TABLE OF CONTENTS

RKYV # 29 {October 2009}

RKYV ONLINE LOGO - David Marshall { current }
- Roy G. James { original }
- r. j. paré { original online adaptation }

Virtual Cover # 29 Poetry - by Larissa Gula, R. J. Pare’,

- art by Roger A. Wilbanks Steph, Stephen Campbell, Anna
- layouts by David Marshall & r. j. paré Gehmacher

Editorial Column - “At The Outset:” Interior Art - pieces by Sam van der
A Few Thoughts From the Editor Wouden, Roger Formidable, Takis Stavrou,
- by r. j. paré Stan Nelson, Bob Labute, Mike Grattan, De
Tourist, r. j. pare, Roger A. Wilbanks
Featured Artist Review
- Roger A. Wilbanks – by r. j. paré Short Fiction –
“Silent”
Health - by Patrick J. Nestor Jr.
- “Tom’s Therapeutic Tidings”
- by Tom Rossini Pop Culture –
“Comic Book Review”
Writer’s Column -by Brad Bellmore
- “Creation in our World” “Raised on Saturday Morning Cartoons”
- by Larissa Gula - by Pauline Harren Paré

Tim Roth – by Mike Grattan

 At the outset
A few thoughts from
the editor
By r. j. pare

“All our times have come

Here but now they’re gone
Seasons don’t fear The Reaper…”

Blue Oyster Cult

For those of you who follow this ‘Zine you just might have noticed something downright
peculiar last month. In fact, considering all the messages I have received I am certain
there is a fair bit of consternation that our favourite Art-Lit free-zine missed its first
deadline. I feel it appropriate at this time to set the record straight.

You see it all started with a 40 oz bottle of Tequila, an 8-Ball and a hooker.

Well, that’s one of the crazy theories anyway. Some folks have wondered if I’d just up
and abandoned the ole’ information super-highway. Others, while communicating with
my wife, volunteered to ‘chip in’ to cover any necessary ransom fees in case Bolivian
guerrillas were holding me in an attempt to raise capital for the next revolution.

The truth is far more mundane than all that.

Life got complicated. My wife lost her job which led to no small amount of turmoil
inside Casa Paré. And then the real whammy hit – I got the big – bad H1N1 FLU bug.
For a few weeks, there were days I could barely get out of bed. This sick germ would
leave me sapped of energy and just wanting to crawl somewhere, close my eyes and
wonder which gods I had defied and how best could I plead for mercy.

The good news is I am back in the swing of things and hope everyone enjoys this issue –
compiled from October submissions and celebrating Hallowe’en throughout with a
variety of pictures from RKYV folks, clearly having a costumed blast!
Regular columnists Tom Rossini, Larissa Gula, Brad Bellmore & Pauline Paré are here
again to share their thoughts, opinions, incite & wit. RKYV ONLINE is fortunate to have
their continued support and it is a privilege to share their columns with all of you. I am
also pleased to present a creepy, fun, & new short story from contributor Patrick J. Nestor
Jr. entitled “Silent.” Hopefully you get as much of a kick out of it as I did. Our featured
artist of the month is Roger A. Wilbanks, check out his addictive Web Comic “The
Portland Express” – ya just might get hooked!

http://theportlandexpress.smackjeeves.com

This issue we are once again fortunate to be able to share a variety of art & poetry from
our contributors – if you particularly enjoy a certain piece don’t hesitate to let them
know!

It is my intent to get production back on schedule… so the next issue of RKYV should be
released in about one week [since most of the submissions have still been sent in, despite
my regrettable lateness]. RKYV # 30 will predominantly focus on November
submissions… but if you have something you’d really like to include in that ish please let
me know and send it in ASAP. After that we should be back on schedule for the
Christmas Special – to be released in the 1st week of January, 2010. Whew…

Enough of my blabbering, on to the good stuff!

Untitled – by De Tourist
 r. j. paré for Hallowe’en – Charlton Heston can bite me, villains are always
cooler than heroes - LOL
 Health
Tom’s Therapeutic Tidings
By Tom Rossini

The Shortage of Men in the Nursing Profession

This past weekend, I was fortunate no… lucky to attend the 34th Annual
Conference in Cincinnati, Oh. for The American Assembly for Men In Nursing (AAMN).
The basis of the conference focuses on “Men…making a Difference in Nursing” with the
mission to meet, discuss, and influence factors which affect men as nurses and promote
men’s health while at the same time building a network and further expand a supportive
network.

Nursing has long been considered a profession that’s for women and not men.
Even the founder of nursing Florence Nightingale believed that nursing was not a
profession for men at all as they lacked compassion, empathy and nurturing that only a
woman could bring. But over the years men have become more and more acceptable in
the field of nursing.

Today Male nurses comprise of approximately 37% of the nurses in the Navy
Nurse Corps with 48% of them in junior ranks. While in the USA the number of male
nurses in the public sector is < 6%. Is it because American society views male nurses as
being gay or as failures since men are supposed to be physicians? Or maybe its due to
the fact of gender bias in text books where nurses are referred to as “she” and that the
media promotes the image of a nurse as female?
 For example… let’s look at how the
media portrays male nurses on TV… how
many can you think of that are portrayed as
straight? How about Gay? Take the NBC
Show Mercy – 2 MD – male; 5 nurses 3
female and 2 male and one of the males is
portrayed as gay. Now let’s look at Nurse
Jackie – where Mohammed “MO MO” de la
Cruz is another gay nurse and not to mention
that “Mo Mo” in Spanish is equal to that of
homo in English. And finally when you
think of nurse what do you think of a man or
a woman in sex outfit ready to “take care of
you.”

Untitled – by Mike Grattan

So… as you read this today remember that men can be nurses and that it is not
just a profession for women. Being a nurse means that your not only a caregiver but you
are also a clergy, dietician, social worker, physical/occupational therapist, as well as a
trusted friend to those in need. So the next time you hear the word nurse it could be me.

Untitled – by Bob Labute

 < Tom’s wife dressed as a Smiling Witch…

& Tom as Bearded Jesus >

– Now that’s Scary!!!

 Featured artist Review
Roger a. wilbanks
By r. j. paré & Pauline Paré

Bio: Born in Dallas, TX, Roger graduated from

Sunset High School in 1989 where he worked on
the school newspaper as staff artist and sports
reporter. After receiving his Associates degree
from Mountain View College, he attended the
University of North Texas. He left the world of
higher education, choosing to further his
education in the real world.

When not at his drawing table, he is usually out

watching some of the awesome local music in
Dallas. He has done artwork for a few of the
bands, mainly as a way of helping show his
support. He plays hockey as a goalie on a men’s
league. He’s done this for almost 20 years. It is
this active nature that keeps his mind fresh.

He has been writing and drawing comics since as

long as he can remember. His first published
piece as a comic artist was a story in Satyr
Magazine #9 this year titled “Just a Cup of
Coffee” written by Erik W Hendrix.

He started a webcomic called The Portland Express earlier this year that in his own
admission began as a lark, just to kill time, but has maintained a good sized following.
http://theportlandexpress.smackjeeves.com

While he is still waiting for the big break, he enjoys the freedom he has as an indie comic maker
to write whatever he wants whenever he wants. It is this ability to run down the path of any
tangents that pop into his head that is mainly responsible for the moderate success he enjoys.

r. j. paré: Have you always known that you wanted to be or, rather, were an artist?

Roger Wilbanks: Yes. I learned early on that I saw the world in shapes and lines. I
didn’t realize what that meant till a teacher caught sight of my doodling and popped me
into art class. Since then it has been locked into my mind that this is what I was meant to
do.
Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks
Title: The Portland Express – Chapter 6,
Page One
Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie
Size: 664 x 1000 px
Date Created: 7/09

Pauline Paré: The previous chapter ended

with our hero “Nails” grabbing the reluctant
damsel in distress, “Daisy” & leaping from
“Kane’s” pirate ship “The Portland
Express”. They begin this chapter adrift at
sea clutching a life preserver.

r.j.p: A pretty cool “Title Page” for this

chapter. The scene is set quite effectively &
the comic’s title is placed with a bit of
“tongue in cheek” cleverness using the [that
the comic is named after] ship’s life
preserver. The mix of inking styles &
techniques in the piece [some heavy blacks;
fine lines & cross hatching are all evident]
really helps convey the dire nature of the
circumstances the characters find
themselves in.

r.j.p: Did you study or major in art while in school?

RW: Eventually. I grew up in the inner city. Art was something that garnered one very
limited respect. Once I realized that was my calling though, I never backed down from
it. If you see an edge to my writing or my art, that’s where it comes from. I spent a lot of
time in self justification. I went Art School but found that I was not down at the same
level as the other students and needed something that actually challenged me. That was a
very disappointing time. I expected to learn, but instead taught.

r.j.p: Who was your primary source of encouragement, as a child, in pursuing art?

RW: My family was as encouraging as most families are. My aunt was my biggest push,
since it was her that eventually hung my art on her walls next to her Picassos and
Japanese woodcuts. Once I saw the juxtaposition of their work and mine, I realized
“Yeah. This is something I could do.” That and my Marvel Super Heroes lunchbox
(circa 1977)
r.j.p: What is your favorite media to work with?

RW: Gun to my head… it’s ink and Bristol. I decided early on not to limit myself
though. I like watercolor, sculpture and oil. Not a fan of collage. I have dabbled in most
of the mediums out there yet I still find the majority of my work looking like comic art. I
once drew a skull on the hood of a friend’s truck using the dirt and my finger. (He
refused to wash it afterwards.) I drew a picture of a girl in a bar with a toothpick and
Tabasco sauce and did a similar portrait with a book of struck matches, so I don’t
recognize limits in what I can use. If it makes a mark, I’ll use it.

Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks

Title: The Nightmare – [a short story] Page
Ten
Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie
Size: 664 x 1000 px
Date Created: 6/08

r.j.p: For starters I would like to bring your

attention Roger’s ability to effectively
convey emotion in his line work. The
therapist’s transition from bored irritation to
a surprise fear is pitch-perfect. The scene is
a fun play on the “bad guy seeks a shrink”
plot we’ve seen played out to comedic
effect in films like “Analyze This” and
dramatic effect in television’s “The
Sopranos”. Roger ups the ante here by
giving this dynamic a twist in the tradition
of Rod Sterling or the old EC Comics. What
therapy can help you when your dead
victims come calling?

r.j.p: Do you use any special tools and

techniques to create your art?

RW: My most important tool is not a tool in the physical sense. It’s my mind. I have an
ability to visualize what I am drawing before I draw it. I have read numerous artists’
interviews where they have described the fact that they don’t draw so much as trace the
images from their mind. I find myself in the same boat in that I see what I want in a clear
picture (more or less) before I ever take pen to paper.
r.j.p: What inspires you to create art?

RW: Real life. As a kid, I remember thinking that comic art was the hardest to do
because “Those guys have to be able to draw EVERYTHING well. People, buildings,
cars, planes, etc.” I was about 6. I watch everything around me and pull my inspiration
from what I see: A mother with child at the store, a homeless man, a bird in flight and a
wrecked car. All these images stand out in my mind as relevant when I see them in their
natural state.

r.j.p: How would you categorize your artistic style?

RW: Till recently I would have told you I don’t have one and to a certain degree I
maintain that. The way I draw has been called Minimal-Photorealistic, mainly because I
use photos as reference. I try to whittle every panel down to it’s core and only draw the
parts that are relevant. The reader’s time is precious to me, and I want to instill a feeling
from my art quickly. The best way to do that is to winnow away anything unnecessary.
Like Hemmingway, but with a pencil.

r.j.p: Would you say that there is a "message" or "unifying theme" in your work?

RW: Not really. My work was described as a

Slice of Life. The everyday made important. My
favorite stories involve the quiet moments of
reflection and conversation. I like a knock down
brawl also, but there is more power in a solitary
figure standing alone than there can ever be in a
muscle-bound spandex battle royal.

Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks

Title: Barnabus Moss and the Agents of Ba'al
Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie
Size: 664 x 1000 px
Date Created: 8/09

RW: This is from a comic I did as part of my own

contest on my FB free comic page that allowed
fans to pick the story they would like to see as a
weekly serial.
r.j.p: Which famous artists / creators or styles have influenced you? Why?

RW: Foremost, Will Eisner. He showed me that this art form is serious as well as relevant.
Thought goes into every page from layout to lettering. Neal Adams, Burne Hogarth, Alex
Raymond, Frank Miller, John Byrne, John Romita (Jr & Sr) Walt Simonson, Frank
Mazzuchelli…the list is really long. I like art from artists that take their work seriously. I learn
something from every artist I am exposed to, even the bad ones, ESPECIALLY the bad ones. My
main goal is to draw the world as it is, just more dynamic.

r.j.p: Would you rather have an engaged & loyal but, ultimately, small Indie readership or work
on the latest Spidey, Wolverine or X - book? [the old Art vs Commerce question]

RW: This one is easy. Neither. My ideal goal would be to do what I like, when I like and still be
able to maintain a living at it. I don’t like staying on the same subject for too long. I get bored
easilly that way. As a writer, I have far too many ideas in my head to anchor myself to one idea.
I would liken my ideal career to that of Stephen King. I would like to be known for the variety of
quality work I produce. If I can find that opportunity behind a major property or my own indy
property, either will make me happy.

Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks

Title: The Bad Seeds
Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie
Size: 664 x 1000 px
Date Created: 8/09

RW: This page is also from a comic I did as part

of my own contest on my FB free comic page
that allowed fans to pick the story they would
like to see as a weekly serial. This one resurrects
20's era gangsters and drops them in Europe pre
WII as war instigators.

r.j.p: With advancements in computer graphic

tablet technology, some artists are now creating
their work directly in the digital medium and
releasing it in purely digital formats... are the
days of paper & pulp doomed to the realm of
fading memories?

RW: Nah. As long as they continue to make

spiral notebooks and pencils, people will use
them to draw comics. Whether these wind up
being transferred onto a digital format or are just
used as springboards for fully digital work is
immaterial. It’s easier to draw on paper than on a
computer.
r.j.p: What do you think of the term "starving artist"?

RW: It applies. I had the misguided notion in my youth that once I decided to do this for a living
the gates would open for me like St Peter’s and I would be welcomed inside the kingdom with
loads of money and free beer. That’s not the case. You have to work for everything you get in
this business… and sometimes, more often than not, you work your whole life for recognition
that will never come. You can spend decades of your life writing or drawing stories no one
reads. But I don’t do this for the riches or fame. I do it because I am compelled to. I know no
other way. I find myself drawing everywhere I go, and the ideas refuse to leave me alone. I’m
not making any money off of this, but that doesn’t matter. If that comes it will only make all the
heartache sting less. I draw my biggest comfort from a fan reading my latest story and saying “I
liked this!” Financial gain can’t compete with that feeling. It can only allow me to buy a
better brand of beer.

r.j.p: Do you feel more a sense of community with other artists or a sense of competition?

RW: Community. I have a unique understanding of people, coming from the diverse life I have
led. I have seen how the idea of a rival can inspire you, but I have also seen how the futility of
petty jealousy can be a rotting albatross on your neck. I believe we are all in this together, and
that the success of one reflects on everyone. I love talking shop with complete strangers.

r.j.p: How do you market yourself?

RW: I really don’t do a good job at this part. I focus on the writing and drawing. I use Facebook
and Deviant Art mainly, but more in a “Here it is…” fashion. I don’t seek fans so much as I
simply welcome them. That makes it kind of hard to generate a huge following. I have over 500
fans on my Facebook Free Comics page. I only invited about half of those. The other half have
found me and told their friends.

r.j.p: Do you find it difficult to stay motivated / inspired?

RW: Not at all. As I said, I am compelled to do this. I know no other way. Cooks see ingredient
combinations in their sleep, I am told. Architects see buildings. I see comics. I have a regular
recurring dream where I am at a comic book shop reading comic books that I have never seen
before. A lot of my stories have come from this Comic Shop in my Mind.

r.j.p: While traditional publishing and distribution has become a difficult goal to achieve for the
modern Indie comic creator, what do you think of the impact that social networks and POD
services have had as an alternate means of connecting you, your work and your audience?

RW: I would have no readers were it not for Facebook and MySpace. These social networking
sites have opened up a broad range of people to my art. As far as POD services, I haven’t used
them. I am skeptical of them. I think they create unrealistic price structures for comics by
artificially inflating the costs. My thinking is that comics cost too much these days. The trade off
from a 99c b/w comic with a great story to a $5 full color, digitally enhanced die-cut cover
monstrosity is unfathomable. As businessmen, we comic people have priced ourselves out of the
business.
Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks
Title: Beds
Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink, Sharpie
Size: 664 x 1000 px
Date Created: 8/08

RW: This page is from a comic I have

called Beds. The world ends in the first
issue and is reborn in the second. I did
THIS page last and the others in the
book about 2 years earlier.

r.j.p: Roger demonstrates a ‘director’s

eye’ in his storyboarding. This fantastic
page – ALONE – makes me want to find
the rest of this story and read it through.

r.j.p: What other interests do you have,

besides art?

RW: I am an avid hockey player. I have

played since 1992. As a goalie, I see the
world from an interesting POV. It’s
something that is almost unexplainable,
but it’s like watching a quilt knit itself
and then you tying the final knots.

I am also a big supporter of local music in Dallas. Usually when not tied to my drawing
table, I can be found at a local dive bar or honky-tonk enjoying loud local music with my
friends.

r.j.p: What advice would you have for a young artist starting out today?

RW: Draw every day, even when you don’t want to. Frank Herbert wrote in DUNE
something to the effect of “Moods are for lovemaking or cattle.” If you are an artist, you
draw. You owe it to yourself to improve. If you are still drawing the same thing today
with the same skill as you did 10 years ago, you have failed yourself. Read voraciously.
Go to the museum till you can draw everything there from memory. Carry a spiral
sketchbook and just go downtown at lunchtime. The time you lost when you put down
your pencil can never be replaced.
 Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks
Title: Just a Cup of Coffee
Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink,
Sharpie
Size: 664 x 1000 px
Date Created: 8/08

RW: Just a Cup of Coffee is from

a story written by Erik W Hendrix
(whose comic Faction won the
Small Press Idol contest this
summer) that appeared in Satyr #9
in June of 09. It's the first part in
a series we call Capetown
Chronicles.

r.j.p: Remove the narration and

this page STILL conveys the story
effectively ‘drawing’ the audience
in with a pacing that makes the
character both relatable and
appealing. The use of
monochrome grey colour shading
is quite effective with Roger’s line
work.

r.j.p: Do you have any big plans, shows or Cons coming up?

RW: I don’t really plan that far ahead. I have a story (Just a Cup of Coffee) written by
Erik Hendrix, that appeared in an anthology “Saytr - #9” this summer with another one
(Undead on Arrival) also written by Erik coming out this fall in “Mysterious Visions –
After Hours #5” I have a webcomic with a fairly decent following and am planning on
doing a Zuda comic this fall as well. But aside from that, I am relying too much on my
own inertia these days.
Artist’s Name: Roger Wilbanks
Title: The Portland Express –
Chapter 16, Page One
Media Used: Bristol, pen/ink,
Sharpie
Size: 664 x 1000 px
Date Created: 9/09

PP: Nails & Kane travel to Mexico

in search of treasure. Kane’s
Grandfather is the voice of the
narrative reciting a Chinese parable
of a ‘fighting cock’ as means of
taking Nails measure. The posters in
the background foreshadow the
upcoming events in this Chapter.

r.j.p: I chose this striking page to

use as the art for this month’s cover.
The use of heavy black shading in
the inks enhances this [dare I say it]
iconic pose. Nails is portrayed as
tough yet, slick and composed;
perceptive and dangerous. In the
tradition of James Bond this is a man
that women want and men want to
be.

r.j.p: How would you like your art, and by extension yourself, to be remembered?

RW: Relevant. I want some guy 100 years from now pulling MY compilation from the
crystal cube and showing it to some kid who has shown some talent with art and saying
“That is how you should do it, Klexthar. THIS guy knew the secret.”
Vampire – by Roger Formidable
 Writer`s column
Creation in our world
By Larissa Gula

Column 12 – Inspirational Halloween

Here’s to keep my miraculous appearance

a second time running short and fairly
sweet. Hm, sweet? Like, treat sweet?

Trick ‘r Treat?

By the time you all read this, I’m sure it

will be long past Halloween. (Sorry,
Randy, but it’s true.) Still, I think my
leading topic can be appreciated year
round, especially when the sun goes down
and the chill in the houses begins to
increase.

Ghosts.

I’m willing to bet every reader has a single

defining thing they gravitate towards when
they hear that word. Some people probably
think of the sheet-like ghost that’s a white
see through mass. Others might think of a
person, a relative or historic figure known
to haunt a location nearby. Still others may
go the extra length to think of malicious
forces we cannot explain.
Untitled – by De Tourist
The thing is, we don’t know that much about ghosts. In fact, at least in the U.S., the
majority cannot agree on whether they exist or not. (I know spiritually differs between
cultures. Stay with me.)

But ghosts are pretty darn popular, at least in the U.S. I even went and wrote a story
about ghost walks in Pittsburgh for the Pitt News. The newspaper wanted their share of
ghosts, too.
Two things made my personal experience all the more worthy. One, our stories are often
rooted in historical fact. Two, the man telling the ghost stories was a marvelous
professional freelance story teller. Raconteur, was he? Oh yes, he was. He knew how to
tell, what to include, what was entertaining, and in the end, how to build the story and
keep it flowing right up until the end without letting the audience escape the hook and net
he’d made just for them.

See the point yet? Whether these stories were true or not, whether the listeners believed
or not: story telling itself is an act of creation. Another person would certainly have
shared the tales in a different style and made them a bit different with their own style. It’s
the nature of tales to be adopted and changed. Fairy tales are all said to originate from
three basic stories that were elaborated on and changed for the cultures and times they
existed in. I don’t even want to try to count how many exist now.

Forgotten Dreams – by Sam van der Wouden

Not only that, but creation serves not only a personal desire, but a public desire. I could
tell my tour guide wanted to share his stories, and I could tell the audience wanted to be
there – or at least managed to enjoy themselves if they were dragged along. It happens.

It’s important to remember when working on artwork, you truly can’t please everyone,
but on the other hand: maybe it’s not always the best idea to always create what you
specifically want. There has to be at least a sliver of public desire for the artwork to be
shared artwork. If you are happy keeping it to yourself as a hobby, by all means: go for it.

But if you want to go public at some point, you can try to tone down your own artwork
for the public, at least for a time. Maybe you can release a special edition later once you
have fans?

This topic of ghosts may be as debated

as the idea of being yourself versus
selling to the public, and I am sure we all
will take on other topics of questionable
nature (what is more fun for an artist?)
but I think peaceful debate is half the
fun.

In the end, the best artist makes the art as

believable as my ghost tour guide did –
at least for a time. But preferably,
permanently. (Which was the case with
the walk. Congrats, good sir.)

To read the article I wrote for the Pitt

News, go to

http://trolleygirl13.blogspot.com/2009/1
0/pittsburgh-ghost-walks.html

Best and Happy Halloween,

-Larissa

Untitled – by De Tourist
 < Chantel Paré for Hallowe’en 2009

< Our Li’l Princess

Genevieve Paré for Hallowe’en 2009 >

The mythological horror “Medusa” !! >

 Short Fiction
S I L E N T
By Patrick J. Nestor, Jr.

As he came onto the platform, glad

to be out of the rain, he saw the
blonde.

Even though Stephen knew her

name (it was Kathy) he still thought of
her as the blonde. He had first noticed
her almost three months ago… just
another commuter braving the daily
trek into Manhattan. After hidden
glances at each other for a few weeks,
she had finally approached and
extended her hand one day. It had
been raining that day too.

“Kathy.” she had stated simply.

“Steve.” he had replied. “How are
you?”

What is real – by Takis Stavrou

“Wet.” she had smiled. “This rain never seems to stop. Anyway, I figured since we’ve
been noticing each other so many times and pretended not to, we might as well know the
names of the person we were pretending not to notice.”

They had chatted a little and discovered they worked close to each other and even
frequented many of the same luncheon spots. Then the train came and they took seats
together and talked a little more. They had a number of things in common it seemed.
Both were married, both had one child, both cared for sick, elderly parents. For Steve it
was his mother, for Kathy it was her father. Steven felt a small, thin charge while talking
to her. He suspected she felt one too. They parted ways that morning at Penn Station, and
agreed to try and have lunch sometime.
 The next day, however, they had gone right back to their normal routine, only this time
they would nod or raise a hand in acknowledgement to the other. Since then they had
exchanged a few pleasantries, but both seemed to think that any further contact would be
dangerous.

Back in the present, Stephen stood with the tip of his shoes on the thick yellow line.
The platform had a roof and he was able to close his umbrella. It was still quite dark
outside and the clouds and rain made it seem almost as if it was night. He took a deep
breath and felt a small pain as he exhaled as if his ribs were sore. His head felt hazy and
full of cobwebs. He just couldn’t seem to focus this morning. He felt… weird. Exactly
why, he did not know. It was like he had forgotten something important. He hadn’t been
sleeping well. The way his mother had been feeling, it just wasn’t possible. A sound
snapped him out of his musing. The train was arriving and as it came to a stop he snuck
another look the blonde’s way.

She glanced up as she was about to enter the train and nodded to him, a crooked smile
on her face. He returned the nod and they entered their separate cars.

The train car he entered was full to capacity and Stephen didn’t feel like standing the 40
minute trek to Penn Station. He looked around for a second and then felt his cell phone
vibrate. He fumbled it out of his trench coat pocket and looked. It was his wife, Mary. He
was about to answer it but suddenly felt like it would be something he wasn’t in the mood
to deal with. He hit the silent button and placed it back in his coat pocket. He then started
walking toward the next car. As he opened the door between the cars, he came face to
face with the blonde.

“Oh!” she gasped, startled.

“Whoa. Hi Kathy.” Stephen said, stopping short of walking into her.
“Hello Stephen.” she replied. “Looking for a seat?”
“Yeah, you?” he answered.
“No, I… well…” she began.

He mouth hung open for a second, and then shut suddenly. Over her shoulder Stephen
could see an empty seat next to an old woman. “Hey there’s one there, why don’t you
take it?” he said.

Kathy seemed to hesitate, looked down and then back up into his eyes. “No, you take
it.” she said. “I want to move up to the front.”

“You sure?” he asked. They both stumbled as the train jerked while pulling out of the
station. Kathy grabbed his shoulder and steadied herself.

“Yes, I’m sure.” she replied. She began to move past him and then hesitated again.
“Stephen?” she started. “Have you ever had…” again, as before, she stopped and closed
he mouth.
 “Have I ever what?” he asked. She looked troubled and he was very curious of what she
was about to ask.

“Nevermind.” she replied. “You’d better grab that seat before someone else does.”

Before he could say anything more, she slipped past him and moved into the car he had
just left. He could go after her, but thought that to be a bit presumptuous on his part. They
didn’t really know each other. He felt the phone buzz again but let it go to voice mail. He
was holding on to make sure he didn’t stumble as the train moved.

Stephen moved to the one empty seat, it was pretty amazing no one had snapped it up,
and sat down. He sighed and closed his eyes for a second. Again, the feeling that he had
forgotten something washed over him, but for the life of him, he couldn’t begin to guess
what it was. He opened his eyes.

The lights in the car flickered as the train moved along. Added in with the dark and rain
outside, the train car seemed almost spooky. He could see the train conductor moving
towards them and the flickering light gave a slightly jerky look to her movements. He
didn’t like the way it looked and he closed his eyes again.

“God it looks almost like that scene from The Ring.” he muttered under his breath to
himself.

“Excuse me?” a voice to his left spoke. “What did you say?”

Stephen opened his eyes and looked up, startled. It was the woman he was sitting next
to. She was staring at him intently. She looked to be in her late fifties/early sixties. A
lump stuck in Stephen’s throat for a moment. For a second there, he almost thought she
was his mother.

Of course that would have been impossible. His mother was too sick to be on a train.
“Oh… nothing.” Stephen started to stammer, embarrassed. “Just talking out loud to
myself.”

“Talking to ghosts.” she replied.

“W… what?” he stuttered.

The woman laughed softly and took off her glasses.

“That’s what my Grand-ma-ma used to call it.” she explained. “You know, when you
talk out loud to yourself. She called it talking to ghosts.”

“Oh… I see…” Stephen answered, with a little chuckle. “For a second I thought…
well… I don’t know what I thought.” He heard the uneasiness in his own voice and didn’t
quite understand it.
 She laughed again and put her
glasses back on.

“Now that,” she said with a sly

grin, “Grand-ma-ma would have just
called scatter-brained.”

Despite himself, Stephen returned

her grin. Just then, the lights went
completely out. Even though it was a
common occurrence on the train, he
gasped.

“Nothing to worry about.” The

Conductor casually remarked, a few
seats away. “They’ll be back on
momentarily.”

Stephen shook his head, feeling

embarrassed. He was on total edge
and he wasn’t sure why he was so
ready to jump at shadows so easily.
He felt the cell phone vibrating in his
coat pocket again. He pulled it out.
Mary again. Whatever it was, it
could wait until he got to the office.
The reception on the train was
always lousy anyway.
Right in the head – by Takis Stavrou

True to the conductor’s word, the lights came back on a moment later. Stephen closed
his eyes again and settled back as the conductor glanced down at his monthly ticket on a
lanyard around his neck and took the woman’s, punching it in a smooth, quick motion,

“See?” she said smiling. “Normal occurrence. Unless we’re going through a tunnel or
normally you can still pretty much see in daytime and people don’t even notice when it
happens. Even as dark as it is out right now there is still some light coming through the
windows.”

Stephen nodded and tried to see if he could catch a little sleep. He felt tired. Had he
been up late last night? Suddenly he couldn’t recall. What was it he had done last night?
The silence in the train car was deafening. The train was normally quiet, especially in the
early morning, but this was almost like a tomb it was so silent. Stephen opened his eyes
at that thought. Again, he wondered what the hell was wrong with him. His pulse
suddenly jumped… so quickly that he actually felt it thumping. Something was bothering
him and he just couldn’t figure out what it was.
 His phone vibrated again and he, almost angrily jabbed at it. Dammit, couldn’t she
wait? What was so important she couldn’t wait until he got to the office? Was she calling
just to complain again about his mother? She was sick. There was nothing they could do.
Stephen knew it was a burden. He knew. But what could they do? His finger hit the
‘ignore’ button and he shifted in his seat, feeling uncomfortable. The train moved into a
tunnel and that’s when the lights went out again.

Unlike before, due to being in the tunnel, the train was plunged into total darkness.

“Now *that’s* like a tomb.” he stage whispered to himself, talking to ghosts like the
woman next to him had said. He waited for her to comment, but none came. He leaned
back into his seat.

A few seconds later the train came out of the tunnel. The lights came back on also.

Stephen was alone.

Literally… alone. He blinked and looked around. No one was there. The woman next to
him… gone. The conductor who still should have been in sight… gone. The seats in front
of him and behind him… empty.

“What the fuck?” Stephen spat. He jumped up and almost hit his head on the metal
storage shelf above him. He stepped out into the aisle and turned in a full circle, but there
was nothing. No one.

“I… I… I must have fallen asleep.” he said out loud to no one. Suddenly he relaxed a
little. He had tried so hard to fall asleep… he had felt so tired and out of sorts that he
must have fallen asleep and slept right through to the station.

Stephen looked his watch to see how late he was for work and his blood ran cold. His
watch read 6:46 am. Either he had managed to stay asleep for twenty-four hours straight
or it was less than twelve minutes from when the train had left his station. Seeing that the
arrival time into Penn was at 7:26 AM the idea that he had slept through the docking in
Manhattan was dashed. Could the train have been evacuated and somehow they had
passed him up while he was sleeping? It was highly doubtful, but not impossible… but
could they really have gotten the train empty in a scant matter of minutes? After looking
at his watch he didn’t think he had fallen asleep at all, but let’s say there was a few
minutes difference… still it would have meant all those people getting off in like… four
minutes. Tops.

He didn’t think it was possible, but what else could it be?

The train was still moving, so some one had to be operating it. That person would have
some answers. Stephen grabbed his bag and looked forward. Since he was towards the
rear of the train he would have to work his way up towards the front.
 He started walking slowly, since the train rocked side-to-side roughly. All he needed
was to fall and break something, but as he encountered empty car after empty car, he
moved faster and faster until he was almost running. His anxiety rose with each passing
second.

He wasn’t sure how many cars he had gone through when he heard the voices.

He froze for a moment, startled by the low, but sudden sound. He looked forward to the
car ahead. The lights inside flickered on and off in an almost rhythmic pattern. More
people though. Voice meant more people. Thank God.

Stephen ran to the separating door and pulled it open, then pushed forward the door to
the next car. Even as he entered however, he knew something was wrong.

There were nine people sitting in the center, in a section of seats all facing each other.
They sat rigidly, their backs straight, eyes faced staring front. They did not acknowledge
Stephen or each other. They stared forward, seeming to face each other without seeing
and chanted… a terrible, hollow sounding, chant.

“The ground turned gray.” they all said in perfect unison. “The ocean turned red. The
air turned to dust. The sky turned black.”

“H… hello?” Stephen tried to interrupt. “What’s happening here?”

None of them took notice of him. They all just continued their chant.

“The cities turned to ruin.” they droned on. “The wind turned stale. The plants turned
brown. The grass turned white.”

Stephen’s heart rate, already racing, began to pound so hard he was almost having chest
pains. He stumbled backwards and almost fell.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people?!?” he screamed at them. “Stop it!”
“The heart turned cold.” they went on, as is Stephen was not there. “The bones turned
to stone. The skin turned green.”

Stephen leapt forward and seized one of them, a man who seemed to be about the same
age, and shook him violently.

“Stop it!” Stephen screamed in his face. “Stop it, stop it. STOP IT!!!”

The man, along with his companions, kept chanting. Stephen flung the man away from
him and stumbled away. The train lurched and he fell on top of them. None of them
reacted. They just kept chanting.
 He leapt up and ran forward. As he reached the next door he looked forward and
thought he saw something. He pulled and pushed his way through the two doors and burst
into the next car. As he did he saw a figure leap through the next set of doors. He ran, full
speed, forward and almost fell as the train lurched again. As he reached the doors he had
to hold on to keep on his feet. He got through them into what seemed to be the front car.
The lights in the car were almost all out. Just one light at the front was working and it
was dim and flickering. Stephen could see the engineer’s compartment at the front. The
door was closed and a thin red light came out under the crack of the door.

Stephen looked around for the figure but saw none one. Who ever it was must have
ducked into the engineer’s compartment. He moved carefully up to it and knocked softly
on the door.

“Hello?” he called out. “Can you help me? What is going on here?”

No one answered.

Stephen knocked again, harder this time. He then grabbed the handle and flung open
the door. As it opened Stephen’s nostrils detected a sort of copper-like scent.

Inside was a total nightmare. The little compartment’s walls were covered in blood.

It was everywhere. The walls. The ceiling. The chair. The machinery. Even the light,
which was the reason the light coming under the door was red. It looked like someone
had exploded inside there. On the train controls was a severed hand that seemed to be
keeping the level for the forward motion of the train going. On the window looking out to
the tracks was a single, dripping word written in scarlet.

S I L E N T
Stephen gagged and fell backwards. At the same moment the train screeched and came
to a halt. He hit the floor hard, his elbow hitting the edge of one seat and the back of his
head hitting another.

It took him a second to realize they were fully stopped. Then the doors came open with
a metallic hiss. As they did, a figure darted out from under the seats and rushed out the
opening. This time Stephen could see. It was a little girl in a dark red dress.

Stephen was too surprised to shout out to her. He leaned on the seat next to him and
hoisted himself up and ran out of the train.

The track platform was deserted. He looked around and saw no one, but he could hear
clomping on the stairs leading up and away from the train. Not knowing what else to do,
Stephen followed.
 “Wait!’ he finally was able to yell. He ran up the steps, praying the station would be
full of people.

It wasn’t.

In fact, when he reached the top of the stairs, Stephen should have been surrounded by
people and kiosks selling newspapers, and brightly lit shop fronts selling every
imaginable food. But there was nothing. The station looked like it had been closed for
years. A cart lay on its side, its wheels twisted and broken. All of the shops had the
security gates pulled down but all the metal was rusted and dusty.

A case that had held schedules

was upside down, the schedules
scattered all around. Ticket
windows were bare or broken.
Litter was everywhere and the
smell of the air was stale.

“Oh my God,” Stephen gasped.

“No God.” a tiny voice came
from behind him.

Stephen whirled around in time

to see the little girl run away.
“Wait!” he yelled, “STOP!”

The only answer he got was a

strange sound that he could not
tell was a giggle or a sobbing. He
ran after the little girl. She was
fast, but his legs were much
longer and he caught up to her.

“Wait! I’m not going to hurt

you!” Stephen said as he caught
her.

The little girl screamed as his

hand clamped around her arm.
“You will!” she shrieked at him,
her voice high and shrill. “You
are a liar! You will!!”
The Horror – by Takis Stavrou
 “No! Please stop it!” Stephen shouted back, holding her firmly as she tried to break
away. “Calm down!”

The girl stopped struggling and looked at him with terrified eyes. “Don’t.” she
whispered.

“It’s ok, I promise.” he replied gently. “I swear I’m not here to hurt you. Ok?

She sniffed and nodded, but looked very doubtful.

“What’s your name?” Stephen asked.

“Rose.” she said, sounding as if she thought it was a stupid question.
“Hi Rose. I’m Steve.” he replied. “Are you alone? Were you with someone?”
“I’m all alone now.” she answered.
“Did you get separated from your mommy?” he asked.
The little girl looked grave. “She’s dead.” she told him.

Stephen was afraid to ask if she meant she had been dead, but had been killed just
before.

“Who were you with on the train?” he asked her.

“They’re all dead you know.” she said to him. “All of them. They are dead and we are
damned.”

Stephen was shocked. Where would she get such an idea? Of course, looking around
them he supposed it really wasn’t hard to wonder why. If seemed as if they were in hell.

“Why would you say that?” he whispered.

“The lady told me.” she said.
“What lady?” he asked, surprised.
“The blonde lady on the train.” she replied, again sounding like it was something he
should have known.

Someone else had been on the train?

“Where did she go?” he asked.

“She ran away.” she said simply.

Stephen looked around almost expecting to see a blonde woman standing there. No one
was. He ran his hand through his hair and tried to think. A few second went by before he
heard the scratching. It was low at first and he didn’t notice it. As it got louder and looked
around.

“Do you hear that?” he asked the little girl.

She shook her head.

 Stephen stood up and turned in a circle. The sound was coming from the direction they
had run from, the direction of the tracks.

He took a step in that direction. The sound was getting louder. It was a scratching
sound of sorts. He took another step… then another. The shadows in the area seemed to
part and he realize the sound was something dragging itself towards them.

Stephen’s eyes bulged. The form was short and looked like it was wearing some sort of
filthy nightgown. Whatever it was it looked like it had been dead for some time. He
gasped and took a step backwards.

That was when Rose giggled and ran past him.

“What the… no!” Stephen shouted. He reached for her but she ducked under his hands
easily and bolted away.

Before he could run after her, Stephen heard a scream from the opposite direction. He
didn’t know what to do.

“Oh my God, oh my God,” Stephen gasped. “What do I do?”

“Talking to ghosts?” the thing slithering towards him asked suddenly. Its voice was
raspy and low, but strangely familiar. “Talking to ghosts?” Behind him the scream rang
out again.

Stephen looked in the direction Rose had run. She was gone. Hating himself, he turned
and ran towards the screaming.

“Talking to ghosts?” the thing cried out as he ran, its voice getting louder. “Talking to
ghosts?”

Stephen didn’t look back; he just fled in the direction of the screaming. He came to a
split but could hear the screams coming from the left corridor. It was darker down that
way. He could see, but the lights were dim, as if the power was low. He rushed down and
ran full speed into a fenced in gate.

“OOOOOOOF!!!” the air was knocked out of him as he bounced off and hit the
ground. He got onto his knees and looked up. Beyond the gate he could just make out a
figure. It was a woman. Her back was to him. She was looked at something hidden by the
darkness. She was whimpering.

“Hey.” Stephen called out to her.

The woman screamed again as she turned around. He had scared her speaking up
suddenly like that. Her face was bloodied and had scratches on it. Even as she turned
Stephen recognized her.
 “Kathy!” he exclaimed. She must have been the blonde that Rose had told him about.

“It’s ok, it’s Stephen!”

Kathy looked at him, no recognition in her eyes for a moment. She was shaking and her
breathing was coming out in bunches, like she was hyperventilating. Her eyes looked
wild and almost savage.

“Kathy?” Stephen almost whispered to her.

She seemed to snap out of it then. “Steve?” she gasped. “Oh My God, Steve, help me!”
“What happened? Did you fall asleep on the train too?” he asked
“No!” she exclaimed. “Everything changed! Everything…”

She stopped and looked ahead again. She looked back towards Stephen. The wild look
was in her eyes again.

“He’s here. But he can’t be.” she whispered.

“Who? What’s going on?” he asked.

She didn’t answer. The look on her face was pure terror. She suddenly scurried towards
him and grabbed onto the fencing.

“I’M SORRY!” she screamed. “I DIDN’T KNOW WHAT ELSE TO DO!!! I’M SO
SORRY!!!”

Stephen recoiled at her outburst. Was she apologizing to him? He didn’t understand but
his heart was racing. He reached out towards her. His fingers touched the tips of her
knuckles as she clutched the fencing, seeming to hold on for dear life.

“NO!! NONONONONONO!!!!!!” she continued to scream at the top of her lungs.

“PLEASE HELP ME!!!! DADDY!!!! HELP ME!!!!! I’M SO SORRY!!!!!! DON’T
PUNISH ME!!! NOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!”

Before Stephen could say anything, she suddenly seemed to lift up, as if someone was
pulling on her. Stephen looked up and her feet and bottom of her legs were covered by
shadows.

“Kathy!” he shouted.

Kathy couldn’t answer him; she was staring at her feet… at whatever was pulling her.
He could see her hands starting to slip from the fencing. He fumbled at her fingers…
trying to see a way to grab onto her, but it was impossible. All he could do was look.

She looked back at him… her eyes a mixture of fear and regret.
 “We should have known.” she told him. With that her grasp broke and she shot away,
pulled by the thing he couldn’t see.

He didn’t know what was worse, the fact she didn’t scream, or when she started to
seconds later. Stephen fell back onto his ass for stared for a second. He then hopped into
a crouch and launched himself at the fencing. He bounced off again.

“KATHY!!!” he shouted.

The scream got lower, as if she was going further away. The volume decreased rapidly
and after a few more moments was gone.

Stephen stood, uncertain of his next move.

Suddenly he realized something. He had his cell phone.

He pulled it out and almost dropped it. He looked and saw he had a large number of
missed calls. All were from Mary. He flipped open the phone and hit the call button. It
dialed his house.

It rang a number of times. Then someone picked up.

“Mary!” he shouted into the phone.

There was no answer on the other side, just a low hiss.

Stephen remembered where he was. Underground, in the train station the signal was
weak at best. He tried anyway.

“Mary?!?” he shouted again. “Please! Can you hear me?”

He started to run the way he had come. He had to get up to the street, get some
reception. He kept the phone next to his head.

Stephen ran down the corridor and came back to the split. This time her took the right
tunnel and rushed towards a set of stairs he knew was there. He continued to shout into
the phone. When he saw the stairwell and escalators he almost cried in relief. He bounded
up them, two at a time, but at the top was another fenced in gate.

. “NO!” he screamed. He slammed into the gate and was tossed back. He almost fell
back down the stairs but managed to keep his balance. The phone popped from his grasp
and in an acrobatic move he managed to catch it before it fell and shattered on the
ground. He pressed against the gate, hoping his closeness to the outside was enough to
get a clear signal. He couldn’t quite see outside but it was dark and he could feel a damp
splatter of rain and wind on his face. He dialed his line again, but this time it was busy.
He tried again and again and got nothing.
 “DAMMIT!!!” he raged. How was that even possible? Didn’t they have call waiting?

Suddenly he remembered his mother’s line. She had her own phone line in her room.
He flipped through his contacts until he found the number but before he hit send he
hesitated. He stared at the phone for a moment… as if afraid to dial the line. He suddenly
felt like it was hopeless. His mother wouldn’t answer… *couldn’t* answer.

Then he hit send.

The phone seemed to sigh and then the phone rang. It rang seven times and then
someone picked up.

“Hello?” he hissed into the phone. “Hello?

Ma?” No one answered him, but unlike
before there was no hiss, just breathing.

“Ma! Is that you? MA!” Stephen shouted

into the phone.

The breathing stayed on the line, but only

now it seemed to be labored, as if the person
on the line suddenly had trouble breathing.

“Mom?” Stephen whispered.

The breathing became more and more

labored. The breaths became shorter and
gasping. A low, horrible croak came from the
receiver. Stephen dropped the phone and
stepped back.

Line is Dead [No Signal] – by r. j. paré

“Oh my God.” He whispered. He then lost his balance and fell backwards, down the
stairs. He tried to stop his fall, but seemed to just make it worse. He heard how falling
down stairs seemed to take forever, but for him it went quick. He hit the bottom with a
thick thud. He couldn’t move. He knew he had to have broken something. The pain was
everywhere. He tried to shift. His head was on the bottom step and when he moved it
banged on the hard floor. He was facing his phone. It had fallen with him. He recoiled
despite the pain.

Stephen lay for a moment and shifted again. This time the feeling in his arms was less
painful and he was able to lift up a little onto an elbow.

He came face to face with the little girl, Rose.

 “JESUS!” he screamed.

Rose didn’t react to his scream. She reached out and picked up the phone. “Who were
you talking to?” she asked.

Stephen tried to sit up the whole way but the pain was too great. “Rose, I’m hurt.” he
gasped. The girl looked at him. Her face was impossible to read.

“When I was a little girl, I used to love the train.” she said.

“W… when you were…” Stephen stammered. “What are you talking about? You are a
little girl! Rose, please, I’m hurt and I need help.”

“We didn’t have a car.” she continued as if she hadn’t heard him. “The train was fun
and exciting.”

Stephen stared at the ceiling and willed himself to sit up. As much as it hurt, he
managed to get himself into a sitting position. Rose was staring at him. Her eyes seemed
bloodshot. She must have been so scared that she was unhinged.

She smiled at him wistfully.

“Now the train only goes one way.” she told him. “One way.”

Stephen didn’t like the way her voice sounded. It started to get a little deeper… husky
like.

“Rose. Are you ok?” he asked.

The girl held up the phone. “You missed so many calls.” she said.

Stephen tried to get up, but the pain was too intense. He feared both his legs were
broken.

“You didn’t want to answer your phone.” Rose said to him. “Why?”
“I…I…” Stephen didn’t know what to say.
“You didn’t want to face it.” she said. “But you have to. You have to face it. You all
do.”

Stephen has no idea what she was talking about.

But he did.

Somewhere in his heart he knew and he was suddenly afraid.

Rose tilted her head and held the phone out. “Check your messages Stephen.” she told
him.
 Stephen didn’t want to touch her or the phone, but he saw his hand reach up and take it
from her. He hit the button to retrieve his messages. At the bottom of the stairs he would
likely not get a signal anyway.

But he did.

“Please enter your password.” The phone said. Stephen punched it in.
“You have six new messages.” the phone told him. “First message.”
“Stephen?” he could hear his wife’s voice. “Please call me. It’s an emergency.”

Stephen deleted the message and the next one began.

“Stephen?” it was Mary again. “Please call me! Honey it’s an emergency! Call me!”

Stephen deleted the message and the next one began.

“Stephen! Dammit! Pick up and call me!” his wife’s voice was a mixture of worried
and agitated. “It’s serious! You have to call me!”

He deleted that one and the next started.

“Stephen!!!” his wife was shouting now. “My God! Call me!!!! It’s you’re…”

Stephen threw the phone. It skittered away and clattered. Then it came to a rest and
then he could still hear it.

“… when I went in this morning. CALL ME!!!” the phone cried.

Rose got up and went to it. She picked up the phone and brought it back. She pressed a
button on it and held it towards him.

“STEPHEN!!! OH MY GOD STEPHEN CALL!! YOUR MOTHER! WHEN I WENT

IN TO WAKE HER SHE WAS DEAD! CALL ME!!!!! YOUR MOTHER STEPHEN,
YOUR MOTHER IS DEAD!” his wife’s screams echoed in the empty train station.

Rose hit another button and let the phone fall into his lap.
She stared at Stephen.

“I… I …” Stephen was weeping. “I…”

“You knew.” Rose told him. “That’s why you ignored the calls.”
“She was sick. So sick.” Stephen pleaded. “She was in so much pain.”
“I know.” Rose told him.
“Who are you?’ he asked.
“You know.” she said. She bent down and took his hand. “You know.”
“I’m sorry.” he said. “There was so much pain.”
 “It doesn’t make it right.” Rose replied. He voice was deeper again and she stepped
back into the shadows.

Stephen stared at where she had slipped into the darkness. In his lap the phone suddenly
rang. He picked it up and hit the receive button.

“Come on Stephen.” the voice on the other end said. “We promised we’d get lunch one
day.”

The voice sounded scratchy and

husky.

“K… Kathy?” Stephen asked.

“The four of us.” she replied. “Time
to go. Time to talk to ghosts.”

Stephen then felt the hand grab his

ankles and pull.

*******************************

Mary sat with her face in her hands.

The kids were in their rooms, all
crying. She still couldn’t get Stephen
on the phone. The EMTs were in her
mother in law’s room. It was a
formality though. She had been dead
when Mary had gone in to wake her.

Mary looked at the pillow next to her;

the pillow that normally was never in
her moth-in-law’s room. She didn’t
want to think about why it was there.
She looked away and at the phone
again. She couldn’t get Stephen at all.
She didn’t understand it.

The phone rang suddenly. He caller

ID said “STEVE CELL”

In the darkness, screaming – by r. j. paré

 She picked it up. “Oh My God! Where have you…” she broke off. On the other side
was only a dull hiss and some breathing.

“Stephen?” she said.

She heard what sounded like a giggle. Then the phone went silent.

- fin -

Line is Dead [No Signal]: Eternal – by r. j. paré

Zombie – by Roger Formidable
 Poetry
Wondering
By Frances Nichols Vargas

Calling on all angels

Looking for the signs
To deliver me to the path
Devine
Stepping over shattered glass
Trying to get past
The hard times
And find the sunshine
Breathing in and
Counting to ten
Wondering when
This Hell will end

Untitled – by De Tourist
Selected poems
By Marie Lecrivain

Bio: Marie Lecrivain is the editor of poeticdiversity: the litzine of Los Angeles, and a
writer in residence at her apartment. Her work has been published in The Los Angeles,
Review, The Houston Literary Review, Literary Bitch, and a few other journals. Her new
collection of poetry Antebellum Messiah, (copyright 2009 Sybaritic Press), is available
through Amazon.com.

The Antidote
Antidote

the trouble starts that I have not been able to grasp

when you hand me
potion in a martini glass
oily and viscous
like the sluggish blood
pumping through my veins
that picks up speed
as you and I begin
to exchange glances
and negotiate
our thighs brushing
one against the other
the heat between us climbing higher
to add a carmine stain
to our cheeks
and then you hand me
another glass of elixir that glitters
with anticipatory sparks
that alight on my brow
where you brush away
a lock of my unruly hair
as well as awaken my abeyant heart
which has not see
this kind of action
in damned near a decade
or at least that is what it feels like
most nights when
the cold space next to me in bed
fills with my weary tears
and hopeless wishes for a life
and then you hand me
another glass of glowing vitae
and we are dancing and swaying among
a throng of sweaty bodies and
I close my eyes to savor
your possessive grip
around my waist
and the only thought that
echoes through my head is :
god, I need to taste
those sweat beads
whorling down your neck
and then you hand me
another glass of poison
which swirls menacing and muddy
but I do not pay attention
to its lack of luster
until I tip back the glass
and its contents taste bitter on my tongue
as do your ashy lips against mine
which leave me dry and spiritless
as a windy September afternoon
and then my head is spinning
and the crush of inebriated bodies
threaten to engulf me
and I then my heart stops
as the glass drops from my hand
to the floor-
 and then
you cast me from your embrace
and I stand alone
amidst a wreck of shards
disconnected from a crowd
who dances on
to the beat of their shared passion
and my blood cools
at the sight of you
entwined with another
who presses tightly
against your groin
Tropico – by Takis Stavrou
as I watch
her tongue snake out
and lap up those
beads of sweat
off your neck-
the antidote I should have taken
between the third
and fourth imbibement
copyright 2007 marie lecrivain
 Verboten
to chris parker
The smells of coffee &
deodorant tell me it’s morning,
along with the vestiges
of sleep & dreams
evaporating from tight mouths
& darting eyes. I wonder
why their fear is so palpable?
It's a beautiful autumn morning,
& here comes the Sun (doo-doo
-doo-dah), & I would think
the reassurance of Light
would smooth away
the lines of worry I spy
etched across
a line of foreheads
bent into a series of
private worlds; newspapers,
text messages, or dusty patterns
on the floor, knowing the
fear, disguised as etiquette,
is too ingrained in all of us
to break through that fourth wall,
Untitled – by De Tourist
to acknowledge the loneliness
that is our birthright & our
curse – the price of being
trapped in a meat shell
with nothing to look forward to
but more decay... yet, this is
where humor becomes
my saving grace...
misery loves company, & I smile
at the poor skater boy
collapsed on the subway floor,
who coughs more oxygen
into his lungs – those bellows,
that, of course, are in the process
of being cauterized by
a pack of Marlboro Reds
peeking out from his
jean jacket pocket...&
I laugh to myself - he is
conquering his fear -
though he doesn't know it yet.
copyright 2009 marie lecrivain
No 62
pawns are the soul of chess – andre philidor

Aleksandr strolls through Bittsa Park,

laughing at the bespredel he’s caused.
Tonight as the police retrieve the
saturated remains of no. 62
from the neighborhood cesspool, Aleksandr
envisions the chessboard; a cheap,
black-and-ivory enameled affair
won by his grandfather in a match
aboard a leaky freighter back in the 30’s
during the longest night of the year
when all men on board
measured their dreams against
the crest of every Baltic wave.

Aleksandr shivers at the image

of his grandfather’s hands; cruel, capable,
and wrapped with conscious precision
around the chessboard that was
bashed against Aleksandr’s head
each time he lost a match, each time
he didn’t bring the vodka home, and for
being the famished, pitiful legacy
of a man with few prospects… except,
for the chessboard, which
sits on a stand next to Aleksandr’s bed,
each square numbered 1 through 62, each
space traversed by an unwitting pawn Hell O Ween Reaper Goddess
in Aleksandr’s game; befriended and feted – by Stan Nelson
with cheap vodka and a toast to
a dead dog. Each one brought down by
the parabolic union of bottle to skull. As
the police close in, Aleksandr
divines the truth; he was
only two moves away
from check…
and mate.

copyright 2007 m. lecrivain

 if you spoke, what would you say?

but, since you are not so inclined like a brahma bull who got a hold
to be reveal your secrets, i am left of bauhaus's "in the flat field,"

to listen to you via visual cues and decided, after listening to

which are best encapsulated peter croon at 6.66 decibels,

in three words - sacred goth cow. that it would be cool to be,

yes, that is more like it. you look well - perpendicular - for a change...

however, the thirty-gauge brass ring

hanging off the end of your gallic nose,

encrusted with a little too much snot

and oxidation doesn't inspire the

ambiguous desire that peter does,

though it weirdly compliments

your rhomboid shoulders bursting

through the confines of that creepy

ill-fitting black suit that smells

like you appropriated it from your

grandfather's grave - circa 1957.

with your pale, fish-like lips at odds

with your bored, black-rimmed eyes,

i am left to conclude that you don't
Devil 2 – by Stan Nelson care to adhere to the finer dictates
of vampyre fashion…
 and just as i am
as us mere mortals are taught,
about to dismiss you as another though, if this is true, i must say,
metro bus 217 oddity, my own eyes
that yours is the most interesting.
are drawn to your large, delicate may i suggest a visit to melrose,
white hands... which, in point of fact,
where you will find two things;
are appropriately nosferatu-like affordable goth wear, and a plethora
with long, crescent-shaped nails
of goth gopis who will recognize
curved into themselves, holding your greatness, bath you in perfume
an ipod mini in one, and a blank
and blood wine, and adorn you with
cd in the other - i suppose you faded roses and sing your praises
may be krishna in disguise. a lot
in time to siouxie's melancholic hymns...
of gods take their vacations in
los angeles... and, incognito, copyright 2009 marie lecrivain

To enjoy more of Marie’s writing:

Links
www.poeticdiversity.org

http://www.amazon.com/Antebellum-Messiah-Marie-
Lecrivain/dp/1615399658/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1256742559&sr=1-1

http://www.amazon.com/Nihilistic-Foibles-Marie-
Lecrivain/dp/0977867064/ref=sr_1_3?ie=UTF8&s=books&qid=1256742602&sr=1-3
Maman Brigitte, Rite O Saturn – by Marie Lecrivain
 Pop culture
Comic book review: Doctor Voodoo
By Brad Bellmore

Thumb Sideways

As a kid, Doctor Strange freaked me out. There was something cool about him and all
that power, but the whole mystery of the arcane angle felt too creepy to get comfortable
with the guy. This confession makes me concede that my experience with Doctor Voodoo
may have been colored by those childhood experiences.

Doctor Voodoo is a new series from Marvel Comics featuring Rick Remender as the
writer and Jeff Palo as the artist. The basic idea here is that Doctor Voodoo, or Jericho
Drumm when he isn’t being sorcerer supreme, has taken Doctor Strange’s position as
chief wield of magical arts. This is his debut in the role and in the comic. He even begins
with Stephen Strange as a mentor in the tale but it is apparent that he has outgrown him.

Overall, the story here was interesting, but hard to follow. Last month I knocked Genecy
for being a bit esoteric. This goes way beyond. Granted, when dealing in the realm of
magic and all things spiritual, at some point you have to slip into esoteric. For some
people this is grand. For me, not so much. This book felt too vague. I found myself trying
to figure things out too much of the time. I suppose that if I had been a follower of Doctor
Strange, this might be easier to follow.

Then again, perhaps not.

This book hits another of pet peeves in the comic industry: the highly successful alter-ego
career. You’d think saving the world would take enough time and energy that running a
large corporation or finding the cure for cancer would be difficult. I know, the whole
world is make-believe; people don’t really fly or turn invisible. So, since we are
stretching the bounds of reality, why not continue it for the secret identity life?
I suppose, but it really bugs me. At least this book addresses the issue with Doctor
Strange reprimanding Jericho for trying to continue his medical practice while being
Sorcerer Supreme. That doesn’t slow Jericho down one bit.

Especially since he runs a clinic for the underprivileged.

That said, he has a great line early on: “I am the Gunner of God!” Truly fresh. A
wonderful break from cliché.

The look of this book is precisely what you would expect from Marvel – whether that
connotes good or bad to you. Personally, I think the look fits the tale being told. Since so
much is over the top, the excessive dynamic poses help carry that along. There is a nice
dark and creepy feel in all the panels that add to the mystery of the supernatural.

I love the way they handle Daniel,

Jericho’s deceased brother that tags
along as a ghost. I also like the look of
Doctor Voodoo himself. As true a
badass as has every studied magic. His
staff with the shrunken heads attached
is one of the coolest weapons I’ve seen
in a long, long time.

This book may be worth a look at, at

least for the art. If you dig the whole
arcane world, then this may be just the
thing for you. For me, it elicited those
creepy feelings from reading Doctor
Strange when I was a kid. I think I will
steer away from this one.
raised on Saturday morning cartoons
By Pauline Paré

Just as I predicted, the 2009 Fall Season has a lot to offer. The biggest surprise for me
has been how much I am enjoying Glee. I prefer action series, especially Science Fiction
so having a musical comedy as one of my favourite new shows is unexpected. The
characters are all stereotypes but they are constantly thrown into unusual predicaments.
There is a wealth of talent here, with the singing and dancing especially. Nearly every
one of the students is an amazing performer. My favourite plotlines involve the teachers
and their crazy love triangles. Matthew Morrison, who plays the teacher, Will Schuester,
is amazing to watch and hr regularly steals the show. Emma Mays as the wide eyed,
neurotic school counsellor makes a wonderfully hilarious leading lady. While Glee is not
the first weekly musical, it is certainly the one to watch.

There have not been very many weekly musicals. In the 1980’s there were “Seven
Brides for Seven Brothers” and “Cop Rock”; neither lasted for longer than a season.
Although I never saw “Seven Brides”, Wikipedia tells me it starred River Phoenix and
Richard Dean Anderson (aka MacGyver) which is certainly intriguing. A much more
successful series from this time period was “Fame”, which ran for 6 seasons and earned a
whole bunch of awards. A few series tried musical episodes but the musical series has
been struggling with a return to primetime( such as the awful and ridiculously short lived
“Viva Laughlin”) until “Glee” broke onto the scene. Perhaps the newfound success of
the series could spawn more of the same; as long as they are done correctly.

Attention “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” fans: Joss Whedon is a big fan of Glee and he
signed up to direct an upcoming episode of the series, After his success with the Buffy
episode, “Once More With Feeling”, I am certain that this will be the episode to watch.