 Art created with Midjourney AI The old crabapple tree spoke first, loud and clear, except listening takes expertise. Its crooked trunk and skeletal limbs do their best to support apples rotten to the core, hanging on until they drop to death. A bed of tangled weeds hides nests of ground hornets that engulf the fallen fruit, an arbitrary cemetery, ignored. Burning bushes way past glory days of crimson, look charred and sore as though seeded on a volcanic planet. Windows. Cleaned yesterday, but within four days the glass will fade into shades of gray, tainted with scents of decay. Worse, the entryway mirror is coveted by sheer madness since it returns after being discarded. Nothing hides under our beds, yet never would arms or legs dangle, or dare set foot upon aged floors after 3:17am. Just pretend you exist on a tropical island, drift into a warm place, sway on a hammock while waiting for sunlight to break. Basement. Do not consider looking back at those etched glass doors once shut, eyes ahead. Trust me on this. And if the old man wearing a black hat asks for a cup of tea, he prefers the pale yellow mug displaying a pristine crabapple tree.  Nora Weston is a Michigan based writer/artist. Her work has appeared in Bete Noire and James Gunn’s Ad Astra. Currently, work has been published by Green Ink Poetry, Crow Toes Quarterly, Illumen, and Strange Horizons. Work has been accepted by Penumbric Speculative Fiction Magazine and Utopia Science Fiction Magazine.
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 Death Dancing in the Forest. Art by MidJourney AI because I would not dance for Death—he kindly danced for me and showed me a lesson in graceful—humility he slowly moved—a deathly pace serenaded by—the deathly shapes that hovered over and twirled along in ghastly—symphony and I stood there... I stood there... mouth agape, admiring, with composure and grace his sublime—ability that is until—he reached for me, for me alone, in this phantom ball, in this phantom hall, beyond the veil of—tranquility and then—as if by spell, I moved in... I moved in... and grabbed his hand and took the lead and in the lead—we danced! oh, how we danced! swaying and spinning through the air—in perfect harmony and though our time was brief—all too brief I found a comfort here here, in his embrace, his deathly embrace, relieved by his exalted—civility because our little dance it taught me death, it taught me life within the limits of—possibility for no matter the gown, no matter the ball, this little dance unites all and so I dance here…. yes, I dance here... with bated breath... for we are all equal unto Death requiescat in pace  J.D. Harlock is a Lebanese writer based in Beirut.
His short stories have been featured in The Deadlands, Sciencefictionary, Defenestration, Wyldblood Press, and the Decoded Pride Anthology, his poetry has been featured in Penumbric, Future Fire, Mobius and Black Cat Magazine, and his articles/reviews have been featured NewMyths.com, Mermaids Monthly, Interstellar Flight Press, and on the SFWA Blog. You can find him on Twitter and Instagram @JD_Harlock.  by Stephanie M. Wytovich In the past decade or so, speculative poetry has presented itself in the marketplace as an equal and valid contender in the field, thereby solidifying its place in the world of publishing, both large and small. Readers now not only enjoy it in magazines and individual collections, but also in anthologies, craft books, and in nonfiction articles exploring its value, voice, and contribution to science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Two great examples of this are the recently relaunched Weird Tales and the 2021 Halloween issue of Southwest Review edited by Andy Davidson. When I started out as a fledgling poet, I turned first to The Science Fiction and Fantasy Poetry Association (SFPA), and all these years later, I remain a member in this community that continues to celebrate poetry in all its different forms. When I first heard about the SFPA, I quickly researched their website, joined their Facebook group, and signed up for my yearly membership. As someone new to speculative poetry—not to mention someone who didn’t even know that speculative poetry was an avenue to pursue at the time—I devoured the listing of current markets they had and still have on their website, careful to make note of which magazines spoke to me and the work I was doing. I began submitting to their own magazine, Star*Line, and then discovered the themed work they did with Eye to the Telescope. Later on, I learned about the Rhysling Award, the Dwarf Stars, and the Eglin Award and was fortunate to have some of my work published in subsequent anthologies while my book Mourning Jewelry placed third in the Elgins in 2015. I bring this up because the opportunity to read for these awards and get to know and network with fellow poets was not only inspiring but a kind of professional development in and of itself. I had never formally studied poetry, but I learned and continue to learn so much from this group and it’s provided me editorial opportunities, such as with Issue 17 of Eye to the Telescope, promotional outlets, and camaraderie in a career that is not only isolating but quite lonely at times. Similar to the SFPA, my involvement with the Horror Writer’s Association (HWA) has proven invaluable to my life blood as a poet. From the Bram Stoker Awards to the HWA Poetry Showcase to the HWA Poetry Blog and then the Dark Poetry Scholarship, the HWA has worked hard to include, promote, and educate writers about how horror poetry can supplement their writing career and lead to a road of publication and higher learning. Similar to the SFPA, HWA members have countless opportunities to publicize their work and/or events, contribute to a variety of initiatives, and teach/attend continuing education workshops. Furthermore, when I attend Stokercon, there are always panels that discuss the state of speculative poetry, or that talk about the intersection of horror, writing, and mental health, and whether I am listening in the audience or contributing to the discussion, the conversation around poetry is always present and well-attended, proving that the form is not dead, but rather very much alive. If you’re interested in getting more involved in the speculative poetry community, I highly recommend checking out the organizations above, volunteering where you can, and continuing to submit your work frequently. Please note that there are also mentorship opportunities, board positions, jury seats, and editorial work to be sought out, so there are lots of ways to contribute to the market, the genre, and get more involved in the work that’s being done. Afterall, if we want to continue to see poetry flooding the markets, we need to nourish the communities that support it while also educating and promoting each other’s work.  Stephanie M. Wytovich is an American poet, novelist, and essayist. Her work has been showcased in numerous magazines and anthologies such as Weird Tales, Nightmare Magazine, Southwest Review, Year's Best Hardcore Horror: Volume 2, The Best Horror of the Year: Volume 8, as well as many others.
Wytovich is the Poetry Editor for Raw Dog Screaming Press, an adjunct at Western Connecticut State University, Southern New Hampshire University, and Point Park University, and a mentor with Crystal Lake Publishing. She is a recipient of the Elizabeth Matchett Stover Memorial Award, the 2021 Ladies of Horror Fiction Writers Grant, and has received the Rocky Wood Memorial Scholarship for non-fiction writing. Wytovich is a member of the Science Fiction Poetry Association, an active member of the Horror Writers Association, and a graduate of Seton Hill University’s MFA program for Writing Popular Fiction. Her Bram Stoker Award-winning poetry collection, Brothel, earned a home with Raw Dog Screaming Press alongside Hysteria: A Collection of Madness, Mourning Jewelry, An Exorcism of Angels, Sheet Music to My Acoustic Nightmare, and most recently, The Apocalyptic Mannequin. Her debut novel, The Eighth, is published with Dark Regions Press. Follow Wytovich on her blog at http://stephaniewytovich.blogspot.com/ and on Twitter and Instagram @SWytovich and @thehauntedbookshelf. You can also find her essays and nonfiction on LitReactor.  Man is the last species to die, for he can eat all the others. Plankton, plant, pork or porgy All go down his maw. Forget about cockroaches and rats, Man dines on them both. Consider seafood as example. Poisonous blowfish, mercury-laced lampreys, sea urchins and periwinkles, sharks and slugs and squid, unless rotted, all eaten. And after man consumes all the plants and animals he’s apt to eat other men as well.  Ed Ahern resumed writing after forty odd years in foreign intelligence and international sales. He’s had over three hundred stories and poems published so far, and six books. Ed works the other side of writing at Bewildering Stories, where he sits on the review board and manages a posse of six review editors. Follow Ed on Twitter, Facebook, and Instagram.
 one late autumn the bitter water spread through the entire building filling mouths with a caustic taint but the tenants did not care enough to protest, until the dreams came: DREAD EVIL DARKNESS SADNESS EMPTY SO EMPTY a thousand agonies of loneliness the sum total grief of mere being the cats howling, the dogs whimpering a hundred people—men, women, children-- feeling that they were falling, falling, falling... forever and forever and forever, until-- after two nights of mass distress the grim hysteria bubbled over and—making a connection-- they finally sent the super up to the water tank he lifted the lid and there she greeted him: floating face down, fully clothed her backpack still about her thin shoulders her stygian hair clumped like rotting seaweed some of them had been wondering where she had got to she had been such a nice girl a little quiet perhaps. Harris Coverley has verse published or forthcoming in Polu Texni, California Quarterly, Star*Line, Spectral Realms, Corvus Review, Spank the Carp, Better Than Starbucks, View From Atlantis, Poets' Espresso Review, Once Upon A Crocodile, The Rye Whiskey Review, 5-7-5 Haiku Journal, and many others. He lives in Manchester, England. Follow Harris on Twitter @ha_coverley.
 On my broken back I carry the world: hungry children drinking the minerals from my exposed bone; battered women prickling me with needles, yet even they, adept at the art of patching things up, defeated by my tectonic fissures and split vertebrae; men who—for lack of softness to scar—destroy themselves, fashioning bandages out of my peeling skin. And those who are neither man nor woman, dangling from my ragged clumps of fur, clinging tooth and nail to the forces trying to forsake them. Rotten roots attempt to trip me, birds made of pure keratin and spite, swooping down. Carnivorous bracken find no flesh left to nibble. The tears of my passengers, acid rain over ravaged earth. I run quadrupedal, leaping over fermented fords of ichor, bounding through woods of my fellow skeletons growing into trees, limbs into boughs. But I have many more journeys left inside me before I fall apart and my passengers do too, before we are all dust and ghosts, feeding this broken-backed world.  Avra Margariti is a queer author, Greek sea monster, and Pushcart-nominated poet with a fondness for the dark and the darling. Avra’s work haunts publications such as Vastarien, Asimov’s, Liminality, Arsenika, The Future Fire, Space and Time, Eye to the Telescope, and Glittership. “The Saint of Witches”, Avra’s debut collection of horror poetry, is forthcoming from Weasel Press. You can find Avra on Twitter (@avramargariti).
 At vision’s rim, curtain flutter, a shadow, a blur. My nerve ends twist, wrap round sinews, tighten me to a standstill. Something is in the room with me. Only one of us is breathing.  John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in Sheepshead Review, Poetry Salzburg Review and Hollins Critic. Latest books, “Leaves On Pages” “Memory Outside The Head” and “Guest Of Myself” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Ellipsis, Blueline and International Poetry Review.
 Lone dead approach unbidden with requests. Eternal rest’s eclipsed by unmet needs. Preparing for the ask, its devil tease, The dropkick of the punchline, I’m composed. This won’t take long. Crisp salt-white speech is not A conversational duet. It’s brief. Succinct. Direct. Delivered neat. Deep-voiced. Or else transmitted silently, slipped thoughts, As if the listener’s reborn inside Unwritten books that stalk the author’s mind. Desires, regrets, or urgencies don’t die When bodies decompose to worm-sawed seed. Don’t think fierce yearnings laze about, content To swing in hammocks of the afterlife, Unhunted by the conscience’s sharp edge. Gut hunger’s not forgotten when homeless. Dumped six feet down, desires don’t get dismissed. Remorses, cravings, impulses revive, Resurface -- seeking friendly patronage. Why wouldn’t I oblige? Souled will still thrives. Returning home, before I hit the sack, I’ll muse: “When are the dead expected back?”  Native New Yorker LindaAnn LoSchiavo, recently Poetry SuperHighway's Poet of the Week, is a member of SFPA and The Dramatists Guild. Elgin Award nominee "A Route Obscure and Lonely" and "Concupiscent Consumption" are her latest poetry titles.
Forthcoming is a paranormal collection of ghost poems, a collaborative horror chapbook "Santa Muerte," and an Italian-centric book, “Flirting with the Fire Gods,” inspired by her Aeolian Island heritage. Her Video-Poetry channel will give you nightmares. Follow LindaAnn below: https://linktr.ee/LindaAnn.LoSchiavo https://twitter.com/Mae_Westside https://www.youtube.com/channel/UCHm1NZIlTZybLTFA44wwdfg https://www.amazon.com/LindaAnn-LoSchiavo/e/B084WSGD5K/ |
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