The literary magazine of Hagerstown Community College
The demon perched on the child’s chest
And whispered doom into his ear.
A shriek! then sobs and no more rest:
The demon perched on the child’s chest
In pitch dark. With a hellish zest
Now laughing, relishing the fear,
The demon perched on the child’s chest
And whispered doom into his ear.
Brian Jerrold Koester is a Pushcart Prize nominee and a Best of the Net Anthology nominee. He lives in Lexington, Massachusetts and has been a freelance cellist.
The sweet song of the dead
as their hands hold shy flowers
to their nonexistent faces
I hand you a long rose
and you take it, scratch
your slender finger on a thorn
you touch it to my lips
and I hear
the sweet song of the dead
in the taste of your blood
Robert Beveridge makes noise and writes poetry in Akron, Ohio.
Shovelfuls of earth
thump, thump, thump
onto a coffin;
inside, frantic gasps
for the vestiges
of oxygen
rationed
by your
subterranean
prison.
So speak, shriek
scream, yell,
you will still be trapped
in a living hell
a l o n e
with only your bones
to bear witness.
Fern G. Z. Carr is a former lawyer, teacher and past President of both the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and Project Literacy Kelowna Society.
“Ah my dear, have no fear,”
Snarled the stranger in the night,
Whose lupine eyes could mesmerize
Any creature in their sight;
“For I have only just returned
From my Transylvanian flight,
When I spied your classical beauty
By the full moon’s light,”
He whispered beguilingly,
Sharp teeth glistening bright.
Spellbound maiden hearkened to
This pallid stranger’s plight:
“As a count, it is not my custom
To be so forthright;
Although it is a pain in the neck,
I had to drop in for a bite.”
Fern G. Z. Carr is a former lawyer, teacher and past President of both the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and Project Literacy Kelowna Society.
worms squirm
through eye sockets
and nasal cavities,
maggots
feast
on left-over strips
of putrefied flesh
hanging spaghetti-like
from the cranium
of a severed skull,
mandible agape
frozen in an eternal
muted scream –
a skull,
severed
from its former body
bound and found
in a different part
of the woods
Fern G. Z. Carr is a former lawyer, teacher and past President of both the Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals and Project Literacy Kelowna Society.
A mouthful of wildflowers
a mind full of tea leaves,
steeping.
Sun brewed tea
lavender and lemon,
ice cubes in the swimming
pool, the bird’s song pecking,
off key and off beat.
An open sail
billowing in the breeze
of the Chesapeake Bay,
the smell, the smell,
the salt and the sting.
A mouthful of hornets
a mind full of poison ivy,
tangling.
Elijah Rokos is an English major. He enjoys tea, gardening, and reading.
Each grey tree
a sharpened claw to gouge the sun,
every wall of the mountains a brittle
and black paycheck.
The bears rendezvous
in the dumpster, snouts stuffed
in carry-out, and they don’t close
their eyes anymore.
The elk departed
in the road, too sudden to avoid,
is pummeled by tentative tires
and feverish tears.
Somewhere in the gnarled roots
of the ponderosa pines,
there lies the Fountain of Youth
and someone has pissed in it.
Elijah Rokos is an English major. He enjoys tea, gardening, and reading.
The wind does not speak
It listens.
The wind can hear every whisper,
Every scream.
The wind can hear every thought,
Every secret.
It listens.
The wind witnesses every heart-felt memory,
Every heartbreak.
It sees.
The wind witnesses every sweet embrace,
Every slam.
It sees.
The wind can hear everything.
And for that reason:
The wind does not speak.
It listens.
Emily Waclawski is a 20-year-old English major at HCC. She has been an active writer and poet since she was 12. Other than writing, Emily enjoys playing guitar and ukulele, singing, and enjoys playing with her two cats: Mabel and Perseus.
Breeze blows coolly in through the window
Black morning sun as dim as streetlights’ glow
Air never tastes this good, eyelids never fight this hard to close
The sun at its zenith is like CSPAN
Shade makes life livable again
Night seeps down into your hands
Skeletal trees perch on piles of leaves in the rain
While the sun makes its descent over the landscape
Painting the clouds and everything around brilliant vermilion shades
The urgency of temperatures below freezing
Can be so pleasing
And fire makes us hold onto the moment completely
The moon is always waiting, patiently watching
At just the right time you can see it’s a sphere, it’s awkward
The moon is always turning, spinning, and falling
Michael Holland is a veteran and a graduate. His favorite book is Replay, and he’s an amateur electronic athlete.
Above the tree line, it hits just how alone you are. You’ve traveled so far that the forest who once stood tall beside you, offering shelter from the less inviting elements of nature, no longer accompanies you. There were a few brave souls who tried, but only managed some naked trunks. Miles below on the ground, it looks like a hill lined with toothpicks, or a closely buzzed scalp.
But miles up, standing on top of the peak, is its own kind of beauty. It’s the place where you find snow in a desert, sweltering heat and bitter chill at the same time. The whole atmosphere a confusing and beautiful contradiction, perilous beauty that you could only recognize up close. Anyone can look up from the valley, see the mountain and say it’s beautiful. But what makes the opposite perspective special, looking down at the valley, and looking directly around you, is that fewer know the view.
Colorado “14ers” get their nickname for being over 14,000 feet above sea level, close to three miles in the sky. Even the oxygen cautiously wanes, not yet abandoning you, but just enough to keep you moving. The sun beats down on you to combat the brisk winds trying to knock you back down. But you’ve come too far to turn around, you must finish.
Right on the divide between towering evergreens and snowy sand, it’s a breathtaking scene. The pause between motion and complete stillness. Even the famous evergreens decided they were not strong enough to plant themselves beyond that line, yet there you are accepting the challenge to trek forward. And the reward is well worth it. For eyes who never grow tired of beholding nature’s glories, it’s a breath of fresh air. For the soul who must conquer uphill battles to grow—it’s a victory well won.
Abigail Miller is a Dental Hygiene major who likes to think she’s got a knack for writing. Her hobbies include hiking, sub-par mom van parking, asking to pet strangers’ dogs, and writing about all the above. As she continues exploring her passion for words, she hopes it’ll inspire the joy and humor in others’ lives, one snarky piece at a time.