Contents
- S-24, ALIEN FLYING IN SPACE By Maid Corbic
- Huggin’ Molly By Richard Stevenson Mhuwe By Richard Stevenson
- Corfu Island Creature By Richard Stevenson
- Dingbat By Richard Stevenson
- Beaman By Richard Stevenson
- Ghost By Binod Dawadi
- The Cry Bite Against the Girl By Lauren De’Couto
- I Told My Mother By Steve Anc
- I Will Be There by Steve Anc
- An Empedoclean Dream by Bob McNeil
- Best Friend By Rollin Jewett
- Crashing Into Woods on a Snowy Evening (with thanks to Robert Frost) By Rollin Jewett
- Hungry Hollywood By Rollin Jewett
- Hasten By Rollin Jewett
- Soul Catcher By Rollin Jewett
- Beast and Beauty.By Adam Boustead
- A Conscious Decision By Christopher T. Dabrowski
- Warning! By Bernadette Gabay Dyer
- From the editor
S-24, ALIEN FLYING IN SPACE
By Maid Corbic
My little alien friend is flying
In the summer, in these parts of the world
And I greet him and map from Earth
Because I believe he wants me to himself
To receive me, to hug me and just say
That everything is fine, even though he is not human
Than one little green thing
Ready to take me on her journey
He takes me to the S-24 station, lonely
I still stay as I part
With this soul and it makes me restless
Which I feel in a 2×2 dimensional chamber
I run, but I can’t. I dream, I don’t want to.
I still believe that everything is a dream
That my friend doesn’t want to kill me
Just because I was guilty of other children
This Alien, sometimes gray, sometimes green
He really drove everyone to fear and panic
Because I didn’t know life was weird
Until I felt it on my skin
Maybe situations are not so perfect
But I believed that in between
There must be a balance of life
When should I finally try
You need to get to know everyone around you
Horror story; green is closer to me
The S-24 station has become strange
My Spaceman became a lighter himself
Yes, it all disappeared in an instant
I fell into the hole without the bottom
The S-24 station went to Mercury
As I watch the Earth from above and follow
People wave to me like a giant
They don’t greet me, they greet Space
I went on a journey of no return
And I will be back when the S-24 station is formed
To become a green man too!
Maid Corbic from Tuzla, 22 years old. In his spare time he writes poetry that has repeatedly been praised as well as rewarded. He also selflessly helps others around him, and he is moderator of the World Literature Forum WLFPH (World Literature Forum Peace and Humanity) for humanity and peace in the world in Bhutan. He is also the editor of the First Virtual Art portal led by Dijana Uherek Stevanovic, and the selector of the competition at a page of the same name that aims to bring together all poets around the world. Many works have also been published in anthologies.
Huggin’ Molly
By Richard Stevenson
Abberville, Alabama is her hang,
and she ain’t no Evening in Paris Granny
Spritzer you wanna hug or kiss
or shuffle on the dance floor with.
No sir! She’s damp, rank, and skanky –
a skinny bag of brittle bones
with a vice-like grip and breath
that could knock a bird off its perch!
Kids beware! Avoid any tallow-faced,
dark-clothed, wide brim-hatted
or dark hoodie-wearin’ hag at your door.
She not only wants the floor
She wants to SCREAM in your ear!
Pollute your lungs with her
pestilent, sewer-spawned breath.
It’ll stun you speechless and she’ll
have yer cowerin’ piss-jammied
body in a sack, snap! Just like that!
Haul you off to some rank grotto or cave
where she’ll pluck yer eyeballs for her drink …
Nibble off your ears and noses,
yer dainty fingers and dangly bits
before you know you’ve got no fingers
or toes. Nothin’ to wiggle or snag a cell phone
to call home to Mom or Dad on –
just a crunchy bon bon she might
mack on for an aperitif or after-
dinner snack, after she hulls yer skull… .
Mhuwe
By Richard Stevenson
A man-eating ice giant
of Lenape legend, according
to Ranker.com anyway –
Not a lot of reportage
given the beast’s appetite
for humans. Most
guttural utterances are
swallowed whole while
Mhuwe pops yer head
like a bottle cap
clean off your neck and shoulders,
gulps his glut of yer gouting blood.
Bring food! Decent scoff,
Not just fast food pucks or pockets.
Feed ‘em right, he might
turn back into a human. Really!
Chips he’ll squeeze to dust
in the bag and toss it to the ground.
No. No. No. Forget ground round
or any of its sub-species
of mystery meat. Deer, fish maybe …
Maybe an assortment of tender vittles
for puck-lipped, wrinkly-faced
omnivores you chance to meet.
Corfu Island Creature
By Richard Stevenson
Alas, not a surviving member
Of the genus Ambulcetus,
Zeuglodon’s ancient ancestor.
Not some flat-snouted dolphin
Mutated by nuclear waste
Or pasty-faced dugong or manatee.
Looks more like it would quack
Than take a sizable bite out of you –
I dunno – jovial, rolly poley –
More Disney than dino, you know…
Sighted twice off the coast of Greece …
Really a plastic freeboard fender.
Sorry it was no mind-bending,
genus-bending dolphin/hippo hybrid.
Coulda fetched a cool razbutnik or two.
The photo doesn’t do it justice.
You wanna reach out, pat it three times
on its gentle rubber bobbing head.
Dingbat
By Richard Stevenson
Dingbat’s done scarfed
yer ammo, Andy –
Ya left the door unlocked again!
He’s scarfed cartons of cartridges
like boxes of metal Smarties,
ya damn fool! Scooped up
yer can of gasoliune too.
Look! Soon be swoopin’ down,
sprayin’ us with bullets from his mouth,
no doubt! But check out the one
on display in The Friendly Buckhorn pub.
Wings out, as if just landing –
three-pointer buck it is too –
if that’s the right word for a buck/
owl cross on a raptor run.
Only costs a buck to see. C’mon!
Owner got tired of watching patrons
blow smoke in his feathered face.
Put it in a nook. Back room closet
or somepin’. Dunno where but
it’s only a buck, less than a pack of cigs.
You wanna see or what?
It’s not just a stuffed owl
with a scowl and belly for Benjamins!
Beaman
By Richard Stevenson
Hybrid of Bigfoot and wolf –
not a werewolf – were ape maybe.
Ugly cuss with wolf incisors anyway.
Not the sort of ape/canine you wanna find.
Fat chance you will before he spots you!
I’ve seen his slavering jaws! Jumpin’ Jaysus!
Didn’t need to ask if he was
allergic to peanuts or had
particular dietary requirements, squire.
I was the eff outta there!
Didn’t want anyone to find
the skid marks in my underwear!
Was he real? If you call wet slobber
falling from open maw and moonlight
glinting off our guy’s incisors real –
Yeah! He was real! Didn’t have to run
faster than he could bound and lope –
just faster than my poor buddy, Bill.
Richard Stevenson recently retired from a thirty-year gig teaching English at Lethbridge College and moved to Nanaimo, BC. He holds an honours BA in English from U-Vic and MFA in Creative Writing from UBC. He has published thirty books and has another six forthcoming, including four in the cryptid critter series.
Ghost
By Binod Dawadi
I want to meet with the Ghost,
People tell they are terrible,
With skeletons,
Their head is bend legs are not normal,
Some don’t have heads,
They are seen in the midnight,
In the graveyard,
They are eating and hunting,
Living beings,
Zombies eat blood and flesh,
For that terrible creatures,
Which are curse souls,
I want to see them live,
I wake up at midnight but don’t see,
But in my dreams they comes to threaten me.
He is Binod Dawadi from Purano Naikap 13, Kathmandu, Nepal. He has completed his Master’s Degree from Tribhuvan University in Major English. He likes to read and write literary forms. He has created many poems and stories. His hobbies are reading, writing, singing, watching movies, traveling, gardening, etc.
He likes pets. He is a creative man he does not spends his time by doing nothing. He is always helping for the poor people. He can’t see the troubles and obstacles of the people. He believes that from the writing and from the art it is possible to change the knowledge and perspectives of the people towards any things. He loves his country Nepal very much. He has known many cultures of his country as well as foreign countries. He is always thinking wisely towards any things. He solves his problems by using his mind. He dreams to be a great man in his life.
The Cry Bite Against the Girl
By Lauren De’Couto
They sat in death.
Whimpering. Croaking.
Like frogs?
No, too natural.
Like flowers?
No, too delicate.
Necks like yellowed stalks, broken and beat.
Boneless ragdolls, bleeding.
Crimson blood, flimsy.
They sat in death.
A girl, beautiful and pale.
Whimpering. Crying.
Like frogs?
Yes, too natural.
Like flowers?
Yes, too delicate.
Skin like pink pigs, plump and precious.
Skinny bones, hungry.
Sucked in tum, pain.
A girl, beautiful and pale.
No longer.
She and they sat in death.
Bitten with hunger.
Crying with crimson.
Bleeding with guts.
Run? No.
Cry? Yes.
Too late.
A girl, beautiful and pale,
Now sat in death.
This is Lauren De’Couto’s debut piece.
I Told My Mother
By Steve Anc
The cloud may bestow blur
The moon may offer shadow
The sun may allot pain
The rain may lend ruin
The grass may offer gray
The grave may give grief
Let’s look at none, but up
Even when—
Life opens like the petals of Alyssa
And folds as the flyers of Cassia
Let’s look at none, but up
As—
It lends sorrow with a sac of shadow
Calls the door of devil’s muck
And melt insight with delight
Let’s look at none, but up
Even when—
It offers neither romping nor laughing
our streams of hope
And steals the strength that keeps our faith
Let’s look at none, but up
I Will Be There
By Steve Anc
I will be there…
Wherever there is peace
I will be there…
Wherever there is a need to correct corrections
I will be there…
A fight for united understanding
I will be there…
Wherever there is a humanist
I will be there…
Teaching for peace of the universe
I will be there…
Wherever there is a child
I will be there…
A child praying to God in heaven
I will be there…
To memorize how he expresses’ himself
I will be there…
To greet him with thunderous amen
I will be there to laugh with him for answered prayers
And to bring down the floor of heaven
Wherever folks hang around
I will be there…
Wherever they celebrate their achievements
I will be there…
Wherever neighbors raise their voices
I will be there…
Neither to add fuel to the flame
Nor to praise their waves of anger
I will be there…
To hold their fists not to hit
Wherever there is truth
I will be there…
Or, I think there is a man of integrity
I will be there…
Wherever I see hope spring out from the human breast
I will be there…
Cause hope marketh not ashamed
Wherever passion leads
I will be there…
As passion works his works
Wherever lives wisdom, beauty, and increase
I will be there…
To separate wisdom from witty
I will be there…
To see the vice, translate into virtue
I will be there…
Cause war and death are examples of epistrophe
Steve Anc is a Nigerian poet. His works start gaining recognition in the early 2020s before his first publication on Amazon. He is a poet with searching knowledge and deep meditation on universal themes, he is quite a modern poet in his adherence to language and his use of metaphors is soul-searching.
In the year 2021, a few of his poems were published in an open-door poetry magazine, in New York City.
His poem If Money Comes was selected as the poetry of the week in poetrysoup in late November 2021.
An Empedoclean Dream
By Bob McNeil
Over the centuries, I’ve been a bird back when
air seemed sweeter than any gourd grown,
been a tree while generations grew beneath me,
been moss along a mountain known for titanic magnificence,
been a slug slithering aimlessly without a smidgen of sentience,
and been a man who dreamt of being on a world with better humans.
Of all the incarnations, I hope to never repeat that last transformation.
Bob McNeil, writer, editor, cartoonist, and spoken word artist, is the author of Verses of Realness (https://tinylink.net/muF6C). Hal Sirowitz, a former Queens, NY Poet Laureate, called the book “a fantastic trip through the mind of a poet who doesn’t flinch at the truth.” Among Bob’s recent accomplishments, he found working on Lyrics of Mature Hearts to be a humbling experience because of the anthology’s talented contributors. Copies of that collection are available here: https://amzn.to/3bU8Loi.
Best Friend
By Rollin Jewett
It came with questions, not “hello”
From where It came, I do not know
Its voice was in a frequency
I understood immediately
And though we spoke as strangers do,
I told It everything I knew.
“Who is Master of this vast plan?”
It asked me and I answered “Man.”
“Who built these sprawling cities grand?”
It asked me and I answered “Man.”
“Who wages war and rapes this land?”
It asked me and I answered “Man.”
“Who takes all this, then bites the hand?”
It asked me and I answered “Man.”
It left and yet returned ‘ere long…
from the sky They came, a trillion strong.
Raining fire and angry thunder,
It drove Man down and down and under
‘til all Mankind at last was dead….
And then It stooped to pat my head.
It droned about some lame reward,
and then proclaimed Itself as Lord.
And so It is and I obey,
for I know there will come a day
when those who “rule” will finally learn
and those who “serve” will get their turn.
For betraying Man I feel no sorrow
for I would turn on It tomorrow.
I’ll be “best friend” — a slave to kings…
I’m but a dog…but I know some things.
Crashing Into Woods on a Snowy Evening
(with thanks to Robert Frost)
By Rollin Jewett
Whose woods these were, I’ll never know.
My Buick crashed right through them, though;
To find my body, broke and cold…
They’ll have to dig deep in the snow.
Tonight I thought I’d be so bold
To drink much more than I could hold.
I promised I was fine to ride…
No greater lie was ever told.
My car lies ticking on its side.
And yet I see not Heaven’s Guide.
At first, I thought it some mistake…
But in the crash…I know I died.
And now I’m lost in downy flake,
With no more promises to break…
And miles to go before I wake,
And miles to go before I wake.
Hungry Hollywood
By Rollin Jewett
Open your mouth,
Hungry Hollywood
Fill again
your bloated belly
Gorge your out-size ego
your shrink-wrap talent
Gobble your razor-sharp hipster
sipping sit-com martinis
at the industry waterhole –
a new flavor each month!
Savor your delicate
wasp-waisted
waif-in-waiting
her EVER-READY ® smile applied
with BILLION WATT ® lipstick.
Swallow your aging playboy
flexing by the pool,
still clinging to some
glimmer of glamour.
Go on…
devour your own fat-free,
guilt-free, low-carb,
no-calorie
soul…
Which you never seem to choke on.
Hasten
By Rollin Jewett
As daylight creatures hasten to bed
and moonlight spreads throughout the land…
A dream of darkness fills my head
as daylight creatures hasten to bed,
and sun is gone with moon instead…
while night awaits my first command —
And daylight creatures hasten to bed
and moonlight spreads throughout the land.
SOUL CATCHER
By Rollin Jewett
I can kill with my eyes
and tell all the lies
that my cold little heart should desire.
I can gamble and win
‘cus my partner is sin
and I rage and I burn like a fire.
I can cut like a knife,
I can ruin your life
with a smile from my cruel, mocking lips.
I can make you a fool,
I use hate as a tool
and I’ll tear at your heart ‘til it rips.
I can take all the gold
and the silver you hold,
and believe me my “friend,” that’s not all…
I can squeeze out your soul
and then patch up the hole,
when and if I should happen to call (and I will).
My crime always pays,
I can turn you to ways
that you never would think of before.
And I’ll promise you love
and a heaven above,
and a place in the sun, even more.
I can do what I want
for I’ve power to flaunt,
but mere power will not satisfy.
And you’re in my control
because I own your soul —
from the day that you’re born ‘til you die.
Rollin Jewett is an award winning playwright, screenwriter, singer/songwriter, poet, author and photographer. His screenwriting credits include Laws of Deception and American Vampire. His short stories, poetry and photography have been published in numerous literary magazines and anthologies and his plays have been produced off-Broadway and all over the world.
Beast and Beauty
By Adam Boustead
Another blind slave for me to use and throw away.
If they’re blind they won’t die of shock when they see me.
Me the prince cursed because of my vanity to be a beast.
This one is tattooed with red faded to pink roses.
I bite and claw him badly forgetting myself in my lust.
He cries sweet tears.
I rage when he confesses they’re not for him, but for me these tears.
I send him away, but I don’t send him away.
I swear never to give in again to my lust.
Why do I act like the beast I seem Is it because none can love me?
But then I can’t get him out of my head all I can here is his ruff voice, all I can smell is his glass scent of roses.
I give in again and for a time he soothes my beast.
It’s strange, but he doesn’t seem bothered that I’m a beast.
So I ask him “why the tears?”
He said “they were for your pain your soul is crucified on a bed of roses .”
His concern for me is beyond reason I want to hide from it to run away.
“What does that matter to you you’re my slave you should hate me?”
“Because despite everything I don’t hate you I long for your lust.”
“My Lust?”
“Claw me, bite me lash me with your tail treat me like I’m the beast.”
“You don’t know what you’re asking of me.”
“I do I know what we both need. Come let us weep the blood tears.”
Once again I threw my thinking mind away.
I bite and suck and he tastes of roses.
He runs his work hardened hands that should be painful, but are like the touch of tears across my huge body deliberately slashing his skin on my spikes that are like the thorns of roses.
We both dance in this strange lust.
We burnt the night away.
We let loose the beast inside the beast.
After we were done it was I who wept joy tears.
He doesn’t hate me he loves me.
I know he loves me Only a lover would do what he did for me.
He drank the nectar from my roses
Mixed with my tears
And the seed of my lust
For me he became another beast.
With him my loneliness went away.
Adam Boustead is a blind possibly dialectical poet and writer who lives with his identikel brother Christian and his guide dog victor in the uk.
A Conscious Decision
By Christopher T. Dabrowski
Why there? This world is fading away. You have so many possibilities, so why this planet?
I couldn’t answer anything, so remained silent.
After all, you’ll live there maybe ten years, and then what?
I knew well what awaited me. I was prepared.
Cold. Hunger. Human cruelty. Decaying body. This awaits you.
He was right, but I consciously chose the way of the martyr – I have never experienced real suffering when you ask yourself questions like:
Why me?
Why here?
What did I do to deserve it?
I consciously chose this incarnation on this planet – I wanted to experience it.
Christopher T. Dabrowski is a Polish writer and screenwriter. His books have been published in Poland, the USA, Spain and Germany. His stories were published in many countries: USA, England, Australia, Canada, Poland, Russia, Germany, India, Slovakia, Czech Republic, Brasil, Spain, Argentina, Italy, Hungary, Sweden, Mexico, Albania, Nigeria, Botswana, Zimbabwe, Tanzania, Uganda & Kenya.
Warning!
By Bernadette Gabay Dyer
There was a house on the moon,
Tell no one.
For we are not supposed to know of it.
It had a roof, and an opening,
That might have been a door,
Or perhaps a window.
There’s difficulty seeing it clearly.
Things are out of focus from here,
It has caused a sensation in scientific circles,
Who are supposed to be in the know;
Concerning the far side of the moon,
That never faces earth
They are aware that craters abound there,
Punctuating the freezing landscape
Like minefields gone insane.
Who built that house, we wonder?
Who made it to the moon before us?
And whose construction tools raised this edifice up from dust?
Word has escaped, for it is said
Missions have been sent
To inspect, investigate, disinfect, and perhaps dismantle,
This house, so strangely out of place,
In that ancient, cold terrain.
No doubt, disguised by obscure darkness.
To perhaps resemble
A beacon of hope,
In an environment devoid of living things,
And atmospheres, unnaturally still,
Where astronauts once bounced about,
As though in kindergarten.
Their scampering perhaps helped to relieve
Fear of the deadly endless airless blackness,
and persistent thoughts of oblivion,
With earth so far away, yet luminous,
Still triggering memories of home,
Where their evening tables welcomed
Platters and bowls chockful of slaughtered,
animals, and harvested plants to sustain their own survival.
In the protective arms of the moon,
And fearless of storms, tremors and quakes,
Nothing would disturb the mining they vowed to undertake.
For the silent salient moon seemed to promise tranquility,
Regardless of the disturbing presence of a mere house.
Would the being that built that house have known
That the patient moon had waited so long,
Until the house appeared to lean into a wind
That wasn’t even there.
No welcome mat, no flowers at the window,
As zillions of miles away,
Scientific circles hold collective breath in wonder,
Squinting to better view the house’s exterior,
As they anticipate its interior,
Afraid to look away, lest they miss a detail,
Even as a rope metallic and silver,
A camera mounted at its head,
Snaked and coiled through moon dust,
As though alive and slithering,
With intent bent on entering that godforsaken house,
As it charged ahead.
Taken by surprise, by its determination,
We the scientific circle felt deprived of senses,
Was there a violent splash?
Did anyone see a mighty flash,
or experienced our first sound of moon thunder?
It all eludes the watchers,
For only sinister silence reigns upon the plains of the moon.
Those deserted plains that extend as far as the baying cratered horizon,
That is neither near nor far.
Human gasps penetrate the interminable miles of space,
Frantic with imagining,
As the mounted camera plunged.
All eyes are tight shut, though safely distant,
From the mechanism, and the possibility
of catastrophe.
Peering under lashes, and riveted to screens,
We the scientific community, cannot but helplessly watch
As the trusty camera mounted rope
Disappeared out of our range.
Dust began to gather,
At first quiet slowly,
Then it picked up speed, and spread, then rose higher and higher,
Reminiscent of ignited forest fires,
Only to become a massive cloud, so dense, and so dark,
Vision is obliterated,
As dust clouds in mere moments, had become twenty stories higher.
Like a beast gone hungry for far too long,
That dust, now a mountain tall,
Swallowed the rope, the engineers, their vehicles and equipment.
And in a moment, of sustained horror, the house too was gone!
The moon vibrated and wheezed, and the sound resonated,
Like a gong, somehow gone wrong,
Before it once again was silenced in sleep.
But we must tell no one, of this consequence,
Not even a wandering moon beam,
For we are not supposed to know.
Bernadette Gabay Dyer
Bernadette is a multiracial Jamaican/Canadian who resides in Toronto Canada.
She is the author of four novels:
Waltzes I have not forgotten Historical Fiction
Abductors Science Fiction
Chasing the Banyan Wind Historical Fiction
Santiago’s Purple Skies at Morning’s Light Speculative Fiction
Two short story collections:
Villa Fair
Segovia Stories
Poetry Collection
Stone Woman
Bernadette is also an Artist and a Story Teller
She is a member of the Writer’s Union of Canada, Science Fiction Canada, and Canadian Storytellers
Her poetry and short stories have been widely anthologized.
Poetry is a medium that plays with form, structure and style in such a unique, expressive way; Combined with the imaginative and evocative qualities of fantasy, horror and science fiction provides escapism in such rich ways. I Become The Beast, is a space for that kind of escape. It’s been my absolute pleasure to showcase the talented writers who have contributed to our first issue, I hope you have enjoyed the journeys these pieces have taken us on.
-Bindi Lavelle, Editor
I Become The Beast 