The First Urge Fulfilled… by Keith Kennedy


The First Urge Fulfilled

Flesh furrows up into tiny mounds
as time, heavily administered,
droops weighty, swaying unseen, like
Damocles, duel-edged and severe.

My sleep will be troubled.

Sweat hangs heavy from my brow,
catching and beading on miniscule hairs,
holding off salty eyes and saltier tears, like
Samson ‘neath pillars of marbled skin.

My back will not hold this Earth for long.

Jezebel, witch, rogue, rapscallion,
harried by urges and blood between thighs.
Lead one to sin, yet another to clarity, but
take from both a pound of flesh, to feed;
first yourself
and then,
your braying young.


Keith Kennedy has published short fiction in Nocturnal Ooze, Midnight Times, Aurora Wolf, Anotherealm and Bete Noir, as well as the Aurora Rising Anthology. He has also published numerous poems in magazines such as Niteblade, Heroic Fantasy Quarterly, Kindling and the Poetic Pinup Revue. In 2011 he was nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Rhysling Award.

Copyright © 2012 by Keith Kennedy


The Miracle… by Margaret Elysia Garcia


The Miracle

When she was an infant,
they thought she’d died.
They called for the priest,
the curandera, the tias to wail.

They called for the county to record.

The faintest of breaths blew from her infant lips

made purple by the almost slip of her small life.

But she gasped, coughed, heaved

Back into the world; saved by a miracle

Hallelujah, Hallelujah Hallelujah

They prepared for her death, not her recovery.

What do you do when no one dies?

And that’s how it started
She was almost not here.
Face down in the crib, angel bound

Found face up on the blanket

He had seen it happen—
His baby daughter almost died
The memory was somewhere in his head—
Hidden for decades somewhere before the years

She stopped talking to them.

He looked around the room at the nurses,
At the restraints on his arms, lifted up slightly,

Said her name.


Margaret Elysia Garcia grew up in and out of southeastern Los Angeles. She’s the author of four chapbooks of poetry: When the Ground Tore Open, Choosing Words, You in the House of My Heart, and Natural Menace. Alzheimer’s Cul de Sac is her latest poetry venture she hopes to publish soon. Some of her chapbooks can be found at aphasiapress/megarcia.

Copyright © 2012 by Margaret Elysia Garcia




Tomcat Tale… by Valery Petrovskiy



Snowflakes flight is alike Tomcat purring, lulling they affect the same way. In a moon night Tomcat purring in or snowflakes whirl out is like the same. In a day light snowflakes don’t draw much attention; they remind one of office girls that hurry to a bus stop in the morning. They nudge each other in hurly-burly and brush their eyelashes against men, troubling them. Women eyelashes are alike snowflakes then, they go up and down while snowflakes float but round. Afterwards the snow is lying underfoot in a lacy coverlet. I don’t dare to march on the just fallen snow, it seems blasphemous. One is not to step on a white tablecloth, and I’m waiting for anybody to tread a hasty chain of footsteps.

Thus I follow Tomcat, extremely patient when needed. But it happen Tomcat to carve a way for me in a winter morning; he teaches me to overstep the limits, my grey brother Tomcat. He is running leisurely against me, and he never would stop and rub his furry neck against my leg. He is my brother, that’s enough. Every morning he hurries to me drawing a fresh pass. One never knows which side he crops up next. Only his traces display me my daily course.

Tomcat neglects ladies. But they attract me, unknown creatures in a cloud of snowfall, vanishing in wreaths of perfume. Ladies leave a trail of scent long like Tomcat’s tail when he is marching against me to pass the door. I am holding back my door every morning when we meet.

I open him the door; it’s just a trifle to me, and Tomcat reveals me a day pass. I never tread upon his track on the snow, and never cross it. I walk along the rosary of his pace and always get to an open spot. It seems to me, Tomcat is an astronaut descending to the ground and starting with a scratch his beaded pace to my door. I can imagine Tomcat to advance on the snow in night twilight, he knows his way and I don’t.

I had watched his trace after a sudden shower in summer. People left wet prints and Tomcat left a dry track on a wet pavement. I watched it after every rain, so Tomcat strikes me even more. Не is my brother and I can leave bare traces as well, I believe. But I never glance back at my traces, particularly when in a downpour.

And I don’t pay notice at women in rain, only in a snowfall.


Mr. Valery Petrovskiy is a journalist and short story writer from Russia. Не is English Department graduate at Chuvash State University, Cheboksary, graduated VKSch Higher School, Moscow in journalism, and got a degree at Kazan State Technology University in psychology.
Valery’s writing has been published in The Scrambler, Rusty Typer, BRICKrethoric, NAP Magazine, Literary Burlesque, The Other Room, Curbside Quotidian, DANSE MACABRE, WidowMoon Press, PRIME MINCER, Hulltown 360, Apocrypha and Abstractions, Apollo’s Lyre, The Legendary, The Monarch Review, The Atticus Review, Marco Polo, Unshod Quills in the USA, and in Australian The Fringe Magazine, Skive and Going Down Swinging journals. At the moment he is writer-in-residence at Marco Polo arts magazine, while staying in Russia. He has recently interviewed Gloom Cupboard:

Tomcat Tale was originally published August 15, 2011, in Apocrypha and Abstractions.

Copyright © 2011 by Valery Petrovskiy


Crepuscule… by Peter Marra



naked spirits invited to the burning buildings

see black weather flights of skin.

a feast begins and a slow dance

noise has diminished.

a pity that’s told over and over again to their offspring is

surgically applied to memory:

leather thongs torturing eyeballs

their lids woven tightly together – a time for time.

a cold endeavor.

venture outside and see the blackness.

a room: a red oval shape turning many times over.

the quality adjusted the life of the disease,

drawn out over a bed of nails.

it endures as a massive, gargling convulsion.

a whimpering.


Peter Marra is from Williamsburg Brooklyn. Born in Brooklyn, he lived in the East Village, New York from 1979-1993 at the height of the punk – no wave movement. Peter has had a lifelong fascination with Surrealism, Dadaism, and Symbolism. His poems explore alienation, sex, love, addiction, havoc, secrets, and obsessions often recounted in an oneiric filmic haze. A surrealist and Dadaist, he was first published in Maintenant 4 and has had approximately 50 poems published in the past year in the following journals,, blue and yellow dog, Breadcrumb Scabs, Calliope Nerve, Caper Literary Journal, Carcinogenic, Carnage Conservatory, Clutching At Straws,Crash, Danse Macabre, dark chaos, farthermost dream, Indigo Rising Magazine, L.E.S.Review, mad swirl, Maintenant 4, Maintenant 5, negative suck, Sex and murder, Subliminal Interiors, Sweet Flowery Roses, The Beatnik, the vein, Why Vandalism?, Yes Poetry, Petrichor, Phantom Kangaroo, Unlikely, Apocrypha And Abstractions, Pipe Dreams, including an interview in Yes,Poetry. Among his influences are Tristan Tzara, Paul Eluard, Edgar Allan Poe, Russ Meyer, and Roger Corman.

Copyright © 2012 by Peter Marra