What Fears Become Part 29

I packed it in the car and drove away not so far.

I buried it near a tree so it would no longer burden me.

Now with the work done I return home to relax as one.

RED PLANET.

by Emon Anthousis.

The mountain shudders and cracks open, spilling blood upon the Earth; The volcanic fluid rises and coagulates, forming four silhouetted riders.

With each crashing gallop, the ground below quakes and splinters, releasing air as if the Earth screams out in pain. Those nearest are deafened by the echoing roar, and horror ensnares the people who remain.

Like starved zombies, they dash toward Jesus' house, but no one is home. The tidal wave of blood reaches them and their flesh boils away. From the epicenter, shockwaves emanate as a grotesquely colossal arm bursts out. It grabs anything living and drags it under.

Soon no life remains. The disfigured arm retreats beneath the soil and the riders melt back to blood, coating the planet and staining the Earth red. It floats now, empty and barren, with no memory.

About Emon Anthousis.

Emon Anthousis is currently enrolled at the University of South Florida finishing up a degree in Creative Writing and considering dual majoring in a field outside of English. He decided he wanted to be a writer after finishing Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, which is currently his favorite book of all time.

His hobbies include watching movies with friends, reading and writing.

Emon doesn't want to limit himself to one form of written work and is currently beginning work on a fantasy novel and a comic book series about his take on the superhero genre.

http://www.facebook.com/Greekcheeze.

JASON'S LAMENT.

by Dennis Bagwell.

Now you listen to me Rita!

I appreciate all you've done for me, but as my agent, you owe me this I know George Clooney is being considered for this role, but I have given the best thirty years of my life to this industry and it owes me, too You say fans expect me in certain roles and they don't want to see me in a chick flick, but I want this romantic comedy What have I been doing for the last twenty years but making comedies, Rita?

Jason in s.p.a.ce? Do I look like a G.o.dd.a.m.n astronaut to you?

Freddy would never say this to your face, but he was just as disappointed with Freddy vs. Jason as I was You said it would be the ultimate slasher bromance. It stunk, Rita!

What's next? Abbott and Costello meet Jason?

I appreciate the fans, but let's not forget it's the fans that have type-cast me Every time the screenwriters kill me off, I think, "Great! Now maybe I can try something on Broadway"

Maybe DJ in some clubs for fun Then you negotiate a higher salary for the next piece of c.r.a.p slasher, making it difficult to say no Well, this time I'm putting my machete down!

Can't you even get me spot on Dancing with the Stars?

I mean, have you seen some of the celebrity hacks they get on there?

Not even a guest spot on Law and Order?

It's time to expand my resume to include some more high profile roles; how about a musical? Have you ever heard me sing?

You know, I took this part when I was young and I had only been in Hollywood a few weeks.

I needed the money and I was excited about being in a "Big Hollywood Production"

If I had known I would be wearing a hockey mask for the next thirty years, I would have pa.s.sed on it, Rita!

I have a daughter who is older than the kids I kill in these movies!

Half the time I can't even find my hockey mask because my son borrows it to play hockey!

Kevin Bacon was in the first movie and he's gone on to a pretty lucrative career When does Jason Voorhees get his moment in the sun?

I had lunch with Michael Myers at Spago last week and I poured my heart out to him like I am to you now You know what he said, Rita?

Absolutely nothing! His silence spoke volumes and we share the same pain I wouldn't be surprised if he moves back to Haddonfield Leatherface already went back to his ranch in Texas. Freddy is working with kids I can't wait for the day when I can wash the blood from this crummy, unforgiving town and retire to Camp Crystal Lake I mean, I'm in great shape, but how much longer am I supposed to still be young enough to hurl an axe with robotic precision across a room?

I'll be fifty years old next month, for Christ's sakes!

You can't possibly have any idea how hard it is for an angry, hockey mask wearing, machete wielding, psychotic, serial killer to pretend he's an actor portraying an angry, hockey mask wearing, machete wielding, psychotic, serial killer I've learned to manage a lot of my anger, but I can only take so much of this c.r.a.p before the bodies start piling up My therapist says this lifestyle isn't conducive to my mental well-being Rita, how can you just lay there and say nothing?

Don't look at me with those glazed-over eyes!

Dammit, Rita, say something!!!

BUGS (for Diana) by Dennis Bagwell Bugs in the vents Bugs in the drain Bugs in my bed Driving me insane Bugs in the closets Bugs in the kitchen Eating my food Without my permission Bugs in the phone Bugs in the halls In the kids room Behind their dolls Bugs in the bathroom Bugs in the garage Following me around Like a creepy entourage Invading my home Like unwanted guests Hiding in the corners Like filthy little pests I hear them in the walls Buzzing in their nest While I lay in my bed There is no quiet rest Laying in the dark Sweating with fear Perhaps while I'm sleeping They'll nest in my ear Or drag me away To their burgeoning hive Becoming their feast While I'm still alive My home is now seething With bugs in every s.p.a.ce I'll grab a few things Then I'll leave this place I think I hear them laughing Their torture goes undaunted A home without people Is all they really wanted PRAYING FOR THE DAWN.

by Dennis Bagwell The sun is almost down, the fog rolling in The moon will rise and mock me from the safety of its celestial perch The creatures of the night will screech, scream and hoot their ugly nocturnal symphonies The vampires will awaken from their earthly graves The undead will shuffle from the woods behind my house The werewolves will howl to signal the beginning of the night's festivities The hounds of h.e.l.l will sniff around my porch and mark their territory I will be waiting quietly in the dark Waiting for some or all of them to get into my house Praying I live to see another day.

Praying for the dawn.

About Dennis Bagwell.

Dennis is a thirty-something, politically incorrect, mad at the world, X Generation, heathen, musician, poet and writer from suburban Orange County, California. Dennis moved to North Georgia in 2007 and is quietly preparing for the inevitable zombie apocalypse. He has been writing in one form or another since high school. His warped rantings and observations about the cesspool of a world we are surviving in keep his spiraling descent into madness at bay.

Dennis has had his poetry published by the League of American Poets, The American Poets Society, 63Channels, Black Petals, Death Head Grin and Word Salad Poetry Magazine. He has released two spoken-word CD's, A Random Litter of Thought (2006) and Paid in Full (2007) on Batteryface Records. A short film of Dennis' poem Hollywood was made available to coincide with the release of Paid in Full.

http://www.dennisbagwell.weebly.com.

THE GHOUL.

by John T. Carney.

The tombstone wall was gray and cold, Like a corpse's flesh left in some nameless morgue.

I could almost touch you; feel you; hear you as in life, Though your soul was trapped in the eternity of the grave forever.

I placed both hands to caress the faded words on the slab, My fingers slipping along the rain-drenched granite, Like a mountaineer losing his grip.

Maybe I was losing mine.

Raindrops fell amongst the lonely tombs, As I lingered there, unsure of what to do, Where to go next.

Finally, I moved on to the next crypt, Placing my hands firmly on the niche, With a soft caress, A gentle touch for the dead.

Yet I was losing my grip, Slipping along the edge of the stone, Losing my way on the ascent up the incline.

The rain continued to fall, And I moved on to the next grave, Staring, transfixed, at the withered stone, The stone stared back, unmoved.

So like Death, aloof; indifferent.

I stared blankly at a statue of St. Michael in the distance, A blackbird rose from amidst the stones and soared high in the air.

My hands slipped clumsily through the stones, Groping, seeking, finding nothing but tears, Amongst the dirt and rocks of the incline I faced.

I had lost my way, forgotten the route, Left the path.

A steep mountain of graves loomed in the distance, I knew I could never leave.

You would never allow it, Your love had bound me here, Amongst the tombs and stones of this lonely ascent.

An ascent I would never complete, Until I returned here for the last time, And found my place amongst these lonely stones, On Death's summit with you.

KINGDOM OF SHADOWS.

by John T. Carney Rushing shadows storm the endless night, Washing through an endless sea of s.p.a.ce, In this void these shades find dark delight, The King of Shadows rules this darksome place.

Here, where Styx rolls fat and wide and still, As in some drugged and hazy, lurid dream, The fate of souls flows where it will, One often hears the sorrowful souls scream.

These pause along the vast, unholy sh.o.r.e, And beg for coins to pay the ferry man, Else to linger there forevermore, Or lurk wherever Death is d.a.m.ned.

They whisper through the ancient veil of time: Drink not so vainly Life's luxurious Wine.

MEMORIAL DAY.

by John T. Carney A solitary mourner stood lingering by an open coffin, The corpse laid in state in the mausoleum before the open niche, Awaiting internment.

For more than an hour he stood staring, As if waiting for the eyes to flicker; the muscles to twitch.

Finally, he turned his face to me with a strange, stiff smile, His bared, sharp fangs coldly gleaming, And slowly approached.

Behind him, the stiff, pale corpse rose from its rest, Stared, palely, at his back, And clumsily followed.

I fingered the shaft of my own fangs and grimaced.

My master slowly approaching with bloodstained lips.

It was Memorial Day at Cedar Grove, And the day had only just begun.

About John T. Carney.

John T. Carney was born in San Francisco in 1960 and has lived most of his life in the Bay Area. He graduated from Moreau High School in Hayward, California, in 1979 and from The University of Pacific in Stockton in 1985. He has had several poems published by the International Library of Poetry in their various anthologies and has also been published in small college literary magazines.

His favorite horror short story is "The Red Lodge" by H. Russell Wakefield. His favorite horror movie is The Shuttered Room, based on a story by H. P. Lovecraft. Estronomicon.com (Screaming Dreams) has agreed to publish two stories of his, the first called "The Lake People" and the second, "The Curse of the Leper."

John has published a book, available on Amazon, t.i.tled The Vampire Sonnets. It is a novella combined with sonnets about vampirism.

https://sites.google.com/site/johntcarneybooksandmusic.

THE LIGHT UNDER THE DOOR.

by Teresa Ann Frazee.

We, the pale children of our time.

Slide homeward across a hundred years Into the darkness where shadows fly Tonight we'll play with our living peers While the contented sleep dreaming We roam about our old dwelling place Where sweet memories are kept alive.

Bartering innocence with time and s.p.a.ce Sweat pours through astral bodies Dripping into sockets of cloudy eyes Like faded pipers stirring boyish days Of long hot summers catching fireflies.

Or riding wooden horses that go round Reaching to grab shiny bra.s.s rings And the smell of tiny cakes rising While lost in play on old tire swings But dawn's light muzzles our laughter In a world of nothing all day Imagining these things to come With stiffened postures we lay Our hearts are filled with dust Icy breath trapped in the lungs Only when the golden daylight falls.

Can words roll from our tongues Yes, speechless until we're midnight born Confined daily under roofs of stone At night we join our small glowing hands But we never seem to feel a bone Like flaming rockets in the dark When our sparks and lightning mingle The jolt of life ignites our souls.

And our imaginative senses tingle Then up the black staircase we ascend Cradled in a whoosh of rising air Plunged through the light under the door To our old room with its new heir Will the living child accept us Or will his hair stand on end?

We're young and not certain.

If our true natures will blend Right near him now we hovered He smiled then blew a hollow flute Played us an ancient melody A tune that had long since been mute We danced on our vacant beds of rust Once again moved our cold feet And swayed the body in its way.

To youth's wild frenzied beat Away from our monotonous rest Flung our day clothes all about Stomped on those lifeless things And shook the world with our shout Tumbling adrift toward anonymity In a slow motion race against our curfew As we played freely and left our print On the same toys we never quite outgrew Suddenly dawn waved high her magic wand As we scattered around she counted heads Then swiftly caught us all with one hand And gently tucked us in our daybeds.