The Woods at Night

by Heather Adams

Oh – how terrible the woods at night!
How uneven the quality of the light
Where shapes are formed, and shadows grow –
The strange hearts of which soon beat, and glow.
How deep and rough the texture of that wood
To throw up forms where none, before, had stood.

Such creeping madness, a dark blue terror,
Near or far, what does it matter?
All who linger will know the dread
Of a wasted trail in sunlight tread.

For though these woods, you think, are tame,
You hear a hunter’s footsteps just the same.
And in those dusky moments when the day has gone –
And yet in ghostly echoes lingers on –
Each footstep’s fall is death’s hello:
Oh yes, you know that this is so.

The crickets’ call, the rodents’ scurry:
All tell you – yes – oh please – to hurry.
The owl’s harsh cry: a warning blow
That some strange beast no one should know
Is quickly closing in – it’s true –
Is even now, perhaps, behind you.

For when true night walks in, and deepens,
The gloam woods’ sounds may be mistaken
For whispers, calls, both shy and sudden
And danger lurks, at once, unbidden.

No soft blue from the full moon’s ray
Can hope to keep the wild at bay.
Now a world of shadow thrives,
And only the luckiest survives
That array of light, perceived with dread,
That reveals a night both black and red.


Heather Adams is a storyteller living in the admittedly sometimes creepy woods of central Pennsylvania.

The Road Taken

by KSN Hridayanka

The choice lay there,
Right in front of her,
Between two paths
The best of which,
She hesitated to choose.
Neither could she decide,
Nor had the ability to infer
What the universe conspired
When she seemed tired.

She took her time
Analysing each road
And every other curve,
On how it would mould,
And gift her a dime.

There came a point
She knew it clear
Which path to choose
And which to avoid.
Yet she stood there,
Waiting for destiny to pull her
Towards that one road
She was hesitant to choose.


Hridayanka is an undergraduate student of Biotechnology. Writing is her passion, and poetry a chance to find her true self. What started as a method to uplift her mood has today become a field of interest that she’s currently exploring and learning bit by bit everyday.

The Monsters That Broke Me

by Linda M. Crate

i think i left
bits and pieces
of myself
behind
so i could restring
myself together
with new burning stars
of the galaxy,
stars that don’t know the sting
of your name or the limitations
you would put upon me;
which is for the better because my
temper is like a wild fire
burning down forests and out of control
once a grudge is felt
so consider yourself lucky
i promised myself never to become
the monsters that broke me.


Linda M. Crate’s poetry, short stories, articles, and reviews have been published in a myriad of magazines both online and in print. She has five published chapbooks A Mermaid Crashing Into Dawn (Fowlpox Press – June 2013), Less Than A Man (The Camel Saloon – January 2014), If Tomorrow Never Comes (Scars Publications, August 2016), My Wings Were Made to Fly (Flutter Press, September 2017), and splintered with terror (Scars Publications, January 2018), and one micro-chapbook Heaven Instead (Origami Poems Project, May 2018). She is also the author of the novel Phoenix Tears (Czykmate Books, June 2018).

You Have The Things I Want

by Maria A. Arana

I could easily take them from you
change who I am
make you disappear
call you a liar when you see me in your car
sleeping with your husband
picking the kids up from school

You have the things I want

I could easily hide in your basement
file the blocks until they are thin as paper
tip my hat when you come down
wait until you tire of me
bury you with the things in your caskets
cover them with cloths

You have what I want
I could easily take them from you
I could easily hide in your basement
be free
you would thank me after the diagnosis
…if you last that long


Maria A. Arana is a teacher, writer, and poet. She has published poetry in various journals such as Spectrum, vox poetica, and Altadena Poetry Review. You can find her on her website and Twitter @m_a_Arana

Wax

by Robert Beveridge

The heat of the melted wax
draws the splinters from your hands.
You had been holding the shaft
of the hammer when it slid.
The little knives went deep,
broke off. I dripped
gloves of wax
over your hands
and the splinters rose.

It was what you needed,
you said, and the wax on me
sank in, nestled itself
around my heart, drew out
the thorns.


Robert “Goat” Beveridge makes noise (xterminal.bandcamp.com) and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Nixes Mate Review, Violet Rising, and The Road Less Travelled, among others.