tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-65004346155324653392024-03-19T03:58:38.056-07:00Black Lantern PublishingAn Online Art & Literary Journal
Volume I Fall 2009Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comBlogger24125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-65931436776503039902009-07-25T21:40:00.000-07:002009-07-25T21:58:03.730-07:00Black Lantern Publishing, Volume I<em>"Ye who read are still among the living; but I who write shall have long since gone my way into the region of shadows..."--Edgar Allan Poe, Shadow</em>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-78081885691194977472009-07-25T09:40:00.000-07:002009-08-20T08:02:19.720-07:00Table of Contents<div id="ms__id67"><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,153,0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Literature</span> </span><br /><br />Rebecca Huggins</span></strong></div><div id="ms__id69"><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingthecloud.blogspot.com/"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">The Cloud</span> </span></a></em></div><div id="ms__id262"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)"><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingmagicpen.blogspot.com/"><span style="color:#333333;">The Magic Pen</span><br /></a></em></span><br /><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"></span></strong><em></em><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><strong><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">A</span>nn Cro</strong></span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><em style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)"><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingbonesunderoak1.blogspot.com/"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">The Bones Under the Oak, Part I</span></a></em></span><br /><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingbonesunderoak2.blogspot.com/"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">The Bones Under the Oak, Part II</span></a></em><br /><em></em><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"></span></strong></span><em></em><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Howie Good</span><br /><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)" href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/years-later-sky-slopes-like-roof.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic">Years Later, The Sky Slopes Like a Roof</span></a><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)"><br /></span><em style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)"><a href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/years-later-sky-slopes-like-roof.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Visiting the Dead</span></a></em><br /><br /><strong style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Carl Plumer,</span></strong> <em style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)"><a href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/layers.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Layers</span></a></em><em><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)"><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)" href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/layers.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)"> </span></a><br /></span></em><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Natalie Paul</span><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)" href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/melancholy-sits-quiety-on-hill.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Melancholy Sits Quietly on a Hill</span></a><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)"><br /></span><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)" href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/melancholy-sits-quiety-on-hill.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Fragments</span></a><br /><br /></span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Kenneth Radu,</span> <a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingsilence.blogspot.com/"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic">Silence </span></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:0;"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:100%;" ></span></span><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Stephen Jarrell Williams</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">,</span> </strong><em><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,255)" href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/dead-in-water.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Dead in the Water</span></a> </em><br /><em></em><br /><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Simon Leigh<br /></span></strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)"><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingmillywalters.blogspot.com/"><em><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">The Secret Life of Milly Walters</span></em></a><br /><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishinghalfanhour.blogspot.com/"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The Story of Half an Hour</span></a><br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">David Rasey,</span><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)"> </span><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingrasey.blogspot.com/"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The Ratio of Lift to Drag</span></a><br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Mike Berger</span><br /></span><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/twilight.html">Twilight</a><br /><a href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/twilight.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic">Gold Orangutan </span></a></span></span><br /><br /><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Pierrino Mascarino,</span> </strong><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingezraandflies.blogspot.com/"><em><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">I Remember Ezra and the Flies</span></em> </a><br /><br /><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Michael Lee Johnson</span></strong><br /><a href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/harvest-time.html"><em><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Harvest Time</span></em></a><br /><a href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/harvest-time.html"><em><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Rod Stroked Survival with a Deadly Hammer</span></em></a><br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">William Doreski</span><br /><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingnightsinging.blogspot.com/"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Night Singing</span> </a></div><div id="ms__id284"></div><br /><div id="ms__id274"></div><div id="ms__id275"></div><div id="ms__id263"></div><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Donal Mahoney</span></strong><br /><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/waiting-for-answers-to-resumes-mailed.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Waiting for Answers to Resumes Mailed Weeks Ago</span></a></em><br /><div id="ms__id198"><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/waiting-for-answers-to-resumes-mailed.html"><span style="color:#333333;">Dad</span></a></em></div><div id="ms__id32"><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingblossombough.blogspot.com/"></a></em> </div><div id="ms__id249"></div><div id="ms__id250"></div><div id="ms__id240"></div><p><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Jaywing Fuller,</span></strong> <em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingdancingaurora.blogspot.com/"><span style="color:#333333;">Dancing with the Aurora</span></a></em><br /><span style="color:#333333;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;"></span></strong></span></p><p><span style="color:#333333;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Stelio Cro<br /></span></strong><a href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/afghanistan-leggendo-machiavelli-two.html"><em><span style="color:#333333;">Afghanistan & Leggendo Machiavelli: Two Poems with English Translations</span></em></a></span></p><p><span style="color:#333333;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Chris Castle<br /></span></strong><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingjunk.blogspot.com/"><em><span style="color:#333333;">Junk</span></em></a></span></p><p><span style="color:#333333;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Janie Hofmann</span></strong><br /><a href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/tribes-of-serpent.html"><em><span style="color:#333333;">Tribes of the Serpent</span></em></a><br /><a href="http://blacklanternpublishing1.blogspot.com/2009/07/tribes-of-serpent.html"><em><span style="color:#333333;">The Sparrow Goddesses</span></em></a></span></p><p><span style="color:#333333;"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Pheonix Likely</span></strong><br /><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingblossombough.blogspot.com/"><em><span style="color:#333333;">The Battle of Apple Blossom Bough</span></em></a></span></p><p><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,153,0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:100%;" ><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Artwork</span></span><br /><br /></span></span></strong><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Walker Huggins</span><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,153,0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"></span><span style="font-size:85%;"><a style="FONT-WEIGHT: normal; COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/08/pirate.html">Pirate</a><br /><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/08/sleepy-time.html"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: normal; FONT-STYLE: italic">Sleepy Time</span></a><br /><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/08/captain-ruby.html"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: normal; FONT-STYLE: italic">Captain Ruby</span></a></span><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></strong><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Beatrix Black</span><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="COLOR: rgb(255,153,0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">, <span style="font-size:85%;"><a style="FONT-WEIGHT: normal; COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/08/up-stairs.html">Up the Stairs</a></span><br /><br /></span></span></span></span></strong><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:georgia;" ><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">László Vida,</span> </span><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/08/watchpost.html">Watchpost </a><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:georgia;" ><br /><br /></span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:georgia;" ><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Polly Guo</span></span><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:georgia;" ></span><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/08/pigtailed-girl-in-diving-suit.html">Pigtailed Girl in Diving Suit</a><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:georgia;" > </span><br /><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/tora-bea-and-barda.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Tora, Bea, and Barda</span></a></em><br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:georgia;" ><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Ashley Hawthorne</span><br /></span><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/08/dinosaurs.html"><span style="TEXT-DECORATION: underline"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Dinosaurs</span></span></a><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><br /></span><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/wurmz.html"><span style="TEXT-DECORATION: underline"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">Wurmz</span></span></a><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-family:georgia;" ><br /></span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Gloria Fabel</span><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"></span><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/emperor-bird.html">Emperor Bird</a><br /><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/golden-age.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Golden Age</span></a> </em><br /><br /></p><p><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Beatrix Miranda</span><br /></strong><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/apple-trap.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">The Apple Trap</span></a><br /><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/ghouls.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Ghouls</span></a></em></p><div id="ms__id50"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><strong style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Sylvain Jézéquel</span>, </span></strong></span><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-FAMILY: georgia" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/carpet-trader.html"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">The Carpet Trader</span></a><br /><br /><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Kate,</span></strong> <em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/wooly-mammoth.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Wooly Mammoth</span></a></em><br /><em></em><br /><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Ana Fonseca</span></strong><br /><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/owl.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Owl</span></a></em><br /><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/monster-me.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Monster Me</span></a><br /><br /></em><strong style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Chuckometti</span></strong><em><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/fen-fire.html">Fen Fire</a><br /><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/to-serve.html"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic">To Serve</span></a><br /><br /></span><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold"></span></em><strong style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Sara Wilson</span> </span></strong></div><div id="ms__id65"><strong style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/ghostly-appearance.html"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: normal">A Ghostly Appearance</span></a><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic"><br /></span><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/hidden-garden.html"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: normal">A Hidden Garden</span></a><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)"><br /></span><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Aaron Randy </span><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/hidden-garden_17.html"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: normal; COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Hidden Garden</span></a><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)"><br /></span><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/old-days.html"><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: normal">Old Days</span></a> </span></span></strong><br /><strong><em></em></strong><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><strong>Jggy</strong></span><br /><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/night-folk.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">The Night Folk</span></a></em><br /><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/traveller-in-dark.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Traveller in the Dark</span></a> </span></span></div><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><br /></span></span><div id="ms__id52"><strong><span style="COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Ashley Jefferson</span></strong></div><div id="ms__id56"><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/ragdoll.html"><span style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)">Ragdoll</span></a><br /><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51)" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/swan-lake.html">Swan Lake</a><br /><br /></em><span id="{97D5FB62-FDC5-45F6-BC94-1F98A65A6504}" style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold; COLOR: rgb(0,0,0)">Alex Wucherer</span><br /><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/jack-and-decision.html">Jack and the Decision</a><br /><a style="COLOR: rgb(51,51,51); FONT-STYLE: italic" href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/traumfaenger.html">Traumfaenger</a><br /><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"><span style="FONT-STYLE: italic"></span></span><br /><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Isabella Baudelaire</span></strong></div><div id="ms__id10"><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/clockwork-1.html"><span style="color:#333333;">Clockwork I</span></a></em></div><div id="ms__id9"><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/clockwork-ii.html"><span style="color:#333333;">Clockwork II</span></a></em></div><div id="ms__id2170"><em></em></div><div id="ms__id2167"><strong><span style="color:#000000;"></span></strong></div><br /><div id="ms__id2178"><strong><span style="color:#000000;">Anita Morra</span></strong></div><div id="ms__id2169"><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/ectoplasm-maker.html"><span style="color:#333333;">The Ectoplasm Maker</span></a></em></div><div id="ms__id2168"><em><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingart.blogspot.com/2009/07/cheese.html"><span style="color:#333333;">Cheese</span></a></em></div>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-17972372697488316942009-07-25T09:32:00.000-07:002009-08-13T09:01:35.107-07:00The Cloud<div id="ms__id115"><em>Rebecca Huggins</em><br /><br /><span style="FONT-WEIGHT: bold;font-size:180%;" >T</span>he cloud had been over the village for fifteen days and the people of Baga, Tibet were beginning to wonder if the sky itself was sinking. It was not uncommon for the clouds to hang low, high up as the village was in the Tibetan sky. Yet never, in all the years that the villagers had lived there did the sky hang so long as it had done those many days. And now, under those unrelenting clouds, the village crops had begun to wilt and the people of Baga began to think the cloud a curse that had been placed on them unjustly.<br /><br />Amrita Jampo, known to the villagers as the Gentle One, was turning fifteen, a very special time for the people of Baga, for it was on this day that Amrita was to climb part of the great Chomolungma<a title="" href="http://www.blogger.com/post-create.g?blogID=6500434615532465339#_ftn1" name="_ftnref1">[1]</a>. It had long been tradition that the Chosen, when they had turned fifteen, would climb the great mountain, beginning their journey as a young, unknowing child, and returning as a wise leader for the people of the village. The oldest Climber was Jangbu Kalsang, an elder in the village and a wise man that healed the people’s maladies, mixed medicines and herbs, and served as an intermediary between the people and the gods. And so, as tradition, Amrita Jampo rose on her fifteenth birthday and began to prepare for her long, dangerous journey up Chomolungma.<br /><br /><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingthecloud.blogspot.com/">Read More!</a></div>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-16863265655538866942009-07-24T07:20:00.000-07:002009-08-13T09:02:12.171-07:00The Magic Pen<div id="ms__id30"><em>Rebecca Huggins</em></div><br /><div id="ms__id121"></div><div id="ms__id39"><strong><em><span style="font-size:180%;"></span></em></strong></div><div id="ms__id40"><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>W</strong></span>hen I was ten, my mother died of a horrible sickness that had plagued her ever since our move to Gordes, France in 1933. We owned the little bookshop on Rue du Belvédère, and lived in the small, one room apartment above. On hot summer nights, under the starry glow of the French sky, my little brother Tomàs, my grand-mère Abril, and I would sit at the window, listening to families and couples laughing contentedly as they headed home for the evening. I often wondered what that contentment felt like, being in a family that was blissfully whole, and not missing any pieces. My family had just emigrated from Iran, known then as Persia, where my father had been a professor of French literature at the newly built Tehran University. Things, however, in Persia were never easy, and my mother, who was born in France, sought refuge in her homeland. So we returned to France by her will, and only three months later, she passed away. </div><div id="ms__id29"><br />Death is a confusing thing, particularly for a child. Yet children have one thing that many adults do not; forgiveness. My father had a great deal of difficulty dealing with my mother’s passing, and had ever since, buried himself in his work in the shop downstairs, coming up for quick meals before returning to his office. Yet it was clear that the pain of losing the woman whose life he had held so dear had merely left him gripped with such sorrow, he hardly knew how to live without her by his side; and it was clear, though he would never admit as much, that a part of him hated her for leaving him there, alone in their bookshop, forcing him to move to a country he did not know, and then abandoning him. And it was difficult for him to forgive her. </div><div id="ms__id25"></div><br /><div id="ms__id24"><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingmagicpen.blogspot.com/">Read More!</a></div>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-5567888905323780362009-07-22T09:29:00.000-07:002009-07-28T10:20:57.982-07:00The Bones Under the Oak<span style="font-style: italic;">Ann Cro</span><br /><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >I</span>t was late November and Keith Highsmith was returning home for Thanksgiving. He had hoped to leave the college earlier in the week, but a late scheduled exam and a term paper due before the holiday had caused him to delay his departure until the last minute. Anxious to shorten the distance between the college in <st1:state st="on">North Carolina</st1:state> and his home in east <st1:state st="on"><st1:place st="on">Tennessee</st1:place></st1:state>, Keith had decided for a route through the mountains rather than the longer interstate route. His car, a second-hand Nissan that had endured rough handling and much neglect at Keith’s hands, was never completely reliable. And, unfortunately, on this particular day, it decided to avenge itself. The problem started as the car began the steep climb over the mountains. The engine began to overheat and eventually even Keith, who had the accelerator pushed to the floor and was singing lustily along with the CD player, could not help but notice the smoke creeping out from under the hood. He pulled off to the side of the road and sat still for a moment, wondering what to do. Reluctantly he got out from behind the steering wheel and went around to the front of the car. Pulling out a bandanna from his rear pocket, he carefully raised the hood and then stood back as the white steam escaped with a hiss into the cool mountain air. Keith was no mechanic and he gazed around him in dismay, hoping that someone would pass by and offer him a hand. But it was late in the day and the mountain road was deserted.<o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB"><o:p> </o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style="" lang="EN-GB">Little rustlings from the woods told him that he was not completely alone. He looked around nervously, but saw nothing. The trees with their dead dry leaves were still and there was an earth smell that spoke of the cycle of death and decay common to old forests. Keith pulled his jacket close around him and tried to decide what to do. He extracted his cell phone from his jacket pocket but, as he feared,<span style=""> </span>there was no reception here in the mountains. He put the phone away again and looked around helplessly. A shadowy something moved across the road and Keith hastily returned to the car and slammed the door. He stared hard at the place where he had seen movement but whatever he had seen was gone now. He looked at his wrist watch—almost 3:30 p.m. and night came early in the mountains at this time of year. He wondered once again if anyone would pass by but, remembering how deserted the road had been when he traveled it, he realized that he could not rely on such a thing happening. No, he must leave the car and go for help. A little ways back he had passed a small house. He would walk there and hope that they had a telephone or that they could give him a lift into the nearest town where there was a mechanic.<o:p></o:p></span></p><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingbonesunderoak1.blogspot.com/"> Read More!</a>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-62543195970940777022009-07-21T11:13:00.000-07:002009-08-03T16:22:19.183-07:00The Bones Under the Oak<em>Part II</em><br /><em>Ann Cro</em><br /><em></em><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>J</strong></span>eff Marr eased his car off onto the shoulder of the road where the Appalachian Trail crossed the highway and twisted around to look at his two young sons in the back seat. “Well guys, we’re here,” he said.<br /><br />The two boys, Bobby seven and Mickey five, cheered excitedly. They had been looking forward to this camping trip with their father for weeks. The boys lived in North Carolina with their mother and her parents and spent little time with their father, who lived in Texas with his new wife. He was in every sense a stranger to them who they saw only a few weeks out of the year. When he had proposed the camping trip, their mother had been doubtful. She was a city girl, like her parents, who believed that nature was confined to the neat parks and playgrounds of her home town. Their father had been born and raised in east Tennessee where his father had taken him hunting and fishing from the time he was Mickey’s age. Her sons’ eagerness for the adventure had surprised and hurt her a little. She tried not to show it but it felt like a betrayal of all that she stood for—order, security, civilization. She agreed to the excursion reluctantly. For Jeff it was an opportunity to re-connect with his sons and to introduce them to the world of his childhood, to the forests and lakes that he had visited as a boy, enchanted places that he remembered with nostalgia even though it had been many years since he had been back.<br /><br /><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingbonesunderoak2.blogspot.com/">Read More</a>!Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-28811141245480086132009-07-20T09:23:00.000-07:002009-07-29T12:41:04.760-07:00Years Later, The Sky Slopes Like a Roof<em>Howie Good</em><br /><em></em><br />If we’re the sum,<br />as some say,<br /><br />of everything previous,<br />why even now<br /><br />we’re still climbing<br />the tower of bones,<br /><br />mounting the twisting<br />staircase in silence<br /><br />and then in millions,<br />while the duke of Auschwitz<br /><br />and his lady go riding<br />on pale horses<br /><br />under a peasant moon,<br />and angels with flight feathers<br /><br />like long black pennants<br />forget what it was<br /><br />they were sent to do.<br /><br /><strong style="color: rgb(153, 102, 51);"></strong><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(204, 102, 0);font-size:130%;" >Visiting the Dead</span><br /><em>Howie Good</em><br /><br />The gates close at 5 p.m.<br />It was barely noon, but already hot.<br />I called her name. Here, she said<br />and stepped out into the road.<br />The sun went behind a cloud.<br />I clicked the dead flashlight over<br />and over as if this time it might work.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>© 2009 Howie Good. All rights reserved.</em></span><br />___________________________<br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" >About the Author<br /><br /></span></strong>Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of eight poetry chapbooks. He has been nominated three times for a Pushcart Prize and twice for the Best of the Netanthology. His first full-length book of poetry, Lovesick, is forthcoming from The Poetry Press of Press Americana.Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-9534824433235873302009-07-19T14:48:00.000-07:002009-08-01T19:47:18.364-07:00Layers<em>Carl Plumer</em><br /><em></em><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >E</span>ddie Sandbach loved layer cakes more than anything. Next best was anything that reminded him of layer cakes. Like a mattress with a box spring, the bedspread spread on top like green frosting. Or sedimentary rocks, with their stripes of layers. Or the brightly colored dishes stacked in the cupboard, each color a different delicious flavor.<br /><br />When nothing was around to remind him of layer cakes, Eddie Sandbach would make his own reminders, using anything as the layers. Toy trucks piled as high as the top of the TV. Books were easy, making perfect, well-balanced layers. Then the cats and the dogs (the black cats representing chocolate, the white pups vanilla).<br /><br />So when the tornado, itself not a bad approximation of layers, but more like a funnel cake, arrived to spin a path through the middle of town like an oversized, insane whisk, it was only fitting that, when it was done, the floor had become the first layer, the couch the second, Eddie Sandbach the third, and the fourth the refrigerator -- with rain water like shiny icing, dripping down over it all.<br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></em><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em><span style="font-size:78%;">© 2009 Carl Plumer. All rights reserved</span>.</em><br /></span><br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 0);">About the Author</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color: rgb(153, 51, 0);"></span></strong><br />Carl Plumer is a graduate of the Masters Writing Program at Stony Brook University where he studied with Thomas Flanagan. He received his BA in English from Fordham University in NYC. His first published short story was "20th Century Interpretations of Minute Mysteries" in the now sadly departed Pulpsmith: The Curious Magazine. He's written some four odd novels since, and dozens of even odder short stories, none of which have yet to see the light of day. Until now. Carl lives with his wife and four children in the Midwest, plotting his imminent return to New York.Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-56033039415530846952009-07-19T12:10:00.000-07:002009-07-29T13:00:06.107-07:00Melancholy Sits Quiety on a Hill<span style="font-style: italic;">Natalie Paul</span><br /><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Melancholy sits quietly on a hill,<br />framed in greenery—wild, lush.<br />Day stretches her rays extravagantly ‘till<br />Night finally induces her to hush.<br />The moonlight drips, cascading down<br />her long, twined, silvery locks.<br />Mildew glistens effervescently,<br />highlighting her sinewy bluish </span><span style="font-size:100%;">robe</span><span style="font-size:100%;">.<br />There on her hill, perched on her rock,<br />Melancholy gazes over the </span><span style="font-size:100%;">globe</span><span style="font-size:100%;">.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Hypnotized by the wanderings of man,<br />she surveys his realm in fascination.<br />Those who espy her from far away,<br />in the dark valleys of their lives,<br />often turn away, unable to discern<br />the truth from the lies.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">Just as Melancholy threatens to take hold<br />of this world so seemingly dark,<br />Hope wanders in, a shy little boy,<br />and sits down next to her.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">And so, in the dark, up on that hill,<br />in that quiet primordial place,<br />Melancholy sits quietly on a hill<br />until Hope comes to chase her away.</span></p><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);">Fragments</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Natalie Paul<br /></span></span><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><i>The </i><i>w</i><i>ind</i><i> ponders</i></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">I.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In the Infinite expanse<br />of the nighttime sky<br />the wind sighs,</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Do you find yourself<br />in the pool of incandescent light?” </span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">II.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">In a hushed meadow<br />warm and sweet<br />ponders the wind, </span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Do you see yourself,<br />hidden here?” </span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">III.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">A dark wood,<br />an abyss of thorns<br />again he whispers, </span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">“Now do you see?”<br /></span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">IV.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;">The Bedouin’s is a solitary path.</span></p><p style="margin-left: 0pt; margin-right: 0pt; font-family: georgia;"> </p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >© 2009 Natalie Paul. All rights reserved.</span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" >______________________________________</span></p><p style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);" class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:130%;"><span style="color: rgb(255, 153, 0);"><span style="font-weight: bold;">About the Author</span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size:100%;">Natalie Paul is a pseudonym for Melinda Cro, a Doctoral candidate at the University of Georgia. Her field is Romance Languages and her specialization is French and Italian literature. She currently teaches Italian at the University of Georgia and enjoys spending time with her enormous Maine Coon and her black shepherd.</span><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:78%;" ><br /></span></p>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-66897876592437127472009-07-18T20:36:00.000-07:002009-08-01T19:47:30.334-07:00Silence<span style="font-style: italic;">Kenneth Radu<br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal"><i style=""><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >D</span>on’t die for me</i>. One year ago to the minute Pauline had thought those exact words and now, during the minute of silence in honor of fallen soldiers, she thought them again. Students all stood with their heads bowed, supposedly praying or at least thinking about men and women who had had been shot, eviscerated, decapitated, wrenched apart, torn and tattered over the past hundred years, all sacrificing themselves for their country. Their knowledge of war did not extend beyond the Iraqi invasion and Afghanistan. True, a young reservist had enrolled in her class: Gabriel, a sweet boy. True, the parents and grandparents of some had experienced World War II, the Korean War, and the Vietnam War.<span style=""> </span>But as they shuffled and coughed, and the three girls in the back row carried on a whispered conversation, Pauline attempting to deflect an urge to cry.<span style=""> </span>Most of her students understood nothing about the texture of blood and the pain of fiery flesh. They knew only what they experienced virtually, on their computers.</p> <p class="MsoNormal"><span style=""> </span></p> <p class="MsoNormal">How long did a minute, spent in private grief, last? Last year she could not answer.<span style=""> </span>This year, she’d say it lasted a lifetime. She lowered her head again, noting a water stain on her blue silk blouse.<span style=""> </span>She became aware of her duty to act as a role model, show by personal example, proper deference. She did not herself pray to any imaginable deity.<span style=""> </span></p><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingsilence.blogspot.com/"> Read More</a>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-91879813303198938062009-07-18T20:20:00.000-07:002009-07-31T13:18:04.974-07:00Dead in the Water<em>Stephen Jarrell Williams</em><br /><br />Sea waves<br />slowly up and down<br />I'm floating<br />on my back<br />not understanding why<br />I didn't treat myself<br />better<br />shielding my eyes<br />from the sun<br />blurry<br />seagull squawking<br />flying away<br />into approaching night<br />always stars overhead<br />wishing I could sing<br />without coughing<br />salt on my lips<br />thinking of you<br />and you and you<br />everyone<br />wondering where I am<br />this year<br />seemingly like all the others<br />except I can't catch my<br />breath.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:78%;"><em>© 2009 Stephen Jarrell Williams. All rights reserved.</em></span><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;">____________________________________________</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:78%;"></span></em><br /><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>About the Author</strong></span><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#993300;"></span></strong><br />Stephen Jarrell Williams loves to write, listen to his music, and dance late into the night. He was born in Fort Belvoir, Virginia. His parents are native Texans. He has lived most of his life in California. His poetry has appeared in <em>Anthology, Avocet, Blue Collar Review, The Broome Review, Byline Magazine, Chronogram Magazine, Fissure Magazine, Freefall, Haight Ashbury Literary Journal, Hawaii Review, HUNGUR, Liquid Imagination, Nerve Cowboy, Mirror Dance, POEM, Poesia, Posey, Purpose, REAL, Tales from the Moonlit Path</em>, and many others.<br /><span style="font-size:78%;"></span>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-30494336057621287002009-07-16T19:29:00.000-07:002009-08-01T19:42:58.853-07:00The Secret Life of Milly Walters<span style="font-style: italic; font-family: georgia;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="font-style: italic;">With Apologies to James Thurber, of course...</span></span><br />Simon Leigh<br /><br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-family: georgia;"><i><span style=";font-size:12;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >“H</span>OUSTON, we have a problem.” Commander Milly Walters’ voice now had a cut-glass edge. Her blue astronaut’s overalls did nothing to conceal her truly spectacular figure, but her crew knew her as one tough cookie. And knew they were in deep trouble. The shuttle vibrated in the thickening atmosphere of re-entry.</span></i><span style=";font-size:12;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-family: georgia;"><i><span style=";font-size:12;" > “Tell them we’ve lost half our tiles!” yelled Lieutenant Briggs, her Number Two, his face white. She smiled across at him, her slim fingers a blur at the controls.</span></i><span style=";font-size:12;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-family: georgia;"><i><span style=";font-size:12;" > “You can tell them … soon as I get this thing on the ground.”</span></i><span style=";font-size:12;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-family: georgia;"><i><span style=";font-size:12;" >The chipped windscreen cleared for an instant, revealing Earth.</span></i><span style=";font-size:12;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-family: georgia;"><i><span style=";font-size:12;" > “My God! We’re coming in upside down!” shouted a crew member, yanking his belt harness tighter.</span></i><span style=";font-size:12;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-family: georgia;"><i><span style=";font-size:12;" > “Quiet,” Briggs snapped. “If anyone can handle this thing it’s our Commander. Hell wouldn’t scare The Maestro.” Commander Walter’s voice was now its usual calm drawl: “Houston, we have very limited control here. I’m going to have to land her inverted.”</span></i><span style=";font-size:12;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-family: georgia;"><i><span style=";font-size:12;" >There was a pause, crackling with tension. “Copy that, Commander. Land the shuttle, ah, inverted. No problem. We’re not breathing down here, but bring her in. Spraying foam on the runway now—”</span></i><span style=";font-size:12;" > <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-family: georgia;"><span style=";font-size:12;" >“Watch it!” said her husband. “You’re getting foam all over the counter-top.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-family: georgia;"><span style=";font-size:12;" >“Oops, sorry,” said Milly Walters. She focussed on the man, glowering at her over his horn-rims, over his newspaper. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-family: georgia;"><span style=";font-size:12;" > “There’s a problem with this new machine,’ she said, “the steam comes out before the coffee does.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; font-family: georgia;"><span style=";font-size:12;" > “You were spraying foam all over the place. You know I can’t stand it when it’s all coffee, if I wanted it black I’d ask for it black.” <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in; font-family: georgia;"><span style=";font-size:12;" > Milly Walters deftly filled his cup with her right hand while mopping the counter with her left, the roar of the space shuttle fading into the blue outer space of her mind. Mr Walters accepted his coffee, glanced up and spoke. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <span style="font-family: georgia;font-family:";font-size:12;" >“You’re getting scatty again. Does your famous Doctor Whatsit really know what she’s doing? Shouldn’t she have you on medication? –And I keep seeing you fiddling with those weird potions of yours. If you spent as much time on me as you do on those, those weeds…It can’t be good for you, this Mad Scientist business.” </span><br /><a style="font-family: georgia;" href="http://blacklanternpublishingmillywalters.blogspot.com/"><br />Read More!<br /></a><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-85544872744898063292009-07-15T16:22:00.000-07:002009-08-03T16:38:05.847-07:00The Story of Half an Hour<span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:78%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:14;" ></span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">with a nod to Kate Chopin, who saw it first...</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Simon Leigh<br /><br /></span> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style=""><span style="font-size:180%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">B</span></span>rent Teal adored his wife of ten years, the still-gorgeous Louise Lovett, so his reaction to the news of her sudden death shocked him: he laughed. He exploded into laughter. His bark of a laugh startled him and his friend (and former squash partner) Dixon, whose company Ford still stood at a crazy angle in the Teal driveway, with the door open and the engine running. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style=""> "You're joking, right? This is Candid Camera." <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style=""> But Dixon said nothing, his face a tragic mask. Slowly, slowly he shook his head. Brent pulled back from his friend's clumsy attempt to hug him. He stared into Dixon's face. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt;"><span style=""> "Right? RIGHT?" <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="">But Dixon would not look at him. <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="">"Worst pile-up I ever saw, cement truck must have lost a wheel. Her car was totally pancaked, she never had a chance. I wanted to come tell you before you saw it on the news. Those little foreign shit-boxes--" <o:p></o:p></span></p> <p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style="">"Jesus! Jesus Christ! 'Scuse me." Brent turned, retching, rushed up the front steps and vanished inside. The door slammed and he stood, hot, panting, close to bursting into sobs. His skin prickled. Then he sprinted upstairs into his study. <o:p></o:p><br /></span></p><p style="margin: 0in 0in 0.0001pt; text-indent: 0.5in;"><span style=""><br /><a href="http://blacklanternpublishinghalfanhour.blogspot.com/">Read More!</a> <o:p></o:p></span></p>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-28289626585206241612009-07-14T09:34:00.000-07:002009-08-03T09:42:52.497-07:00The Ratio of Lift to Drag<span style="font-style: italic;">David Rasey<br /><br /></span><span style="">Jerrin lies back in the sweet, clover-scented summer grass. He stares unblinking up at the clear night sky. At nine years old, the river of stars visible here in rural central Ohio amazes him. He wonders how anyone can live without views like this.<br /><br />The longer he stares upward, the more his vision expands, until all that exists for him is the star-spattered dark. A strange vibration occurs behind his eyes, and then the magic happens: he is no longer looking up. He is looking out, and then looking down. The sky is no longer high above him; it is below him and it is deep.<br /><br /><i>Deep space!</i> Jerrin thinks, shivering in ecstasy. <i>Deep space!</i><br /><br />He hooks his fingers through the grass and into the earth. He can feel a gigantic pull from the sky. He knows if he doesn’t hold tight to the ground, the earth will let go of him and he will fall up into the sky. In his mind’s eye, he can see himself sliding through the air far below, on his way to see things no one has ever seen. His heart pounds with vast fear and sweeping joy.<br /><br />“I want to fly!” he whispers. “I want to go out there! Oh please!”<br /><br />He stiffens, and then relaxes all over. His eyes fix on a single star, or perhaps it’s a planet; Jerrin neither knows nor cares. It is beautiful and its’ light calls to him. The desire to fall away into the sky fills him like a song and beats in his brow in time with his pulse. He imagines gravity like giant fingers opening to release him. Weight begins slipping away. His fingers loosen their grip.<br /><br />He feels himself growing light, lighter, lightest.<br /><br />He can’t feel the ground anymore. Only the tips of the grass blades tickle between his shoulders. He is starting to fall up – <!--[if !supportLineBreakNewLine]--><br /><br /><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingrasey.blogspot.com/">Read More!</a><!--[endif]--></span>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-86581222566883563832009-07-13T09:06:00.000-07:002009-08-04T09:16:40.731-07:00Twilight<p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style="font-style: italic;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:12;">Mike Berger</span></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style=""><span style="">My eyes are old.<br />They are very tired.<br />They cannot penetrate the twilight.<br />They've seen the good<br />and bad and the ugly.<br />Fiery darts flew in the green silken sky<br />lighting lonesome stars that hung<br />like paper dragons.<br />There Juliet blows a kiss<br />to a court jester who laughs.<br />Twisted and gnarled the old pine tree<br />still clings to mother Earth.<br />It's arms are too tired to touch<br />a green sky.<br />If only there was a pretty face<br />that smiled; but no.<br />My eyes are old; it's twilight.<br />I think I might close<br />my eyes and slip silently<br />into the night.</span></p><p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style=""> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >© 2009 Mike Berger.<span style=""> </span>All rights reserved.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span></span></p><p class="MsoNormal" style="">_____________________________<br /><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormalCxSpMiddle" style=""> </p><p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><span style="color: rgb(204, 102, 0);font-family:georgia;font-size:130%;" ><span style="font-weight: bold;">Gold Orangutan</span></span><o:p></o:p></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><o:p></o:p><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" ><span style="font-style: italic;">Mike Berger</span><br /></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:georgia;"><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:100%;" >I marveled at the weaver's art.</span></span><br /><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">Polished and smooth; no court<br />jesters work in this artistry.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">His silks are not to make you laugh<br />or to entertain. That's why he weaves<br />with silken thread.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">Subtle magic spills forth from his work.<br />He works with dark colors, mostly black.<br />There is always a brilliantly colored design.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">My mind was captured by a piece of<br />his work. Black silken threads were<br />tightly woven. There in the dark background<br />slightly off center was a golden orangutan.<o:p><br /></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; line-height: normal;font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-size:100%;"><span style="font-size:10;">The weaver had outdone himself.<o:p></o:p></span></span></p> <p class="MsoNormal" style=""><span style=";font-family:";font-size:10;" ><span style="font-style: italic;font-size:85%;" >© 2009 Mike Berger.<span style=""> </span>All rights reserved.</span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-size:85%;"><br /></span></span></span></p> __________________________<br /><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(255, 153, 0);font-size:130%;" >About the Author<br /></span><br /><span style=";font-family:georgia;font-size:12;" >Mike Berger holds a PhD in Clinical and Research Psychology from Utah State University.<span style=""> </span>He’s the author of two books of short stories, and three of his humor pieces have won awards.<span style=""> </span>His writing has appeared in several journals, including <i style="">AIM, Still Crazy, First Edition, Stray Branch, Mid West Quarter, Evergreen, and Krax.</i></span><span style=""><o:p></o:p></span>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-11246846711072448682009-07-12T11:47:00.000-07:002009-08-04T12:22:43.603-07:00I Remember Ezra and the Flies<em>Pierrino Mascarino</em>
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<br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>T</strong></span>he old lady sat out on her bare wood porch up in Montecito Heights of Los Angeles, rocking in an ancient wood rocker, the rocker runners squeaking on the floor boards, back and forth, squawk and squeak. She held a Styrofoam coffee cup in one very wrinkly hand with long yellowed nails, and was sucking thoughtfully on a snuff lump that protruded in her lower lip.
<br />
<br />"Started off,” she began, “didn’t have nuthin’, me and Ezra, rest in peace, just flies and coyotes. And I hated both of them."
<br />
<br /><em>Squawk, squeak. </em>
<br /><em>
<br /></em>“But we had noble big flies and I loved my Ezra, may perpetual light shine upon his beautiful soul. All my life been around flies, like most folks have, flies is everywhere people is. But smart Ezra, my former husband, rest in peace, I’m a widow woman now and I learned: there’s a world of different kinds wherever you go, people and flies. Here in Montecito Heights, people’s shallow and cruel, hate each other. This is unfriendliest place I ever lived."
<br /></em>
<br />A large green bottle fly perched, moving in little jerks, on the porch's gray banister.
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<br />Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-22795315782189132582009-07-11T08:57:00.000-07:002009-08-07T09:13:56.146-07:00Harvest Time<em>Michael Lee Johnson</em><br /><em></em><br />A Métis Indian lady, drunk,<br />hands blanketed as in prayer,<br />over a large brown fruit basket<br />naked of fruit, no vine, no vineyard<br />inside-approaches the Edmonton,<br />Alberta adoption agency.<br />There are only spirit gods<br />inside her empty purse.<br /><br />Inside, an infant,<br />restrained from life,<br />with a fruity wine sap apple<br />wedged like a teaspoon<br />of autumn sun<br />inside its mouth.<br />A shallow pool of tears<br />mounts in native blue eyes.<br />Snuffling, the mother offers<br />a slim smile, turns away.<br />She slithers voyeuristically<br />through near slum streets,<br />and alleyways,<br />looking for drinking buddies<br />to share a hefty pint<br />of applejack wine.<br /><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">© 2009 Michael Lee Johnson. All rights reserved.</span></em><br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;">______________________________________________</span></em><br /><strong><span style="color:#cc6600;">Rod Stroked Survival with a Deadly Hammer</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="color:#cc6600;"></span></strong><br /><em>Michael Lee Johnson<br /></em><br />Rebecca fantasized that life was a lottery ticket or a pull of a lever,<br />that one of the bunch in her pocket was a winner or the slots were a redeemer;<br />but life itself was not real that was strictly for the mentally insane at the Elgin<br />Mental Institution.<br />She gambled her savings away on a riverboat<br />stuck in mud on a riverbank, the Grand Victoria, in Elgin, Illinois.<br />Her bare feet were always propped up on a wooden chair;<br />a cigarette dropped from her lips like morning fog.<br />She always dreamed of traveling, not nightmares.<br />But she couldn't overcome, overcome,<br />the terrorist ordeal of the German siege of Leningrad.<br />She was a foreigner now; she is a foreigner for good.<br />Her first husband died after spending a lifetime in prison<br />with stinging nettles in his toes and feet; the second<br />husband died of hunger when there were no more rats<br />to feed on, after many fights in prison for the last remains.<br />What does a poet know of suffering?<br />Rebecca has rod stroked survival with a deadly mallet.<br />She gambles nickels, dimes, quarters, tokens tossed away,<br />living a penniless life for grandchildren who hardly know her name.<br />Rebecca fantasized that life was a lottery ticket or the pull of a lever.<br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><em>© 2009 Michael Lee Johnson. All rights reserved.</em></span><br />________________________________________________<br /><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;">About the Author</span></strong><br /><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"></span></strong><br />Michael Lee Johnson is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, <em>From Which Place the Morning Rises</em>, and his new photo version of <em>The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom</em> are available <a href="http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa">here</a>. Michael has been published in over 22 countries. He is also the editor and publisher of four poetry sites, all open for submissions, which can be found at his website <a href="http://poetryman.mysite.com/">here</a>. All of his books are now available on <a href="http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_b?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=michael+lee+johnson.">Amazon.com</a>.Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-23309901523470046882009-07-10T07:21:00.000-07:002009-08-08T07:31:51.620-07:00Night Singing<span style="font-style: italic;">William Doreski<br /><br /></span> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:180%;" >T</span>he hum of <st1:place st="on">Times Square</st1:place> woke me before I’d finished my dream. The cheap hotel stank of sweaty feet and empty sex. I’d dreamt of stalking someone or something through a bog, tripping through hanks of saplings, every footstep heavy with muck. Before I caught up with him, her, or it, a thud in the next room broke into my sleep, and I snapped on the bedside lamp. The dingy silver-striped wallpaper sneered in the harsh glare. No further noise. Someone had fallen out of bed and apparently still lay on the floor. Good enough. He’d have a hell of a headache in the morning. I dressed and crept down the fire stairs.</p> <p class="MsoNormal" style="line-height: 200%;"><span style=""> </span>In the fake marble and peeling gilt lobby, the desk clerk snoozed in a chair. He leaned back so far I thought he had a good chance of breaking his neck. A security guard, a sleek young Latino with carefully ironed uniform—the cleanest sight in this shabby establishment—said “Good evening, sir,” and looked me over. As I waved and stepped into the orange glare of West Forty-Third he smiled with brilliant molars and traced me with his eyes. At three-thirty AM Manhattan seemed about as quiet as it gets. Traffic groaned and stalled at the traffic lights, sirens complained, and a surprising horde of pedestrians tripped drunk or stoned along Broadway.</p><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingnightsinging.blogspot.com/"> Read More!</a>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-17086503955715301732009-07-09T19:03:00.000-07:002009-08-13T11:35:36.232-07:00Waiting for Answers to Resumes Mailed Weeks Ago<div id="ms__id141">A phone call from anywhere would be nice,<br />even a call from that clerk at Sears<br />with an apology for charging that dryer<br />to my last employer<br />or even a call from the company I phoned<br />for estimates on the fence we need<br />to run to the alley, take two lefts,<br />and dash back to the house,<br />the fence we hope will keep the kids<br />from threshing the neighbor's<br />lilacs and phlox<br />or even a call from my wife<br />about the fever Meg had this morning<br />and a third reminder to record<br />the check for the penicillin.<br />Yes, today or tomorrow,</div><div id="ms__id140">a phone call from anywhere would be nice.</div><br /><div id="ms__id153"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#cc6600;">Dad</span></strong></div><div id="ms__id154"></div><div id="ms__id155"></div><br /><div id="ms__id183">The two Gibraltars in the yard</div><div id="ms__id156">never were delivered.</div><div id="ms__id157">They have always been there.</div><div id="ms__id158">The twenty years I lived there </div><div id="ms__id182"></div><br /><div id="ms__id172">the neighbors never said a word.</div><div id="ms__id159"></div><div id="ms__id160">Their shrieks would shatter both</div><div id="ms__id161">if they could see them.</div><div id="ms__id162">The redwood fence my Father built</div><div id="ms__id173"></div><br /><div id="ms__id174">is tall enough to cover his.</div><div id="ms__id163">It will be tall enough, he swears,</div><div id="ms__id175">in time to cover mine.</div><div id="ms__id164"></div><div id="ms__id165">My father says before he dies </div><div id="ms__id19"></div><div id="ms__id20"></div><div id="ms__id176"></div><div id="ms__id184"></div><div id="ms__id177"></div><br /><div id="ms__id30">he’ll sell his own Gibraltar</div><div id="ms__id166">and leave the house, the yard,</div><div id="ms__id178">the redwood fence to me</div><div id="ms__id167">to guarantee that I keep mine.</div><div id="ms__id179"></div><br /><div id="ms__id19"></div><div id="ms__id172"></div><div id="ms__id145"></div><div id="ms__id142"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">© 2009 Donal Mahoney. All rights reserved.</span></em> </div><div id="ms__id148">________________________________</div><div id="ms__id149"></div><div id="ms__id150"><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"><strong>About the Author</strong></span></div><br /><div id="ms__id180"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"></span></strong></div><div id="ms__id20"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"></span></strong></div><div id="ms__id173"></div><div id="ms__id151"></div><div id="ms__id144">Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, Missouri. He has worked as an editor for <em>The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press</em> and <em>Washington University in St. Louis</em>. He has had poems published in or accepted by <em>The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Public Republic</em> (Bulgaria), <em>Revival</em> (Ireland), <em>The Istanbul Literary Review</em> (Turkey), <em>Poetry Super Highway, Pirene's Fountain</em> (Australia) and other publications.</div>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-22856388261304078282009-07-08T17:24:00.000-07:002009-08-12T17:35:12.050-07:00Dancing with the Aurora<div id="ms__id22"><em>Jaywing Fuller</em></div><div id="ms__id27"><em></em> </div><div id="ms__id21"></div><div id="ms__id28"><span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>Y</strong></span>ou sit and stare at a blank sheet. You wrack your mind. You look within. You do this for hours. Yet the page remains blank, because your mind regurgitates nothing but senseless clichés and empty platitudes. </div><div id="ms__id30"><br />The next day you get up believing that this day will – must, be different. But, it isn’t. Nor is the day after, nor the day after that. </div><div id="ms__id32"><br />How could this be? Your first novel was well received. You avoided the sophomore curse with a second that was a best seller. You wrote a compilation of short stories. Your future was bright.<br />Then, without warning, nothing – not a single idea takes form in your mind. </div><div id="ms__id34"> </div><div id="ms__id33">You ponder the consequences. Without ideas, there are no stories. Without stories, there is no writing. Without writing, a writer’s life – your life, becomes meaningless.</div><div id="ms__id35"> </div><div id="ms__id23"></div><div id="ms__id24"><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingdancingaurora.blogspot.com/">Read More!</a></div>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-58782525925870388702009-07-07T10:31:00.000-07:002009-08-25T17:50:37.709-07:00Afghanistan & Leggendo Machiavelli: Two Poems with English Translations<div id="ms__id36"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcMmoObVfsMXpn-YQqM1LkIcgw80xiZWcX8zaPGrOZYWBcsb7kfeqNDahfPRuKONzPkG4kn0Uq6vjtTXH8eaVku-vQGza6pC6RGp39hWl8wVwizqkHiwzevk98NM_GibY4RWYaxrbN6Y/s1600-h/Stelio+Cro+Poetry.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374068462035861858" style="WIDTH: 385px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 400px" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhgcMmoObVfsMXpn-YQqM1LkIcgw80xiZWcX8zaPGrOZYWBcsb7kfeqNDahfPRuKONzPkG4kn0Uq6vjtTXH8eaVku-vQGza6pC6RGp39hWl8wVwizqkHiwzevk98NM_GibY4RWYaxrbN6Y/s400/Stelio+Cro+Poetry.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><div id="ms__id30"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj_qqgDo80NbHzUDcJ4JN2bNMfIsNqyfHXb-8-BlP2o3qXHOwzgSTLsvVcJC7HSNbqVSVglO4LMOrN0zHLcPJlUd7dJ8v4u4nCPTOTHmSSjFxDu90JG26r0VlLov1u51uHv9965WSmAP0I/s1600-h/Daddy's+Poetry.jpg"></a> </div><div id="ms__id23"><em></em></div><div id="ms__id32">__________________________________</div><br /><div id="ms__id28"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;">About the Author</span></strong></div><br /><div id="ms__id37"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"></span></strong></div><div id="ms__id31"></div><div id="ms__id29">Stelio Cro was born in Rome, Italy and has taught languages in universities in Argentina, Canada, and the United States. He is the author of numerous books and articles on Spanish and Italian literature and has published in Italian, a collection of poems—Parabola—published in the United States by Gradiva New York) and two novels, <em>Romeo e Giulietta</em> and <em>Mezzadri in Guerra</em>, published in Italy by Todariana Editrice (Milan). </div></div>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-18254600206414596142009-07-06T07:54:00.000-07:002009-08-15T07:56:06.692-07:00Junk<div id="ms__id150"><em>Chris Castle</em></div><div id="ms__id146"> </div><div id="ms__id147">“<span style="font-size:180%;"><strong>H</strong></span>e’s still waving,” Danny said. Poppy took his hand and clambered up the rocks. She stood next to him and followed his gaze. She could barely make out the shadow of a man behind the sun, his arm flailing above him. It looked like he’d been drawn against the sky with a pencil, she thought.<br /> <br />“I don’t think we should go over there,” she said. There was something about the way that he moved his arms which she didn’t like; jagged and hectic, like scratching at a car window and still shaking a fist as the other car sped off.<br /><br />“If we don’t eat soon Pop...” his voice fell away as he looked back to her. It was the way he won arguments, decisions. Not with his words but with his eyes. He’d gotten that from Dad. She nodded and he smiled. They began to walk towards the shadow.<br /><br />Somehow she thought if she didn’t agree out loud that would make it okay. She walked a little behind Danny and watched the arm stop waving. It turned into an overhead clap, like audiences do at rock concerts. Somehow, that made her feel worse.</div><div id="ms__id148"> </div><div id="ms__id149"><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingjunk.blogspot.com/">Read More!</a></div>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-42873931404135821232009-07-05T18:26:00.000-07:002009-08-15T18:34:27.093-07:00Tribes of the Serpent<div id="ms__id134">In this land the water<br />was once dark as black<br />plums and the hail fell in triangles<br />of ice grey until the morning<br />the scarlet seas whelped<br />ancient craggy serpents<br />spilling into the forests<br />like a carpet rolled<br />out for royalty. The serpents<br />skimmed the jungle floors<br />with agile pink tentacles,<br />telling tales to the old tribes<br />of undersea blue caves<br />glowing with yellow<br />coral and teeming<br />with the lithe bodies<br />of chaste mermaids<br />wrapped in the silky torrents<br />of their own hair.<br />And the old tribes laughed<br />heartily, gold particles<br />frail as ashes blowing<br />from their mouths<br />into the frigid air.<br />And the lead serpent<br />said: if we turn your land<br />green and warm with bulbs<br />of fruit dripping from hairy<br />trees, would the bravest<br />of your chieftains return<br />to the sea with us?<br />laughing again, the tribes<br />agreed and it was here the serpents<br />flew into the bleak sky<br />made the formation<br />of a great clawed hand<br />which spiraled down<br />and drove its claws<br />under the icy earth,<br />cupping it like a celestial<br />ball, then gently rolling<br />it back into place<br />as hot tropical air<br />blasted from the sea,<br />the ice melted<br />the hail storms<br />ceased, and ample<br />fruit ripened to red,<br />yellow and gold.<br />And all the chiefs cried:<br />"I will go. No, please let me go."<br />And the serpents laughed<br />and chose the youngest<br />of the chiefs, Tealchut.<br />Wrapping him in the tentacles<br />of the eldest serpent<br />like a snakeskin cocoon,<br />they faded into the horizon<br />then dove splashless<br />into the newly green sea.<br />Years later, during<br />the great papaya harvest,<br />a young small dragon<br />in a blue leather harness<br />washed to the pink sandy<br />shore. The tribe woman<br />fed him honey and nut milk<br />and cleaned his coral inflicted<br />wounds. Still weak with fever,<br />he called for his master<br />and best friend, Tealchut<br />who had left him to return<br />to his family, promising<br />to meet him on the shores<br />of his old homeland<br />where the ice was<br />once so bitter and cold.<br />And the women nursed<br />the young dragon as though<br />he were one of their own<br />whilst the men and children<br />stood day and night on the shoreline<br />eaglery awaiting the return</div><div id="ms__id133">of one of their own and much more.</div><div id="ms__id155"> </div><br /><div id="ms__id136"></div><div id="ms__id135"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">© 2009 Janie Hofmann. All rights reserved.</span></em></div><div id="ms__id137"><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em></div><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="color:#cc6600;"></span></strong></span><br /><div id="ms__id162"><span style="font-size:130%;"><strong><span style="color:#cc6600;">The Sparrow Goddesses</span></strong><br /></span><br />From many a darkness too near<br />sad waifs bearing triangles<br />of gold, sordid with facts and fear<br /><br />now they no more dream of a sleep<br />with blue myraids and praying<br />manti, from tar stained walls that creep<br /><br />with the purple ivy outgrown<br />by red thorned fingers, reckless<br />sparrows atop the cask unknown.<br /><br />And once they begged: do teach<br />us to fly. Minds guilt ridden<br />languid with lust, the truth a breach,<br /><br />pallid soldiers watching daybreak,<br />entrusted with scope so rare<br />they raise slumbered voices to slake<br /><br />the silence of languages lost<br />to empires withered and torn<br />triumphs vacant save for the frost.</div><div id="ms__id142"></div><em><span style="font-size:85%;"></span></em><br /><div id="ms__id165"><em><span style="font-size:85%;">© 2009 Janie Hofmann. All rights reserved.</span></em></div><em><span style="font-size:85%;">___________________________________</span></em><br /><div id="ms__id169"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;">About the Author<br /></span></strong></div><div id="ms__id168"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;color:#ff9900;"> </div></span></strong><div id="ms__id167">Janie is a Canadian writer who loves to explore the desert and read gothic fiction. Many of her poems are inspired by old fairy tales. Her work has appeared in over forty speculative fiction journals including journals for young readers such as <em>Beyond Centauri, Illumen, Aoife's Kiss and Twisted Tongues</em>. She has a chapbook coming out next year. </div>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6500434615532465339.post-20472658123597682952009-07-04T07:42:00.000-07:002009-08-20T08:04:29.277-07:00The Battle of Apple Blossom Bough<div id="ms__id51"><em>Pheonix Likely</em><br /><div id="ms__id41"><br /></div><div id="ms__id33"><em></em></div><div id="ms__id55"><strong><span style="font-size:130%;">W</span></strong>e chose to build in that area because that’s where our ancestors had lived many generations ago. We worked together building a massive home where we would commune together. All of us had our roles and we knew them instinctively. We never intended to do any others in the area harm when we set down roots. Live and let live as your Paul McCartney once sang. Our structure was massive, leaving room for all of us to live together but modest in both design and in the sense that the amount of area we took up would go virtually unnoticed for some time. Our requirements of the land were little. </div><div id="ms__id54"><br />There was no way we were leaving earth without serious consequences for the planet. If we didn’t flourish here, humans wouldn’t either. </div><div id="ms__id53"><br />I was happy to be in a new home and excited to settle in and have children with the most beautiful female on the planet. It’s true she had a history and offspring from more than one previous union but our culture doesn’t view sexual practices and relationships with the same kind of moral judgment as yours. All I know is that wherever she went I was going to follow her. There was something magical about being around her. Everyone thought so.</div><div id="ms__id43"></div><div id="ms__id44"></div><div id="ms__id35"></div><div id="ms__id34"> </div><a href="http://blacklanternpublishingblossombough.blogspot.com/">Read more!</a><br /></div>Black Lantern Publishinghttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03518987506476604460noreply@blogger.com