rd rail

in swamp struggling
to reach green reeds
i am a
fixed target
paper duck
* pull trigger* fire pin* thru barrel* into muzzle*
b u llet sh ot
paper duck

6
 Joan St at el
Fear
Sneaks under shadows lurking
in corners ready to rear its head
folded in neat lab reports charting
white blood cells over edge running wild.

Or hiding along icy roads when

day ends with sea gulls squalling
through steel grey skies.

Brake belts wheeze and whine

snapping apart careening us
against the long cold night.

Official white envelopes stuffed with

subpoenas wait at the mailbox.
Memories of hot words burning
razor blades slash across our faces.

Fires leap from rooms where twisted

wires dance like miniature skeletons.
We stand apart inhaling this mean
air choking on our own breath.

7
Joan St at el

I plan t ed
m y gar den
on the wrong side

of moon forgetting

tides of ocean

lunar wax wane

only madness

was cultivated

there underground

tubular roots

corpulent veins

flowers called

despair gave off

a single fruit...

I ate it

my laughter

becoming harsh

8
 Joan St at el
Dr eam Blu e
Deep blue midnight blue.

Once in a blue moon.

Driving a long blue van

through a deep blue sea.

The steering wheel pops

out in my hand, this long

blue van crashing crashing.

Cold cold everything cold

Water cold icy cold.

Falling in icy cold water.

Once in a blue moon.

Diving between the devil

and deep blue sea.

Driving through waves.

in dream blue.

9
10
Sam u el J. Fox

everything. Potions. bookshelf door. He wanted

A Scar y Ointments. Ritual and to believe in love, but, it
séance: looking for seems, love doesn?t not
St or y whatever part of a man believe in him. I go to the
dies when love leaves. I house in the middle of the
In this house there is an
would like to say, as the neighborhood, the one
ache. In this ache there is a
narrator, things get better. with dead leaves dried
reason. There is a reason in
This is sometimes the case. from the remaining heat of
this ache. I squandered
Everyone after found him summer, the same with the
love as though spending
quaint, but also not leaning swing creaking in
magic on something
enough. He cannot fill a the wind, the same where
mundane. She was
heart. He cannot fill a void. the door remains locked
mundane. She was magic:
Sometimes, I hear him and cigarettes litter the
an angel shattered its
crying, chain smoking porch. I remove the key
aureole whenever she
peppermint menthols into from my pocket. I walk in
smiled, jealous. She fell out
the night under a moon he and relock the door. Away
of love, did not tell the
is small beneath. from the eyes of others, I
lover, who lives in this
Sometimes, I hear him let down my human skin.
house that has an ache.
yipping like a coyote. Rabid This is what happens when
She led him on for years.
for love. He has become love forgets. This is what
One day, she confessed he
the knocking behind the happens when that part of
was not enough to fill her
wall. Has disappeared a man dies. I begin to bark
heart. There is a beast for a
behind the secret and howl and scratch at the
man now. He has tried

11
 Let us speak only of the temporary. When you wake,
truth the damned know. they will have returned to
The world is the only hell. You will be hungover,
beautiful place and we but temporarily reprieved
Rit u al cannot stay forever, for
forever belongs to the dead
of sadness.

The moon must be three and beauty belongs to the You may only do this once a
Sam u el J. Fox

quarters full. Jupiter must year; for the damned have

living.
be on the horizon and Mars much toil and work and
visible above the Pour the blood and their own lives to live
timberline. You must drip, moonshine on the fire. forever infernal. Forever
into a mason jar with two Once the fire blazes, belongs to the dead and
shots of moonshine, a sudden and bursting, you beauty belongs to the
single drop of your blood will notice shadows join you living. When the moon is
for fourteen days before beside the fire. They will full, turn the soil and leave
the final phase of the take shape. They will be the an offering to the damned:
moon. Build a fire out of dead friends you have a burnt letter of thanks will
only dead, white birch missed and have thought of do.
wood. Let it burn full for and loved in memory. They
nine minutes, one for every will not be wraiths, but full
circle of hell. You must and pale but physical and
imagine those you wish to tangible. You are allowed to
drink with be around your touch them briefly. You will
sit with them and in the bag
side.
you have sanctified with
Your incantation is as sage, garlic, and lavender,
follows: you will pull out the rum
and tequila. You will have
I know I have been found your friends in the
guilty of wanting. Return, I darkness until the last hour
plead, for a drink. Let us of the night. You will drink,
speak only of then. Let us all of you drunk, all of you
speak only of our bonds. present, though some only

12
Rich ar d St even son

Can?t blow him away with a gun, They say jinns go good with tonic ? .
Popobaw a
even with hollow point silver bullets.
Popobawa or Popo Bawa ?
Can?t splash holy water on ?m Try friendship and hospitality. Leave
Swahili for Bat Wing. shortbread
or wave him away with a cross.
Ain?t no bat, though cookies like you did for Santa Claus
No ooga booga mumbo jumbo can
it casts such ragged shadows save you. when you were a kid. Maybe he?s a kid
when it attacks? . havin?a temper tantrum. Maybe he
just
Prayers of contrition, sacred water doesn?t want his existence denied.
Shapeshifter evil spirit or shatani ? witchin??

the focus of mass hysteria or panic A home-made meal? Mordida or dash

Bring out a yoyo or bolo bat ? a hula
in 1965 when he first appeared in American dollars? Ain?t no way hoop,

on the Tanzanian island of Pemba ? to kiss a Popobawan ass, it seems, maybe a slinky to follow downstairs

soon had folks in Unguja in a flap. save, maybe, to trap it in your dreams. into some basement of consciousness.
Just don?t make a fuss. Teach him to
play.
Some say he?s the spirit unleashed But how would you do that? Conjure
up Throw a stick, but don?t run away.
by an angry Sheikh. A jinn sent
a frozen treat or hamburger and fries?
to take vengeance on his neighbours.
Wait for Halloween and waft the scent
The sheikh lost control of the jinn of a fresh-baked pumpkin pie with
who took on demonic ways. whipped cream
into a dungeon or cave? That won?t
work either.
Some say he?s the embodiment?

the spirit ? of the rage Do good deeds? Treat your neighbor as

of long dead slaves or the family?

vengeful ghost of assassinated Might not work, but it?s a start at least.

president Abeid Karume. Could get a beast to pull up a chair

and take a closer look at that fresh
pumpkin pie? .
And though folks claim he?s apolitical, Maybe he?d smile. Break bread, stay a
his savage attacks rise and fall while? .

with the election cycle in Zanzibar.

Holding or reciting the Koran Maybe fresh fruit would please him.

has been known to keep the beast at A glass of ice cold water ? assuming
bay? .
it didn?t pour right through him.

Maybe dog biscuits would get him

But what do you do slavering over something other than
if you?re not Muslim, blood.

do not believe in ghosts,

let alone religious politicos It?s worth a try. Never say die.

or vengeful shape shiftin?critters? Put away the bang sticks and bazookas.

Maybe he?ll go goo goo for coco puffs.

Never get enough tobacco

13 or spirits ?
 Mmm. Little bite-size toes and
El Cu cu y fingers ?
good for dipping in a dried tomato
Rich ar d St even son

Sooner or later he?s gonna salivate

sauce
and get that white goo in the
or a saucey salsa. Mmmm. Yum corners
Some say El Cucuy?s just yum.
of his inner tube lips. He?s gonna
a Lone Star State folk tale Good with a little telly, a good blubber
horror movie?
designed to scare children something about summer and
upset yer pegs.
into quick, quiet compliance.
He may seem completely guileless ?
at first. Just a grey-haired duffer, Ain?t always in the closet or under
A back-of-the-closet or maybe a little scruffy, down on his the bed.
under-the-bed ?ber booger luck. Could be pushin?a shopping cart
A cut above a dumpster diver. Has instead.
who loves totally misbehaving
some pride ? Watch for the red eyes that don?t
scrumptious, luscious little kids. mean stop.
if not a set of clean clothes They mean dinner. Steak and kidney
giblets.
Has a well-worn, great-for-radio and a little limpy ?n?gimpy
face, in a taped-over set of hard-toed
leathery and brown as a well-worn boots.
saddle, Just indisposed. Snotty but Yer on the menu, son.
composed ? If yer a sinner then get it straight:
sad soulful downturned eyes,
but he?s got outsized incisors too! yer a scrumptious reprobate.
One of those. You wanna grab for a Yer the steak tar tar. The I-can?t-wait-
wallet
To fend him off rather than assail
Can shape shift into a wolf
yer nostrils
as it quivers in a green mist deep-six-tube-steak date
or singe yer eyebrows in his fiery
at the foot of yer bed breath. with Hairy Houdini here.
A get-thee-hence ? to your epoch or Can?t you see him droolin?and
or fen or forest, wherever yer led? fen type. winkin??
He?s got a choice spot in his plot for
you!
Loves kid giblets barbecued But, no, he?s got you penned ?
or highly seasoned in a stew. is elderly and defenceless, you
assume.
Loves their scrumptious plump little
Is gonna lay a boney finger on and
limbs and bums. Slowly roasted or
waylay you
filleted.
with a tale of his own. Go ahead and
groan.

14
Rich ar d St even son

Old M an in Black
All the time I?m thinking creepy old crawler?
He was an old man in thirties clothes, I?m dropping a wad of cash for his uncanny rap.
not a dashing Johnny Cash wannabe ? Hopin?it?s so much pap, but enthralled anyway.
more David Bowie in Hu n ger mode.

Later, my friend berates me. Has a good laugh

Falling-off-the-bone flesh and bones. at my frequent Grey visitation confession.
Liver spots. Wattles that?d put It?s the end of our friendship. I leave town.
yer prize turkeys?in the shade.

I?m devastated. My friend got five minutes ?

He layeth a boney finger on me. He did! the Honda Civic short saucer special ?
Told me he could really read palms eight years later, gets cancer, buys the farm.
and would like to read my friend?s and mine.

Now I?ve got it. Third stage. Past

Told my friend to sit a couple of tables away The hair fallin?out chemo stage. Feelin?groovy.
To give us each the privacy his audit would demand. Scratchin?my balding pate, thinkin?of that old man.
I?m feelin?sorry for the guy by this time.

He was right about everything.

He?s a very old man ? in his eighties easy. You want to hear that, don?t you?
I notice he has cataracts; accede to his demands. That I didn?t amount to a blown dandelion seed?
Turn up my palms and take a seat anyway.

That I got swindled in this life.

He pillages my childhood, puts the scare But I can?t let the government man
in me ? and a hook to reel me in. or whoever he was bamboozle me.
Forces me to listen while he berates me.

Then I suddenly get it ?

the old man?s message that I could be
time?s whore or stand up to my death.

Be the someone who didn?t amount to a thing,

The someone who would be the me
I chose to create. A ton of freight for frail shoulders.

I got a mule and Katy died. Yippeee,

I got to be a hippy before I became a yuppie,
got married, had three kids, got divorced, and died.

Yippee! I hopped a saucer before I bought ?er.

Got the Hail Bop comet to Planet Med.
Gotta stop tellin?folks I?ve been abducted,
I?m friggin?dead. The end. Rewind, dude: I?m talkin?to you.
whisked away in a tin can by melon heads,
and that I?m gonna wither to cancer soon.
15
 Tu ck er Lieber m an

16
Chaos Owl
 your shift supervisor and get the
Set t le Dow n , Y?all
Lar r y D. Th ack er

paperwork process underway. Don?t worry.

You?ve got time. Just keep in mind, God isn?t
Life is hard. Yes, life is hard even after life
really interested in any new arrivals. Just
ends. In fact, from what you?ve probably
letting you know. They don?t call it space for
figured out, life is shit when there?s nothing
nothing, ya know. You, there, stop pushing.
to do in Purgatory. Now I realize you were
You?ll notice in your new arrivals welcome
promised so much more than this ?hurry up
bags a few items. The ?So you got raptured?
and wait? routine you?ve gotten saddled
self-help manual by our good friend and
with, but I can?t say I have many answers
colleague, Brother and Saint James of
for you at this time. Word is, hell?s still quite
Carpathia, two protein bars, and some
full. Has been for a few hundred years, I?m
bottled spring water. And some toilet
afraid to admit. We?ve tried a few solutions,
paper. Don?t trade it all for cigarettes and
so don?t think we?ve not had you?re best
tattoos just yet. As room becomes available
interests in mind. Most of you newcomers
in either hell or heaven ? don?t hold your
were due here at least ten years ago, so
breath, though that?s an obsolete phrase
we?ve done you that favor, for what it?s
here (chuckle) ? we?ll be calling your names,
worth. It?s crowded, yes, I know. But, hell is,
last name first, first name last, so be
too. And hot, as you?d expect, and stinks to
attentive to what?s going on, though we
high heaven, and is deafening with the
want to relax during your stay. By the way,
gnashing of teeth and everything the
we?re taking volunteers for our upgraded
pamphlets promised. Why be in a hurry.
demon possession program which gets you
This boredom or that? Heaven, on the other
a straight delivery back to earth for anyone
hand, is not terribly full, never has been,
interested, so prick your finger and come
and even has a new immigrant clause in
on up if you?ve got, say, unfinished business
effect making entry that much more
back on the mainland. That about wraps up
seemingly impossible, so any of you
this hour ?s announcements. Have a good
convinced you were supposed to be there
rather than here, or hell, eventually, contact afternoon.

17
 / / Pr ocedu r e/ / flavorless. Nothing should screaming, of course.
Lar r y D. Th ack er

ever be, don?t you agree? I knew I Just keep my jaw still, for god?s
liked you for some reason. sake.
Use no pair of delicate, innocent Stay focused through my right ear.
looking tweezers. Now fasten those clamps down ?
tighter ? They say it?s wormlike, tape-ish,
No gleaming, newly manufactured
having no real face
scalpel. I don?t want to move at all, lest I
break more of you to speak of, unless it has adopted
Steam-cleaned and perfected
mine (check
stainless steel does me no good. than only your heart when I begin
begging you when it?s out, please), perhaps a
hand or arm here and there.
to cease this lovely favor, Creative monster within a monster,
But that rusty pair of jagged
as new tongues of pain, both feeding
forceps, forgotten
confusion slobber out like alien on the myth of the other, this
for so long, recently dug out of a
profanities internal freak
physician?s kitchen drawer,
I?ll have no translation for when of nature hidden behind the skull?s
the crust-ridden ones, those are a
we?re finished. softening curtain.
different story.
So don?t ask.

They were in a woman?s abdomen But don?t squeeze too hard. Don?t
once. Now, for this one terrible and leave such a dying
Surrounded with the fire of her day. splendid favor,
thing expanding in me.
Burnt clean. I?ll never ask another thing of you.
So clean they were silent and
satisfied, sleeping, In this lifetime, at least.
left behind like a kid at a filling Rx: The right hemisphere is the When you
station in the desert. target.
get it out,
Soul of creativity, enemy of
analysis, you own it.
Diana was her name. She winced where the qualifier rages out at the
when the MRI machine quantifier,
spun-up, started its search. Like abstractions run amuck. There?s Eat freely but quickly. This is
many women, they didn?t something
in there. Dangerous. And you can not a thing
believe her at first. Until she
crawled out of the machine, have it you want to take responsibility for
screaming, Get it out! Get this out of once it?s out. I don?t care where it
me! goes.
She?d only thought she was Just know this is ultimately your setting upon the world if
choice.
possessed up until then,
Dig deep and fast ? let it know you
arguing with the voices in her body. mean business.
It thinks ? if it can think ? it?s well it gets away from
hidden. you.
How could someone, a physician, Somewhere in the folds, in the
hungover or not, fields under the skull,
so carelessly leave a tool inside behind the seed of the third eye,
another person?s body? my soul,
dead center of my head.

That?s it, get those. Yes.

When I stiffen with the first jolt,
that shocking jab, use it
Don?t scrape off whatever that is, to your advantage, the worm will
leave the taste. move, rolling and rolling,
This shouldn?t be sanitary and rolling and rolling. And I?ll be

18
 Sh an n on Elizabet h

19
Silence
Cein w en E. Car iad Haydon

Fr eyja's Bir t h
Molten metal floods the devil?s anvil, fire gives birth to Freyja. Agony sheens and shudders,
gasps and groans until she is delivered, and gnashed teeth slice her umbilicus.

The mid-wife, Njoror, fond white witch, watches wanton women spirit Freyja far away.
Reared to revel, exult in pleasure, through days of war and comrades, sex and lovers. Then,
unforeseen, wisdom grows her still and cool, solid and formed in beauty. She grows young
held in human dreams.

20
 Cein w en E. Car iad Haydon
Waking with
Cu r ses intentedness
Wiltering wap she draindrichts to
witchcraft wreck all.
defleats dragonella?s She spoos portents
still powered and pillacky.
derangling the weird Lank locks sparoud her
Welsh Marches brinkly brow
pensed foul dread and water ?s wanted to
degroodled. shrive shellfish

from her stinky

oceaned hair.
Sprites sprickle curses

to rehearse for
doom-frum dire As she stoops to browl
and forfend devil she spies cruel drisket
dawns. Daddy-O
White witch Gwenda?s se-crenting cups of tea
woozy, wilful
wantonness knows

now, all sweet billiams

die.

21
 had been so strong once. ?How exactly will we be ?It?s just me, then,?said
Cein w en E. Car iad Haydon

saved??she persisted. Dad.

Ou r ?Maybe. Get going. Now.'
?The rules have changed.? ?Come on,?said the
?Are you sure? We never
Ar m ageddon go there,?said Dad. ?The rules always change,
stranger.

officer,?she said. The officer turned on his

This is how it happened, ?Who?s we,?said my older heel and Dad limped off
how my sister became
sister, Bella. ?This time, it?s for real.? after him, into the night.
everything to me. It was
The air smelt of hung
winter, all day we?d ?The family, us.? The man looked her up
searched for food. and down. Bella spat on meat.
Outside one blown-out ?There is no we, no us,?
the dusty ground. ?Come with me, Gracie,?
building we?d seen a said Bella. ?The war
?Dad, don?t go, Please. We said Bella.
dented fridge. Dad prised changed all that.?
the door open, inside we can take care of We staggered back into
Bella knew many things I ourselves,?said Bella. She
found lumps of rot in the old quarter. Yellow fog
did not. She stepped in
pools of slime. On the took my hand swallowed us deep into its
when Dad lost his way,
ground next to it, young acrid craw. I
went to pieces, That and held it tight. ?Dad, we
dandelions pushed up remembered Mum?s
happened often these are staying, whatever you
and split the hard earth. hacking cough.
We sucked one leaf each days. do.?
and left the rest of the ?Shut up. Shut up, all of My shirt stuck to my back
plant to grow, a food you. Come with me,?said and Bella?s nails dug into
source to return to. the officer. my skin.
We were tired out, all ?Who gave you the ?Dad,?I said. ?Is Mum
three of us. We didn?t see say-so??said my father, there??
him until he was almost
again.
on top of us. A man
?Mum?s dead,?said Bella.
attired in the uniform of ?For me to know, you to
the New Army. ?That?s a lie,?said Dad. ?We
wonder.?
will find her. We?d best go
?Come with me,?said the with the man, like he said.
?Will you help us??I asked.
officer. Likely, we?ll find her.?
?You will be saved, saved
By what order??said my to contribute,?he said. His ?See, Bella,?I said. ?It?ll be
father. eyes narrowed. alright. Mum?s coming
back.?
?That?s no matter. I have Wee soaked my trousers,
authority. Come.? my cheeks flared, and I ?Hold on, bairn?said the
looked down at the officer. ?I never said ? ?
?Of course. Do you intend
ground.
to take us outside the city ?Too late,?said Dad.
walls, Sir?? ?Saved from what??said ?You?ve raised hopes.'
Bella. ?Everywhere is the
I flinched at the craven ?Not mine,?said Bella.
same now.?
look on our father ?s face. I
?The child stays with me.?
couldn?t understand what
?Not quite.?
had happened to him, he I felt the force in her arm.

22
Kevin Den sley

Gh ost Tr ain
at the Geelong Show, when I was a child

Luminous,

with a guttural roar,

the creature leapt from the dark.

My heart almost jumped from my throat.

But a kid at the back of the Ghost Train,

in the carriage behind mine,

attacked the humanoid being

with (upon a closer look)

suspicious rubbery skin.

There was a struggle.

During the fracas,

the monster guy ripped in half

a brown paper bag

belonging to the kid.

Soon the ride ended.

'I've lost my lunch!'

the kid exclaimed

as we emerged into daylight.

He held the torn-off top of his bag.

But he wasn't unhappy;

in fact, he was grinning

? he'd grappled with a monster,

and emerged unbowed,

undefeated

23
 Ken n et h Pobo
We Ar e Now
M yt h

I used to live in Atlantis.

We?d watch TV, mow the yard,
and make peanutbutter sandwiches.

Sometimes we were alive.

Usually it was just inhale, exhale.
Then stop.

We considered ourselves exceptional.

How many other continents
had shows where contestants
giggled about sex?
When the water wall came
and we were busy clapping
for whoever won a car that day,
we said nothing will hurt us.
We?re forever.

Even when waves covered our lips

and we screamed for help,
we clung to a life preserver of beliefs.
Surely God would save us.
Everyone would hug and tomorrow
would rattle the rafters.

We are now myth. Read about us,

24
 Sh an n on Elizabet h

25
Dia de los Locos
H. L. Cor n et t o

Th e Win dow

I hadn?t explored every corner of the house. I wasn?t brave enough, nor well enough. It was
drafty with a musty odor, and, try as I might, I could not overcome the dread of the
unknown. I couldn?t comprehend why we had moved into this dilapidated ruin; my family
had always been wealthy, and never before had we lived in such conditions. Most of the
furniture was covered with sheets. Dust and cobwebs lurked in hidden corners. In my brief
time here, I had gotten to know the window inside my sickroom well. I stood and looked out
for hours each day. The rattling of the wind against the panes, the cold glass against my
forehead, and the unsurpassed view of the property made this my favorite place in the
house.

I looked out across the vast landscape, and had no idea how much of the property my
family owned. There had once been an orchard, now scraggly and overgrown. The most
peculiar thing that I could see from my window was a cemetery. An old family plot, from
what I could tell, not unusual for this region. What caught my attention was an old swing
hanging from an oak tree in the center of the plot. I wondered why anyone would put a
swing there. Surely it was no place for a child to play, idyllic though the landscape was.

Time passed. I wasn?t sure how long, because the days blurred together. My cough had
grown worse. I couldn?t remember the last time my parents had visited my room. I couldn?t
blame them; my illness had driven a wedge of grief between them. I found myself still
drawn to the window. I saw the swing billowing back and forth in the wind, and I wondered,
if I die, will they bury me in the plot outside, so that they can look out the window and see me?

Spring came and the weather grew warmer. The sun shone down, lifting the dreary cloud
that hung over the outside world. I saw through my window a patch of daffodils that
sprouted, flaunting their bright hues and banishing the darkness of winter. It was on one of
these warm spring days that I decided to venture away from my window, and explore the
grounds for myself.

I walked through the cemetery, running my fingers along the headstones. Finally, I could
read names and epitaphs left in memorial. Samuel, Isabelle, Douglas? these people must
have lived here many years before. Inexplicably, I felt myself drawn to the center of the plot,
the oak, and the swing. Though the rope looked ancient, I settled down onto the swing and
began gliding to and fro. My toes brushed the ground, and I glimpsed a small tombstone:

Lydia Ravenshorn

1886 - 1897

?Loving and Obedient Daughter ?

As I turned back toward the house, the hairs on the back of my neck rose. Standing in my
window was the silhouette of a girl looking down at me. Suddenly I realized what the
window had been trying to show me.

I hadn?t just moved here. I had never left.

26
Ik ech u k w u Obior ah

Bat of t h e Un der w or ld
The night was still a virgin when I became a moron,
Empty of all expressions watching a bat of the underworld,
Trying to steal my breath through a balcony of Lodge,
Its mandible was a tower hundred feet above ground,
Its legs of drill hung on my curtain in thick ropes of muscle,
And its neck was a viper twisting magic;
Its mouth gaped exposing a fence of teeth like dagger,
Invoking life out of me.

From the breathing cage of my upper body,

I became a living dead basking into a basket of casket,
I tried singing Ogene to awoken the spirit of my ancestors
To save my breath from being stolen,
But they had all gone to the land of the deaf.

In the pocket of silence I watched my tears

Flowing towards the river of damnation,
With a rotten hope wrapped up in cat-skin.
My eyes looked beside a corner of the lonely street,
And saw how a young grave arose as slave in abjection
Trying to kiss me into the prominence of death unexpected.

It was like a mirage when the only Being dwelling above,

Landed with a speed of grace;
Squeezing the bat beneath the grave,
Then I heard my nose sneezed out a rancid,
Following the injunction of a force pushing me back
To the consciousness of a life stitched in shadows;
I am just a mere mortal with an oiled skin.

27
Hau n t ed and visiting with patients.

M icah Bau m an
Hospit al She excitedly asked if he
regularly spoke
I was pacing around The But, maybe the dead were
Valley again to ghosts and spirits of his here
dead relatives.
when I saw a hospital before the hospital was
worker approach It didn?t seem exciting to me built,
or appropriate
a patient who was talking to and the living are the
himself. for a mental health worker trespassers.
to ask a patient.
I eavesdropped on their
conversation.

Perhaps, we are the spirits

She asked who he was She said she was always
talking to. or the ghosts, wandering
interested
the corridors,
He explained he was reliving in spirits that might be
times hoping to get well and
lurking.
desperate to get out.
spent with his friends who
Lost souls walking the halls,
weren?t there.

28
Jill Kiesow

Win t er at t h e Gir ls' Asylu m

I dream of asylums. Always, they are multi-tiered, shaky structures with tall, barred windows
disrupting one?s view from the inside. But there?s no longer anyone to look out.

The grounds are bare, shrouded in perpetual bleak winter, trod upon only by the restless
ghosts of former residents. Inmates, held under the guise of science, tortured in the spirit
of cruelty. Ragged, ethereal, frosty girls sweep away snow, claw at frozen earth, rest
porcelain cheeks on stiff moss. Faded pink satin chokers encircle their necks, cutting,
searching futilely for lifeblood. These girls can no longer be wounded.

It is easy to imagine a different scene entirely. One in which beautiful, composed,

pink-cheeked young ladies sit on green grass, white skirts tucked under legs, manners and
bodies intact and vital. Nannies stand nearby, offering dainty morsels and unwarranted
praise. In this reality birds sing, flowers bloom, well-bred blood courses through blue veins.

This reality, this lawn, is not the setting of my dreams though. My girls came later, after the
deserted mansion became a girls?home, then the asylum where any small carelessness was
enough to warrant a prison term and, eventually, a death sentence.

The building is boarded and thought to be vacant now, because no one takes into account
the ghastly girls who cannot find a place of peace for which to leave this hell.

I try to help them and I cannot. I don?t exist inside the dream.

They say if you die in a dream, your body dies. If you died in the asylum, you live on forever,
frozen to that world like wet skin to ice.

29
 Car a Bovair d
Ser pen t in e Seas
Dewy crags beneath my feet become

Medusa?s petrified victims,

And hint at the algid waters below.

I leap, but the fear lasts only a second.

Immersed, surrounded and

Numbed.

She hisses beneath me, and her

Emerald tresses caress my feet.

The icy womb of the serpentine sea cradles me.

She coaxes me deeper, yet

My mortal frame will not

Unleash me.

It is my sempiternal soul

That will remain below with the

Ophidian Goddess.

Violent splashes rise from the waves

As my body tries to emerge.

Sunlight is visible yet out of reach,

I grasp towards the surface.

But the serpent coils itself around an ankle

And at once the sunlight disappears.

Medusa, termagant, virago,

Witch.

30
Sh an n on Elizabet h

Grave Dancer Dancing

31
St ef Nu ñ ez

Th e Er lk in g's
Dau gh t er
Noa ran a tired hand through her long mane of curly, dyed-too-bright maroon, hair and exhaled a heavy plume of smoke from
her mouth. The club she was haunting had let out for the night, and she was standing across the street, watching the inebriated
patrons make their sloppy ways home. One of her foster mothers had always gotten off by saying that nothing good ever
happens after midnight.

Noa grunted at the unwelcome memory of Beth ? her 2nd or 3rd foster mother ? it was sometimes difficult to keep track of them
all. The government referred to them as gracious for taking in a scrawny kid with a bad attitude, but according to Noa they
could take ?gracious?and stick it where the sun didn?t shine.

Just then, a memory tried to claw its way out of the darkness of her mind where she kept everything unpleasant. A memory
from when she was a teenager. Hot hands gripping the skin on her thighs; a crowd of strange looking people surrounding her,
closing in; a deep, and haunting voice that dripped sweet honey into her soul. The bad thing.

Noa exhaled sharply through her nose and forced those memories back into the secret spaces of her mind. Instinctively, she
fingered the little inked symbol on her wrist. It was a protection ward she had gotten as a teen, around the time the bad thing
stopped.

She had just raised a tiny blunt and took another deep drag, relishing the burn, when she spotted trouble on wheels. Big, shiny
Harley?s wheels, to be specific.

The bike?s owner was wearing big black boots with spikes on them over tight leather pants. As her eyes travelled upwards, she
was liking the view more and more, that is, until she got to his face. The lips were thin, set into a smirk and the teeth behind
them were slightly crooked. The eyes that lit up that face were devastatingly magnetic ? one was baby blue and the other was
hazel, both rimmed in heavy black eyeliner. There was something else in those eyes, sparkling behind those mismatched irises
that spoke of old danger, unearthly confidence and even a little? familiarity.

Noa dropped the ghost of her cigar and kissed it into the ground with the heel of her boot. She raised her now free hand to the
back of her neck where the hairs were standing on end. Assuming that this person had to be a past blackout hookup, Noa
pulled her jacket close around her and headed in the opposite direction. She wasn?t the type of girl who played in the same
pool more than once.

***

Back in her tiny apartment, Noa had drawn a flowery bubble bath and was soaking to try and wash away the grime of the day.
With her eyes closed, she rested the back of her head on the edge of the old, claw-footed tub she kind of liked. Across the
bathroom, her iPod dock sat on a small shelf, crooning a 90s grunge rock hit. Noa felt all the tension she?d been holding in her
muscles release at once.

There were herbs in her bath. The kind she used when she was in almost desperate need of a good sleep, a borderline coma.
Valerian, Lavender, Chamomile and Rose petals floated dreamily around the curves of Noa?s body. She felt her eyelids grow
heavy, heavier, closed.

The iPod crackled with white noise, and Noa?s eyes snapped open. A soft chuckle could be heard just behind the static. The
water didn?t feel hot anymore, there was ice in Noa?s veins. The laughter grew louder and was now a harsh, angry sound.

Her wide eyes were on the open door and as she watched, long, slender fingers curled around door frame. A pair of
luminescent eyes blinked back at her from the darkness beyond the bathroom.

Noa scrambled out of the tub, huddling soaking wet and shaking in the corner. This was everything she had ever run from, here
now in the flesh. There was nowhere she could run.

The pale hand withdrew and in walked that mysterious motorcycle rider from outside of the club. Familiarity struck Noa again
like a knife to the chest, and the memory came back with much more clarity. She was lost in it, drowning helplessly on her
32
bathroom floor.

Surrounded by strangers in masks, a much younger Noa was on her knees with her hands tied behind her back. Before her
stood a tall, devastatingly handsome man. His teeth were slightly crooked, and one of his eyes was baby blue? the other hazel.

?Who am I?? He asked her, his voice deep and silky.

?The Erlking,? answered Noa. Her lower lip trembled.

?Did you come with me willingly??

?Yes, but-?, Noa protested before The Erlking cut her off.

?You called to me when you were at your loneliest. Very clearly, you said,?Someone please take me away from here?,? he said.

Noa?s shoulder ?s slumped in defeat. ?Yes, I came with you willingly.?

He brandished an ornate knife and smiled wildly. ?Your body, your soul and your blood now belong to me.?

Cries of surprise rang out behind her, and Noa felt hands grab the rope binding hers roughly. Then all at once the ropes were
gone. She smelled cloves and a girl?s voice in her ear said, ?Run, Noa.?

?Yamiyah, what the hell are you doing?? The Erlking growled at his daughter.

But Noa had run.

She came slowly out of the memory and blinked hard at the figure standing by her sink, looking at her anxiously. The person
every reflex in her body had told her was the Erlking, but was really-

?Yamiyah,?whispered Noa, reaching out her hand.

Yamiyah came to her and held her face gently in her hands.

?The Erlking is dead, and I?ve come to take you home with me. You don?t have to run anymore.?

33
 Tr igger War n in g: Descriptions of violence
and sexual content
Not Son of Sam
A few years later the Yanks would have their knickers in a twist about Son of Sam, but we had Sam himself.
Don St oll

Sam Hain, papers called him, because after the first murder, in early October, he wrote some rubbish in blood on
the sidewalk about being the Druid Lord of Darkness, celebrating early the Gaelic festival marking the end of harvest
and start of winter. And going to keep celebrating, he promised.

?Four liters of blood by the size of her,? Chief Inspector Redmond said. ?Lucky for Sam, him wanting to write War and
Peace.?

Easy to say ?Only kills tarts, I?m all right Jack.? But can he always spot a tart, know who is and who isn?t? And sure he?ll
stick to tarts anyway? Not signed a contract. If the pleasure?s in the killing, why not try something different? Bird kept
her cherry dies same as a tart.

Coppers started looking for a little chap because the third tart got away and noticed that much about him. Not tiny,
mind, big enough to kill that first tart, lass of ten stone. But ten-stone bloke would be stronger, and that?s still small
for a bloke.

Tart that got away said ?By the grace of God.? To which Harold Morton, most useless Detective Inspector in Brixton
Station and like Redmond another sodding comedian, said ?Now we know God gives a monkey?s what happens to a
tart.?

Detective Inspector Ellen Flay ignored that. But then C.I. Redmond said Flay had volunteered to play a tart, act as
bait.

?Reverting to her true nature,? twat Morton piped up again.

Flay glared at him.

But she didn?t glare at Redmond when he said D.I. Morton would be her cover. Redmond didn?t take to hard looks
from subordinates.

She waited for her colleagues to clear out. Inferiors all, she thought, but with testicles you can get by. Colleagues
and their testicles not hanging around anymore? so to speak? she could have a word with the Chief.

Redmond spoke first. Had read her mind.

?Can only spare Morton. Darkies on the warpath, nastier business than a chap killing tarts.?

?Because they?re tarts??

?He kills a university lass,? Redmond sighed, ?darkies go on the back burner.?

?Or he kills a woman D.I. because the bloke meant to cover her ?s useless??

?Make sure that doesn?t happen,? Redmond said in his conversation-over voice.

Week until Halloween. Freezing her fanny off on Maplethorpe Road, center of the pattern formed by the sites of the
attacks, one that failed included. No real tarts in sight. Tart can read a map too. So if Sam did the same, went to the
center, Flay would have no competition.

Flay looking for a little chap like the tart that God gave a monkey?s about had said, telling herself little chap?s less

34
scary. But twat Morton with his yellow-teeth grin says ?Still likely bigger than you, Ellen, kill you fast. I?ll play hero, gun
him down. But too late for you.?

Flay thought Not sure what I want gone more, Sam or your yellow teeth.

Ginning up a bit of warmth pacing in sodding six-inch heels. Wondering how the tarts did it night after night.

And wondering something else on her pass by twat Morton. Plan was he?d ask how much and she?d say piss off.
They?d have a moment to add more.

Hers was ?Won?t Sam think something?s fishy, I say no to every bloke??

Morton said ?You want to say yes, don?t mind me. Starved for entertainment tonight.?

?Twat,? she said.

Freezing her fanny off. Not seen many blokes to say no to, even blokes staying in with no birds about. Poofters
staying in too, thinking Sam?d do me if he can?t find a tart.

Then? hello? little sod pops up at the corner with Saxon Road.

She looked for Morton. Knew where he was five minutes ago. If twat?s having a wank, better finish fast. Worse, he?s
nipped two streets over to Hartlepool Road, maybe find a real tart brave enough? stupid enough? to be out, have a
quick one. Twat?s the sort to go too fast, leave a bird hanging. But maybe not fast enough if little sod?s Sam.

Mustn?t walk toward him, Flay thought. But too fast the other way, he?ll know something?s up. Walk away the tiniest
bit slower than him, let him catch up slow. Give Morton time to shoot his wad then get back here. Don?t like being
the damsel in distress, Flay thought. But need twat, and need him at his feeble best.

But get to the corner with Brockhurst Close and Sam?s gone. Where? He rent a bedsit above the shops?

She walked back toward Saxon Road. Light goes on above a shop, somebody draws the drapes. Little sod wasn?t
Sam.

But where?s Morton?

Flay thought Hartlepool Road?s the ticket. Any tart out and about would go there because of the traffic, and Sam
would go where the supply is.

She continued to the corner and down Saxon Road. Then had second thoughts. Suppose Morton?s not gone to
Hartlepool Road. He?s on Maplethorpe, I?m on my own. Bloody hell.

She heard something. Alley up ahead. Coming from there.

She took off her heels. Filthy walking, but best not to make noise. Feels better too.

Turns into the alley and a dark shape?s in her face. She thought later how lucky she was he?d earned the six-inch
heel she sunk into his eye not even thinking. Could have been some poor sod taking a slash. Popular spot for it,
whole alley stinking like piss.

He dropped to the ground screaming. Then Flay saw another shape: D.I. Harold Morton, the life carved out of him.

Chap whose eye she?d put out confessed to the Sam Hain murders.

And Flay thought Blessed October twenty-fourth that was, got two for the price of one.
35
 Meet t he Cont r ibutor s
Mar t ina Rimbaldo
Martina Rimbaldo is a 29 year old women who lives and works in Croatia . She always
wears a pen and a notebook in her purse in the case of a sudden inspiration in order to write
it down . Her poem is published in Nightingale &Sparrow and her artwork is published at
weekly blog of Royal Rose Magazine and Bleached Butterfly , her photographs are waiting for
publication in Anti heroin chic .Loves to paint abstract paintings , read religious books
,watch horror as well as old movies with Audrey Hepburn ,Sharon Tate ,Brigitte Bardot who
happens to share her birth date and (over)thinks specially about death ,what some people
find morbid, but not her ,it is a part of life too. Her goal is to live according to the Golden Rule

Joan S t at el
Joan McNerney?s poetry has been included in numerous literary magazines such as Seven
Circle Press, Dinner with the Muse, Poet Warriors, Blueline, and Halcyon Days. Four Bright
Hills Press Anthologies, several Poppy Road Review Journals, and numerous Kind of A
Hurricane Press Publications have accepted her work. Her latest title, The Muse In
Miniature, is available on Amazon and she has four Best of the Net nominations.

S amuel J. Fox
Samuel J Fox is a bisexual poet and essayist living in the Southern US. He is poetry editor at
Bending Genres LLC and has been published in many online and print journals. Find Samuel
on Twitter (@samueljfox) or at a coffee shop, graveyard, dilapidated place in Statesville, NC.

Richar d S t evenson
Rich ar d St even son retired from a thirty-year gig teaching English and Creative Writing courses for Let h br idge
College in 2015. He is the author of thirty-two books and holds a Masters in Creative Writing from the University
of British Columbia (1984) and an honours Bachelor ?s degree in English (1974) and Diploma in Secondary
Education (English, 1977) from the University of Victoria. His most recent books include a long poem sequence on
serial killer Clifford Olson, Rock , Scissor s, Paper (Dreaming Big Publications, 2016) and a haikai collection, A
Gaggle of Geese (Alba Publishing, UK, 2017). A children?s poetry collection, Act ion Dach sh u n d! is forthcoming
from Ekstasis Editions in Victoria, BC, Canada.

Tucker Lieber man

Tucker Lieberman, the author of Painting Dragons, has walked on fire. His photos are in Crack the
Spine, L?Éphémère, and Impossible Task. He lives in Bogotá, Colombia. www.tuckerlieberman.com
Twitter: @tuckerlieberman

36
 Lar r y D. Thacker
Larry D. Thacker ?s poetry is in over 150 publications including Spillway, Still: The Journal, Valparaiso Poetry Review,
Poetry South, The Southern Poetry Anthology, The American Journal of Poetry, The Lake, Illuminations Literary
Magazine, and Appalachian Heritage. His books include three full poetry collections, Drifting in Awe, Grave Robber
Confessional, and Feasts of Evasion, two chapbooks, Voice Hunting and Memory Train, as well as the folk history,
Mountain Mysteries: The Mystic Traditions of Appalachia. His MFA in poetry and fiction is earned from West Virginia
Wesleyan College. Visit his website at: www.larrydthacker.com

Insta/Twitter: thackalachia

S hannon Elizabet h
Sh an n on Elizabet h Gar dn er is a graduate from the University of Wisconsin - Stevens Point with a Bachelors in Studio
Art and a Minor in Art History. Her interest in horror and the macabre came about while exploring nature and the
paranormal. The work explores the natural and organic process of death, evoking empathy for decay. She believes life
is beautiful when left to fate, leaving art to chance assists the viewer to witness beauty hidden within imperfections.
Her process appreciates nature's process and discovers the earth's imperfect beauty. The ethereal mood of her work
reaches the extreme and address the taboo.

Insta/Facebook: ShannonElizabethsArt

Ceinwen E. Car iad Haydon

Ceinwen writes short stories and poetry. She is widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies. Her first
chapbook was published in July 2019: 'Cerddi Bach' [Little Poems], a Stickleback by Hedgehog Press. She was a winner
in the Nicely Folded Paper Pamphlet Competition July 2019 and her first pamphlet is due to be published 2019/20.
She has an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University, UK (2017). She believes everyone?s voice counts.

Twitter: CeinwenHaydon

Kevin Densley
Kevin Densley is an Australian writer. His poetry has appeared in Australian, English and American journals. Densley?s
latest poetry collection, his third, Orpheus in the Undershirt, was published by Ginninderra Press (Port Adelaide, South
Australia) in early 2018.

Twitter: Kevin Densley @DensleyKevin

Kennet h Pobo
Ken n et h Pobo has a new book out from Duck Lake Books called Dindi Expecting Snow. His work is forthcoming in: North
Dakota Quarterly, Switchback, Paris Lit Up, and elsewhere. He and his husband enjoy watching birds from their porch. He
teaches English and creative writing at Widener University in Pennsylvania.

Facebook/Insta/Twitter: KenPobo

Holley Cor net to

Holley Cornetto was born and raised in Alabama, but now lives in New Jersey. She is a librarian by day and a
writer by night. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in Flash Fiction Magazine and Collective Realms.
She can be found on twitter as @HLCornetto.

37
 Ikechukwu Obiorah
Ikechukwu Obiorah is a Nigerian Writer, a Prolific Poet and Novelist. He studies B.A (Hons) English at the Benue State
University, Makurdi. He is a member of Writers' League (BSUM) and also a member of Association of Nigerian
Authors (ANA Benue Chapter). He is the Ambassador of Student Poets in Nigeria (PIN). His poem "The Oracle Bard"
has been published in "POETICA 2019" by Clarendon House Publications, England, UK. For a decade Poetry has been
his sweet heart.

Facebook ID. Ikechukwu Obiorah.

Micah Bauman
Micah James Bauman has had his poems published in Word Fountain, The Electric Rail, and the Blue Nib, among
other places. He has read his poems at local art galleries, libraries and coffee shops. Micah?s first published work
was in The Lock Haven Express, his hometown newspaper, in the form of reviews of young adult literature for the
Annie Halenbake Ross Library.

Jill Kiesow
Jill Kiesow: Jill Kiesow won the Lakefly Writers Conference short story award in 2018, and has pieces in several
Clarendon House anthologies, The Matador Review, Lunch Ticket, and more. Her novel, Wet Wings, is available now.
Jill is a Reiki practitioner, vegan, and animal advocate, has worked at a shelter, and volunteers for two dog rescues.

www.jillkiesow.com

www.facebook.com/jillmkiesow

www.instagram.com/dogmomswrite

Cara Bovair d
Cara Bovaird is a Masters student studying English literature in Coleraine, Ireland. She spends a lot of time by the sea,
both reading and writing poetry. October is her favourite month, and Fall is her favourite season of the year.
Twitter: @Cara_Bovaird Instagram: @carabovairdx

Don S toll
Don Stoll's fiction is forthcoming in THE BROADKILL REVIEW, XAVIER REVIEW, THE MAIN STREET RAG, WILD VIOLET,
NORTHWEST INDIANA LITERARY JOURNAL, HEART OF FLESH, COFFIN BELL, BETWEEN THESE SHORES (twice), PULP
MODERN, YELLOW MAMA (twice), FLASH FICTION MAGAZINE, and FRONTIER TALES, and recently appeared in PUNK
NOIR (tinyurl.com/y5o2x5fz), THE GALWAY REVIEW (tinyurl.com/y6nxt9nv), GREEN HILLS LITERARY LANTERN
(tinyurl.com/y2lfxysm), THE AIRGONAUT (tinyurl.com/y67mzfmv), CLOSE TO THE BONE (tinyurl.com/y38ac6jv),
HORLA (tinyurl.com/y3k6eewx), YELLOW MAMA (tinyurl.com/y5zt5loj), DARK DOSSIER (four times), A NEW ULSTER,
THE HELIX, SARASVATI, ECLECTICA (tinyurl.com/y73wnmgq), EROTIC REVIEW (twice: tinyurl.com/y8nkc73z and
tinyurl.com/y36zcvut), CLITERATURE (tinyurl.com/y5m8arzn), DOWN IN THE DIRT, and CHILDREN, CHURCHES AND
DADDIES. In 2008, Don and his wife founded their nonprofit (karimufoundation.org) to bring new schools, clean
water, and clinics emphasizing women's and children's health to three contiguous Tanzanian villages.

38
39