Cover art by Travis Hampton
Issue 4 | Haunted
January 1, 2021
One year ago today, many of us celebrated the beginning of a new decade. Amidst New Year’s resolutions, dreams of “the Roaring 20s,” and jokes about “having 20/20 vision,” many of us asserted that 2020 would not only be “our year,” but an incredible year overall. There was a strong sense of hope and excitement in the air as we gathered with loved ones and made mimosas from leftover bottles of bubbles. This new beginning called for redemption and rebirth, the opportunity to improve ourselves and accomplish new goals. On January 1, 2020, we had no idea just how close we were to facing something that would change our lives entirely.
In Texas, the pandemic didn’t hit us hard until March. This was marked by pandemonium at the grocery stores and lockdowns of all nonessential businesses with a shelter in place order. Nine months later, we are not much better off. Orders flip-flip back and forth, and the number of cases has not gone down.
Yet despite everything that has happened this year, we have still found accomplishments to celebrate and things to be hopeful for. This very e-zine was born out of the pandemic with the purpose of helping us all process and share our feelings and experiences related to COVID-19 and, later on, the fight for racial justice and social equity that unfolded across the world in the wake of the police slayings of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and too many other Black folks who should still be here today to ring in the New Year with their loved ones — as well as the most contentious and exhausting presidential election in US history. Every day, we are amazed at how our e-zine has grown from a concept discussed over wine and cheese during a FaceTime call into an actual literary magazine with readers and contributors worldwide. For that, we thank all of you. You are the reason that we are here, and that we persist. We still have a long way to go (we hope to be moved into our new website before Issue 5), but it is a journey that we are excited to continue on with you.
We can enter 2021 with renewed hope. Several places throughout the world have had no new cases, effectively squashing the virus in their area. Vaccines are already being distributed, which could mean an end to the pandemic in the coming year! All we have to do is hang on a little while longer, and we can hopefully put this nightmare of a year behind us. We can move forward. We can ride redemption and rebirth into the New Year like we intended to last year. We can try again.
We at Crown & Pen hope that all of you have had a happy and healthy holiday season, no matter how you do or don’t celebrate. In this issue, our “Haunted” theme examines the spookier side of the season. We hope that our readers find works that they can connect with or that offer a thrilling escape from reality, no matter how brief. Let us come together to celebrate and mourn the impactful moments of 2020. Let us come together to welcome this New Year, and with it, new opportunities.
Onward!
Ashton & Nori
One year ago today, many of us celebrated the beginning of a new decade. Amidst New Year’s resolutions, dreams of “the Roaring 20s,” and jokes about “having 20/20 vision,” many of us asserted that 2020 would not only be “our year,” but an incredible year overall. There was a strong sense of hope and excitement in the air as we gathered with loved ones and made mimosas from leftover bottles of bubbles. This new beginning called for redemption and rebirth, the opportunity to improve ourselves and accomplish new goals. On January 1, 2020, we had no idea just how close we were to facing something that would change our lives entirely.
In Texas, the pandemic didn’t hit us hard until March. This was marked by pandemonium at the grocery stores and lockdowns of all nonessential businesses with a shelter in place order. Nine months later, we are not much better off. Orders flip-flip back and forth, and the number of cases has not gone down.
Yet despite everything that has happened this year, we have still found accomplishments to celebrate and things to be hopeful for. This very e-zine was born out of the pandemic with the purpose of helping us all process and share our feelings and experiences related to COVID-19 and, later on, the fight for racial justice and social equity that unfolded across the world in the wake of the police slayings of George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, and too many other Black folks who should still be here today to ring in the New Year with their loved ones — as well as the most contentious and exhausting presidential election in US history. Every day, we are amazed at how our e-zine has grown from a concept discussed over wine and cheese during a FaceTime call into an actual literary magazine with readers and contributors worldwide. For that, we thank all of you. You are the reason that we are here, and that we persist. We still have a long way to go (we hope to be moved into our new website before Issue 5), but it is a journey that we are excited to continue on with you.
We can enter 2021 with renewed hope. Several places throughout the world have had no new cases, effectively squashing the virus in their area. Vaccines are already being distributed, which could mean an end to the pandemic in the coming year! All we have to do is hang on a little while longer, and we can hopefully put this nightmare of a year behind us. We can move forward. We can ride redemption and rebirth into the New Year like we intended to last year. We can try again.
We at Crown & Pen hope that all of you have had a happy and healthy holiday season, no matter how you do or don’t celebrate. In this issue, our “Haunted” theme examines the spookier side of the season. We hope that our readers find works that they can connect with or that offer a thrilling escape from reality, no matter how brief. Let us come together to celebrate and mourn the impactful moments of 2020. Let us come together to welcome this New Year, and with it, new opportunities.
Onward!
Ashton & Nori
Legion of Doom
by Jason Love
Who truly lives
in the moment
when the moment won’t last?
Who knows it’s already over
before it begins because
it is moving too fast?
Who writes a poem
about a pro wrestling
tag team from years ago?
Who holds onto their
childhood memories while
at the same time letting go?
in memory of Joseph Laurinaitis “Road Warrior Animal” (1960 – 2020)
in the moment
when the moment won’t last?
Who knows it’s already over
before it begins because
it is moving too fast?
Who writes a poem
about a pro wrestling
tag team from years ago?
Who holds onto their
childhood memories while
at the same time letting go?
in memory of Joseph Laurinaitis “Road Warrior Animal” (1960 – 2020)
Jason Love lives in New Jersey. You can find him on Twitter @jason_love1. He is working on a novel tentatively titled Hey Jay Bob (you’re an @sshole): A Love Story.
Renunciant
by Kristin Garth
By rain rebaptized without hooded dress,
the daughter of unholiness accepts
the filth within her soul. The repossessed
commune, by none cajoled, with what has crept
in with the storm, a suppliant in fleeced,
inhuman form. Perhaps embodied as
a beast, incubus bored of the deceased
released for your recommitment service
to the netherworld. Third ritual since
you were a girl, baptized by Puritans
in polyester, pearls, washed infant sins
away. Muddied flesh by your true hands
today will finds redemption in the dirt,
renunciation of innocence hurt.
the daughter of unholiness accepts
the filth within her soul. The repossessed
commune, by none cajoled, with what has crept
in with the storm, a suppliant in fleeced,
inhuman form. Perhaps embodied as
a beast, incubus bored of the deceased
released for your recommitment service
to the netherworld. Third ritual since
you were a girl, baptized by Puritans
in polyester, pearls, washed infant sins
away. Muddied flesh by your true hands
today will finds redemption in the dirt,
renunciation of innocence hurt.
Kristin Garth is the author of seventeen books of poetry including Flutter Southern Gothic Fever Dream, The Meadow and Candy Cigarette Womanchild Noir. She is the Dollhouse Architect of Pink Plastic House: a tiny journal and has a weekly sonnet podcast called Kristin Whispers Sonnets. Visit her site kristingarth.com and talk to her on Twitter @lolaandjolie.
these sad groves
by Kate Garrett
they dance above your head, clasp and grasp,
pleased to see you—you, who should be at rest
in a box of elm, hugged by soil, or at best
drawn toward some star-bright tunnel’s
end. instead you whirl through a forest
where each sunset is a disco. the
breeze
breath remembers the crunch of your boots
over crisp leaves, kicking a path on the walk
to see your lover. the lover who hurt you in
ways these trees would never. you stretch
to hold them; as the elder clasps the hawthorn,
the oak spins you into the arms of the yew.
twirl back to the grave before your children
catch a silver-violet chill woven in the dark:
your solitary revelry is not meant for their eyes.
hush and wait another night for his return—
when he is alone, wine-heated and weary, when
the young ones are safe in sleep.
pleased to see you—you, who should be at rest
in a box of elm, hugged by soil, or at best
drawn toward some star-bright tunnel’s
end. instead you whirl through a forest
where each sunset is a disco. the
breeze
breath remembers the crunch of your boots
over crisp leaves, kicking a path on the walk
to see your lover. the lover who hurt you in
ways these trees would never. you stretch
to hold them; as the elder clasps the hawthorn,
the oak spins you into the arms of the yew.
twirl back to the grave before your children
catch a silver-violet chill woven in the dark:
your solitary revelry is not meant for their eyes.
hush and wait another night for his return—
when he is alone, wine-heated and weary, when
the young ones are safe in sleep.
Kate Garrett is an autistic writer with witchy ways and a significant folklore, history, and horror obsession. Her work is widely published — most recently or forthcoming in Dreich, Riggwelter, Frost Zone Zine, and The Spectre Review — and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net, and longlisted for a Saboteur Award. Her most recent pamphlet, A View from the Phantasmagoria, was published in September 2020, and her next book, Hart & Ha’penny, will be published by TwistiT Press in March 2021. Born in rural southern Ohio, Kate moved to the UK in 1999, where she still lives — on the Welsh border with her husband, five children, and a cat. Find her on Instagram @thefolklorefaery
Sisters By the Sea
Inspired by Edgar Allan Poe’s Annabel Lee
by Ashton-Taylor Ackerson
It feels like many years ago, in a kingdom by the sea, yet in reality only months have passed since I last saw my sister, the young and beautiful Annabel Lee.
The heart of our kingdom was a tall, white house overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Charleston. Five bedrooms with long hallways and large family spaces, our childhood home was like something from a fantasy. My sister and I lived upstairs and shared a balcony. Dirt and grass from our backyard would give way to sand dampened by the lively sea. Not far off there was a spot encircled by rocks, sprinkled with shells in the sand beneath our feet. This was the place where I’d often run off to play with Annabel Lee.
We’d feed seagulls cookies by the shore, build the sand castles of our dreams. We’d search for tide pools and mermaids and sand dollars until the sun would set on the rising sea.
The heart of our kingdom was a tall, white house overlooking the Atlantic Ocean in Charleston. Five bedrooms with long hallways and large family spaces, our childhood home was like something from a fantasy. My sister and I lived upstairs and shared a balcony. Dirt and grass from our backyard would give way to sand dampened by the lively sea. Not far off there was a spot encircled by rocks, sprinkled with shells in the sand beneath our feet. This was the place where I’d often run off to play with Annabel Lee.
We’d feed seagulls cookies by the shore, build the sand castles of our dreams. We’d search for tide pools and mermaids and sand dollars until the sun would set on the rising sea.
She looked like an angel. Dark raven hair, with green eyes like the ravenous sea. Her pale skin kissed by the sun with freckles, she was a child of Charleston’s beach. When she laughed, which she did often, my soul would sing. No matter what she said or how she dressed, she was always darling. Despite being older, I always looked up to my dear sister, Annabel Lee.
When she was just thirteen, we went to a local spot for ice cream. We waited in line giggling, when suddenly she looked away from me. I followed her gaze to the front door, where a sailor entered dressed in red and blue. He was young, about eighteen. As he stepped in line he locked eyes with her, offering a charming smile and wink.
“You have beautiful eyes.”
“Thank you.” Color filled her cheeks.
“My name is Levi. What’s yours?”
“My name is Annabel Lee.”
When she was just thirteen, we went to a local spot for ice cream. We waited in line giggling, when suddenly she looked away from me. I followed her gaze to the front door, where a sailor entered dressed in red and blue. He was young, about eighteen. As he stepped in line he locked eyes with her, offering a charming smile and wink.
“You have beautiful eyes.”
“Thank you.” Color filled her cheeks.
“My name is Levi. What’s yours?”
“My name is Annabel Lee.”
“A lovely name for a lovely girl.” Levi’s voice was like honey. “May I get you and your friend an ice cream?”
“My sister and I would like that.” I chimed in. “I like vanilla. And you Belle?”
Her voice was just as sweet. “Surprise me!”
After we left the shop, they strolled ahead of me. I’m not sure what they discussed, but even as I trailed behind I could feel their chemistry. We walked along the pier, faces caressed by the salty breeze coming off the sea. Then, as the moon revealed herself, Levi said farewell to me and Annabel Lee.
My sister became smitten by this sailor. Every morning she’d check the mail for letters from Levi, and every night that they were apart she would write to him. Duty kept him out at sea, but every few months he’d dock in Charleston, just to visit Annabel Lee.
“My sister and I would like that.” I chimed in. “I like vanilla. And you Belle?”
Her voice was just as sweet. “Surprise me!”
After we left the shop, they strolled ahead of me. I’m not sure what they discussed, but even as I trailed behind I could feel their chemistry. We walked along the pier, faces caressed by the salty breeze coming off the sea. Then, as the moon revealed herself, Levi said farewell to me and Annabel Lee.
My sister became smitten by this sailor. Every morning she’d check the mail for letters from Levi, and every night that they were apart she would write to him. Duty kept him out at sea, but every few months he’d dock in Charleston, just to visit Annabel Lee.
I stopped accompanying them on outings to let the two of them be free. When he came they’d galavant all over town, then days later give heartfelt goodbyes beside the sea, tears rolling down their cheeks.
I began to notice that even when he wasn’t around, the time she spent with me waned. I questioned her about it, but she assured me that I was imagining it, that nothing had changed.
In the coming months she rarely left her room, never stepped out onto sand by sea. I began to grow worried about my dear sister, the now changed and reserved Annabel Lee.
I found her crying one evening, curled in the corner of our shared balcony. She was just fifteen. When I asked her what was wrong, she called me a cunt and shrieked “Get away from me!” I turned my own tears away from her so she could not see.
I began to notice that even when he wasn’t around, the time she spent with me waned. I questioned her about it, but she assured me that I was imagining it, that nothing had changed.
In the coming months she rarely left her room, never stepped out onto sand by sea. I began to grow worried about my dear sister, the now changed and reserved Annabel Lee.
I found her crying one evening, curled in the corner of our shared balcony. She was just fifteen. When I asked her what was wrong, she called me a cunt and shrieked “Get away from me!” I turned my own tears away from her so she could not see.
The next time Levi came to town, it was for her sixteenth. He promised to take her out to dinner by the sea, and for the first time in years, he invited me. I happily agreed. In recent years, she had become a stranger in the room next door. Always writing, writing, writing to her lover far from shore. I could not wait to see her face to face, my bright and beautiful Annabel Lee.
The entire meal, my sister was hollow. Her eyes held no gleam. Levi ordered for her, doing his best to please, but when she told him her preference of salmon over shrimp, his eyes narrowed and he gritted his teeth. She dropped her gaze, and as she ate the crustaceans, she did not speak.
After a tense dinner, the two did not walk home with me. It wasn’t until the following afternoon that I ran into my sister, Annabel Lee. Her right eye was swollen, wrists purple and green. The swirls of color contrasted with her pale skin. Did my eyes deceive me?
The entire meal, my sister was hollow. Her eyes held no gleam. Levi ordered for her, doing his best to please, but when she told him her preference of salmon over shrimp, his eyes narrowed and he gritted his teeth. She dropped her gaze, and as she ate the crustaceans, she did not speak.
After a tense dinner, the two did not walk home with me. It wasn’t until the following afternoon that I ran into my sister, Annabel Lee. Her right eye was swollen, wrists purple and green. The swirls of color contrasted with her pale skin. Did my eyes deceive me?
My mind jumped to Levi. I demanded to know what he had done to her, but she swore that it was nothing. I locked eyes with her and asked: “Is this why you’ve been avoiding me?” She did not deny it, but instead cried that she was at fault, and Levi was always very sweet. He loved her with all his heart. They were meant to be. Then, before I could speak again, she ran away from me. I stood in shock and agony. How many times had he laid a hand on my poor Annabel Lee?
I saw even less of her once his wickedness was revealed to me. Sometimes I would knock on her door, but never once did she open it. The kind and radiant Annabel Lee, I missed her more than anything.
Before the end of that year, a young man started courting me. He worked as a trader, and was handsome, bright, and charming. We never seemed to disagree, and every moment we spent together was filled with joyous glee. After only six months, we were married. Annabel Lee was present with Levi at the wedding, but they were there only briefly.
I saw even less of her once his wickedness was revealed to me. Sometimes I would knock on her door, but never once did she open it. The kind and radiant Annabel Lee, I missed her more than anything.
Before the end of that year, a young man started courting me. He worked as a trader, and was handsome, bright, and charming. We never seemed to disagree, and every moment we spent together was filled with joyous glee. After only six months, we were married. Annabel Lee was present with Levi at the wedding, but they were there only briefly.
Ten months passed, and my belly was nearly bursting. My love and I strolled along the shore, treading careful as could be. That was when I saw it, only feet from me. I let go of my husband’s hand and ran to see what had washed up on the beach. The sight made me ill, and I suppressed a scream. A tiny shape, weathered and bloated, a sickening shade of green. Bits of flesh missing where it had been gnawed away by demons of the deep. If not for the deformed skin, the child looked like it could be asleep. My husband hurried to me. He guided me back to our home, his gentle touch constant and comforting. Then once our baby and I were in bed, he set out to notify the police.
That night I wrote to Annabel Lee, asking how she was doing. I begged to see her, offering her the chance to meet her future nephew or niece.
Weeks went by before I received a response, not long after her eighteenth. My son in one arm, I read her letter, which was an invitation to meet:
That night I wrote to Annabel Lee, asking how she was doing. I begged to see her, offering her the chance to meet her future nephew or niece.
Weeks went by before I received a response, not long after her eighteenth. My son in one arm, I read her letter, which was an invitation to meet:
My Dear Sister,
I am sorry that I have not written back sooner, or been more present during the important events in your life. I’m sure you have already had your baby, and I hope that he or she is well. Congratulations. I know it has been many years, but if you could meet me at our old spot from our younger days next Friday night, it would mean the world to me.
Love,
Annabel Lee
I made arrangements with my husband to watch the baby, then picked up a pen and paper to agree.
The following Friday, I made my way to our spot encircled with rocks, dusted with shells in the sand beneath our feet. I sat in the place where I used to run off to play with my sister Annabel Lee.
I am sorry that I have not written back sooner, or been more present during the important events in your life. I’m sure you have already had your baby, and I hope that he or she is well. Congratulations. I know it has been many years, but if you could meet me at our old spot from our younger days next Friday night, it would mean the world to me.
Love,
Annabel Lee
I made arrangements with my husband to watch the baby, then picked up a pen and paper to agree.
The following Friday, I made my way to our spot encircled with rocks, dusted with shells in the sand beneath our feet. I sat in the place where I used to run off to play with my sister Annabel Lee.
I glimpsed her raven-like hair blowing in the breeze. Wearing a sundress under a coat, Annabel Lee soon stood in front of me. I rushed up to hug her. She grinned and leaned right into me. I stroked her hair. Tears poured down my cheeks.
“I’ve missed you.” I cried. It was getting harder to breathe.
“I’ve missed you too.” She confessed, wiping my tears away. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a flask.
She offered me a drink.
Reluctantly, I took a sip. It was strong and spiced, but sweet. “This is nice. What is it?” I asked.
“Rum.” She giggled, then took a swig. “Levi brought it home for me.”
I fell silent at the mention of him, and this change must not have gone unseen. She handed me the flask, then took me by the arm. “Come here, walk with me.”
“I’ve missed you.” I cried. It was getting harder to breathe.
“I’ve missed you too.” She confessed, wiping my tears away. Then she reached into her pocket and pulled out a flask.
She offered me a drink.
Reluctantly, I took a sip. It was strong and spiced, but sweet. “This is nice. What is it?” I asked.
“Rum.” She giggled, then took a swig. “Levi brought it home for me.”
I fell silent at the mention of him, and this change must not have gone unseen. She handed me the flask, then took me by the arm. “Come here, walk with me.”
We walked along the shore, discussing life and its mysteries. We passed the flask back and forth, as fits of laughter overtook us regularly. Part of me was still in shock, I had not seen this side of her since years ago when she was thirteen. After all this time, she was finally back. It was like old times with my bright and shining sister, Annabel Lee.
As our toes dipped into the pitch black sea, I could feel how the rum had made me tipsy. It felt so good to be back in her company.
“What is marriage like?” She suddenly asked.
“My favorite.” I replied.
“And motherhood?”
“Challenging, but like a dream.” I smiled up at the clouds above me. “Why do you ask?”
My sister shrugged. “I wanted to know I suppose, because Levi proposed to me.”
As our toes dipped into the pitch black sea, I could feel how the rum had made me tipsy. It felt so good to be back in her company.
“What is marriage like?” She suddenly asked.
“My favorite.” I replied.
“And motherhood?”
“Challenging, but like a dream.” I smiled up at the clouds above me. “Why do you ask?”
My sister shrugged. “I wanted to know I suppose, because Levi proposed to me.”
I stiffened. “You don’t have to say yes.”
“I already have.” Her voice was almost pleading.
“Why can’t you reconsider?” I implored. “I know he’s responsible for everything.”
“We cannot live without one another,” she stated, “and Father has already given his blessing.”
“Does he know?” I asked. “He’s going to kill you one day.”
“He won’t.” She sighed, and with intent she watched the sea. “When it comes to that, you have no need to worry.”
We said our goodbyes, and I stumbled home to get some sleep.
“I already have.” Her voice was almost pleading.
“Why can’t you reconsider?” I implored. “I know he’s responsible for everything.”
“We cannot live without one another,” she stated, “and Father has already given his blessing.”
“Does he know?” I asked. “He’s going to kill you one day.”
“He won’t.” She sighed, and with intent she watched the sea. “When it comes to that, you have no need to worry.”
We said our goodbyes, and I stumbled home to get some sleep.
I did not know that she never made it home, but instead thrust herself into the icy sea. The wind and water worked as one, chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.
I still awaken my husband with my screams. For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of my beautiful Annabel Lee. And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee. If I could go back in time, I’d try harder all those years. I’d make her see reason so that she would never dare to dance with the demons down under the sea. I’d never take her out for ice cream. Maybe then she’d still be standing next to me, rather than resting in her tomb by the sounding sea.
I still awaken my husband with my screams. For the moon never beams, without bringing me dreams of my beautiful Annabel Lee. And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes of the beautiful Annabel Lee. If I could go back in time, I’d try harder all those years. I’d make her see reason so that she would never dare to dance with the demons down under the sea. I’d never take her out for ice cream. Maybe then she’d still be standing next to me, rather than resting in her tomb by the sounding sea.
Ashton-Taylor Ackerson is the co-founder and editor of Crown & Pen. She holds a BA in English from the University of Texas at Austin, and writes poetry and fiction. This is her fourth publication with Crown & Pen. Her work has also been published in ARC Journal, and are forthcoming in Pink Plastic House, Red Skies Anthology, and The Raven Review. She is currently working on her first poetry collection, which will be about a year’s worth of socially distanced meals. When she’s not writing, Ashton-Taylor is always on the lookout for the best food, wine, and beer to be had in Austin. Follow her on Instagram and Twitter @ashtonalopoli.
Selling Our Houses
by Jason de Koff
The house was exquisite. It was all of the words you save to use for best friends and children and natural landscapes. With its peaked roofs and textured glass, it exuded character and taste. Its whitewashed walls were bright and cheerful. Beautiful brickwork made of different colored clays evoked ideas of braided strength. It had an allure to be admired and replicated. Polished, primed, and painted, it was always at its very best.
To enter the house, you had to push hard at the door, moving the vast quantities of debris that littered its floors. Navigating the inner landscape was a tortuous endeavor that consisted of preventing missteps at every turn and upsetting the precarious balance that had been achieved. All windows and curtains were shut tight as if prepared for impending storms, or to prevent anyone from seeing inside. A great weight of foreboding and melancholy hung about the place so that one could not linger for too long and sought to make a quick exit.
Outside, to the trappings and effects that were much more comfortable for all.
To enter the house, you had to push hard at the door, moving the vast quantities of debris that littered its floors. Navigating the inner landscape was a tortuous endeavor that consisted of preventing missteps at every turn and upsetting the precarious balance that had been achieved. All windows and curtains were shut tight as if prepared for impending storms, or to prevent anyone from seeing inside. A great weight of foreboding and melancholy hung about the place so that one could not linger for too long and sought to make a quick exit.
Outside, to the trappings and effects that were much more comfortable for all.
Jason de Koff is an associate professor of agronomy and soil science at Tennessee State University. He lives in Nashville, TN with his wife, Jaclyn, and his two daughters, Tegan and Maizie. He has published in a number of scientific journals, and has over 60 poems published or forthcoming in literary journals over the last year. This is his first prose. See what he’s up to on Twitter @JasonPdK3.
Loathing and Depth
by Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon)
I was called to feast from the depths of moldy, plague-smelling, cramped
alleys. I’m the Eater of Sin.
Greeting, dear lady! The gaped mouth is the stiff of death, the
stench of your cadaver kiss
haunts the sticky meat, the defluents, hairy palm.
I gobble from a clay bowl sitting on her wax tits (Turd like
chitterlings between steaming steaks and an erect rabbit leg.)
Your sins are moving to my bowles, my lady, among columns
engraved with horrible figures, and the two-headed vipers of
Valac.
alleys. I’m the Eater of Sin.
Greeting, dear lady! The gaped mouth is the stiff of death, the
stench of your cadaver kiss
haunts the sticky meat, the defluents, hairy palm.
I gobble from a clay bowl sitting on her wax tits (Turd like
chitterlings between steaming steaks and an erect rabbit leg.)
Your sins are moving to my bowles, my lady, among columns
engraved with horrible figures, and the two-headed vipers of
Valac.
Going home, dear lady?
Back to horse skulls, rusty swords and to my cutthroat lovers? Say,
turning against God
(behind us the scum stripped down to their wormy bones), would there be
anyone who’d touch you
when I spit the ocean deprived of its fish
back into its gaping,
slimy grave pit?
(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)
Back to horse skulls, rusty swords and to my cutthroat lovers? Say,
turning against God
(behind us the scum stripped down to their wormy bones), would there be
anyone who’d touch you
when I spit the ocean deprived of its fish
back into its gaping,
slimy grave pit?
(Translated by Gabor Gyukics)
Laszlo Aranyi (Frater Azmon) is a poet, anarchist, and occultist from Hungary. Their published books include (szellem)válaszok, A Nap és Holderők egyensúlya and Kiterített rókabőr. Their English language poetry has been published in Quail Bell Magazine, Lumin Journal, Moonchild Magazine, Scum Gentry Magazine, Pussy Magic, The Zen Space, Crêpe & Penn, Briars Lit, Acclamation Point, Truly U, Sage Cigarettes Magazine, Lots of Light Literary Foundation, Honey Mag, Theta Wave, Re-side, Cape Magazine, Neuro Logical, The Daily Drunk Mag, Unpublishable Zine, Melbourne Culture Corner, Beir Bua Journal, All Ears (based in India), and Utsanga (based in Italy). Their work explores the relationship between spiritualist mediums, art and magic. Connect with them on Facebook and follow them on Twitter at @azmon6.
O Lightbringer
by Cal Graves
CN: This story contains graphic imagery that some readers may find disturbing.
Reader discretion is advised.
An altar of ivory, seeping tar from its near-invisible pores. A body on it. Bones burnt black by years of flames mingled among the old elephant horn in a death tunnel-light white. I watch myself lay there, silent still as slumbering brooks, worldly bare, nude. A man enters from nowhere. A mass thicket of hair coating the broad, wide chest, all the way down the slight gut, drawing to a point, a happy trail of tangling vines that could catch a man and strangle them dead. On his breast there was a tattoo: the word: LUCIFER. In an ancient script, each letter was its own solid color, from left to right they shined the rainbow, and they did shine, they were bright, easily legible through the dense swarm of hair that hovered above it. His nips were taut, pointed and large. Is this the crematorium? The scent of cindered flesh, flames licking at the bone wanting the sweet treat of marrow hidden within, like children lusting for the center of the tootsie pop. I’m sweating. Am I destined for the ash? This LUCIFER wears an executioner’s mask, the edges of the eye-holes ragged, stained with something brown. You could smell him from here. From under this mask he draws a long scalpel, where it could’ve been stored I have no idea. My nude body, the body of the altar, awaits, as if asleep. His, the rainbow LUCIFER’s cock is hard against his jeans like a pipe in the dirt exposed slightly by the rain. He cuts into my abdomen, the second, my skin is flayed as I am opened up, I make no sound. Somehow I still sleep. A grim enticement fills up my temporal body, the unaffected yet frozen, I must watch and only from afar, sadly; I want to get closer to see my own insides as they’re excavated. The skin was cast like drapery over the edges of the altar. Apparently my largest organ is made of silly putty. He took my nerves — they look like yanked out branches or upturned roots. My LUCIFER tosses them aside, twigs plucked from the storm drain. Fingering the muscles of the abs, waist, any area he could get those thick stubby fingers into, he cocked his head as if pondering the density, the size of the gaps left by moving pieces grinding together. All sorts came out of me, the me outside myself: he/I cried, pined, gurgled up some spittle, he/I begged, giggled, hiccupped, I/he agonized, aroused. I watched my body’s cock harden as I was meticulously eviscerated. A monument on the altar. The bones of the altar were my own, from different versions of myself, I would assume. Tightly condensed, compact into a solid shape, held together by tar and twine: skeletal torsos took up the task of main weight bearer, the ivory slab held up by their heads. My Rainbow LUCIFER unravels my intestines, tied them into a noose which he looped around my neck, tightening till my little hiccups of distress stopped. I can see my heart still beating as the face goes red, redder, veins striving hard to escape from beneath the skin, now I’m purple, mouth flapping like a guppy’s, eyes drooling tears, as my back arcs, trying to thrust up, trying to shove my cock into some unseen source of arousal, but I’m held back by the large, calm hand of my LUCIFER. He sawed through my thigh, indifferent. Blood was everywhere. More skin removed, what lies beneath now showing its glistening red head to the world — I was open, completely open, Chinese take-out box unstuck into a cardboard plate. Tiny figures of the left-most statue began to twitch even so slightly. As the blood trickled down across the statuettes’ feature a new life slowly grew in them. Their limbs began to break free from the tarry glue that was holding them in place, they jerked around like twitchy cricket legs, popping and scraping up against the other bones of the structure. With great effort they gripped the dangly, tacky skin dangling over their hollow skulls. Putting the flesh back on its barren bone face, leaning into it like a fabric wall to a blanket fort, making faces at those on the other side, its playmates. The head rolled, mouth working wordlessly. Arms now virial it drags more of the doughy skin down, out, stretching it farther and farther. The bloody mass of muscle and bone holds the skin to the flat top of the plinth, as it weeps streams of crimson down on the other statuettes. A halo appears above my Rainbow LUCIFER’S head, he drops his tools, the clang on the ground a distorted echo pierces the air, ringing like the growling stomach of a dragon in a cavern. With that bright ring above the hood, he feels his body — my LUCIFER, my light-bringer — dances his fingers through the forest of hairs on the wall of meat which bares his sigil, that illuminating moniker. A crimson winter across the fur on his belly — aroused, he rose. On the sides of the altar the statues began to come alive, the blood awakening. They too took the flesh. A faint, whine escaped my body’s husk. The tar loosened the forms the figures the prisoners of the altar writhed rattled to them they pushed away, they wanted no part of their confinement. (Who would? Few, with special tastes) One managed to get far enough. A full fledged hand breaks through the skin, the bloodless, goreless. The skin was pushed past the event horizon it snapped, the hand burst through, the skin stuck like wet denim: as the limb escaped the flesh went with it like a damp paper bag sticking to the finger which pierced its edge. Tary bone. Muscles grew inflating around the human-ivory till the flesh was filled. The other arm reached in, wishing to be among the living again. With its newly formed appendages the figure pulled itself through the hole gaining muscles and nerves a face–screaming sans a sound, contorted — forced its way out. It huffed, funneling in as much oxygen as there was. The teeth clattered. Wild, emerald eyes, vacant with fright. It pulls itself further, becoming more human was it went. It pulls pulls pulls pulls nearly all there, chest beating with an artificial heart; sweat glistening from its stolen skin. Rolling on to his belly the newborn began to flail, squirting, squirming around, unsure, idiotic. Chattering its teeth all the while, unable to stop. A lopsided tongue caught up in the jaw bones. The eyes shooting around searching for enemies or escapes. Stilled for only a half second before being cast to another spot. No words only frightful yelps, whimpering. And still the rainbow LUCIFER worked. And still I watched, tethered w/ roots to the spot where I sat. A skeleton on the other side of the altar began to fidget about. My LUCIFER poured bleach on my altar body, it mixed with the read and sank down the sides, mingling with the tar. From the far right side came a thud, loud. Silent. Even the bones rattled. Leaning from where he stands, LUCIFER looks to find the cause. It was another skeleton emancipated from the confines. The torso head came loose and fallen, arms spewed out, broken sturs, its face buried in the ground with effort it slipped over — we all watched, quietly. Once on its back, the figure remained still. My Rainbow LUCIFER put down his tools, he grabbed a handful of already taut skin, greedy as the others. It yanked. The far left figure (LUCIFER’S right) figure was jerked towards the shaper — it screamed as its flesh dissipated. As less and less flesh remained a part of the figure, my LUCIFER tossed the bundle of pale skin on the bones of the new figure, it fell like blankets dropped over a birdcage. He went back to work. The skin sank between the ribs, leaving the untouched, unaltered. It landed on the spine and covered the face — its hands move arranging things as it wanted. It had a face: my mother’s. The ribs juttered out of her mass. The spine gained chords and muscle and flesh but only on the underside, it dared not progress of the chest’s arc. It breathes without lungs, pants as if it has never breathed air before. The other figure clucked in anger working its jaw together to make a loud sound, it began to crawl like all the others, pulling itself away, escaping and pulling at the other’s supply, away from torment seeking flesh again. As it did so it began to pull the skin off the newcomer, therefore losing what it gained from my body-altar. She screamed, it screamed, LUCIFER said nothing, as he has done from the beginning. She disapproved of this taking, her organs were hers and she will not part with them. She pulled back on the skin and he was yanked back to the altar. It began again crawling — and she pulled. One would lead, get farther formed than the other, but always the lend swung back to the loser. There was never a victor. She still huffed, laborious on the air; each time she exhaled her ribs rattled. They chirped like cicadas. LUCIFER tailed at his toil — scrapping nerves off the underside of skin left over — not noticing or caring what the two were doing. I watched amazed. He found it: my Rainbow LUCIFER found the secret, the thing he had been seeking within me. It was bloody, he held it up to the dim light. Too small, it was concealed in his fingers. I couldnt tell what it was, no matter how hard I strained. Covered in gore, it dripped. Lifting it to his face, he pulled up the hood concealing himself to let his mouth be seen. LUCIFER swallowed the secret. Everything is sound, everything is loud. The altar body burned with sound. The figures screamed, the altar itself screamed. His head became a prism. The head of LUCIFER shrunk and transformed into a glistening prism, which grew out out out till it touched his shoulders. All light fell out of his forehead. Colors bright, never-before-seen shot from the source centered in the center of his head. In his hand was a hammer crystalline, shown with its own light. Holding it loft all the screams crescendo, louder than any sound ever made, even the birth of the universe. Deafening. Painful — like thousands of bee stings. LUCIFER brought down his hammer, hard, on the altar on my altar-head. A bell rang from within my skull, a mighty knell. And everything disappeared. Everything. And it was as nothing.
Cal Graves is a southern writer currently living in Austin, Texas. He has previously published with American Chordata. He runs a blog: http://theuvulartrill.blogspot.com/
Delirium
by A.R. Salandy
I woke to murmurs along the moors
As day broke and lusterless skies
Filled with ululations tenebrous,
And fervent in their exaltations,
But as I rose on
A silent silhouette peered on,
As if to lambaste my squalor,
A grief-stricken entity
On a bed consumed by brisk nightmares,
sunken, Now staring onto an apparition,
Like the now muted vultures
Who stopped only for momentary breath.
But hope lit heart strings
anew, as exhausted
I returned to my drab crypt
As reality kept my motion continuous,
Nothing other than a monotony,
deafening.
As day broke and lusterless skies
Filled with ululations tenebrous,
And fervent in their exaltations,
But as I rose on
A silent silhouette peered on,
As if to lambaste my squalor,
A grief-stricken entity
On a bed consumed by brisk nightmares,
sunken, Now staring onto an apparition,
Like the now muted vultures
Who stopped only for momentary breath.
But hope lit heart strings
anew, as exhausted
I returned to my drab crypt
As reality kept my motion continuous,
Nothing other than a monotony,
deafening.
A Murder
by A.R. Salandy
It was in that deep darkness
That the first blade was thrown
To remove the invasion
That had overtaken the family home,
For in it a marriage had just occurred
And within a deeper sense of disdain grew
So fervently rife
That a rifle was drawn
That took a life from a warm body
So that each and every member
Could bathe in the warmed magenta
That was the darkened crimson blood
That trickled out of the corpse
As slowly as life was drawn from
Its beating heart and mind
That once lived so peacefully
Before the joining of a person to a unit
Became so disturbed that a body lay
Gasping for air and bleeding for a life taken.
That the first blade was thrown
To remove the invasion
That had overtaken the family home,
For in it a marriage had just occurred
And within a deeper sense of disdain grew
So fervently rife
That a rifle was drawn
That took a life from a warm body
So that each and every member
Could bathe in the warmed magenta
That was the darkened crimson blood
That trickled out of the corpse
As slowly as life was drawn from
Its beating heart and mind
That once lived so peacefully
Before the joining of a person to a unit
Became so disturbed that a body lay
Gasping for air and bleeding for a life taken.
Banshee
by A.R. Salandy
Wail as the flora does
out into open fields
where dormant leaves rest
beyond cyclical days
where cynical skies do bait rain
with voluminous clouds
despondent and sullen,
But cry as the cicadas once did
For shrouded woods now quiver
As tears nourish wildlife thirsty
As the vigor of rigor mortis
Rages through lilac veins,
As supplicated, a beating heart rests still
No longer tormented by howls,
But consumed by the ephemeral,
Somewhere amidst this cosmos.
out into open fields
where dormant leaves rest
beyond cyclical days
where cynical skies do bait rain
with voluminous clouds
despondent and sullen,
But cry as the cicadas once did
For shrouded woods now quiver
As tears nourish wildlife thirsty
As the vigor of rigor mortis
Rages through lilac veins,
As supplicated, a beating heart rests still
No longer tormented by howls,
But consumed by the ephemeral,
Somewhere amidst this cosmos.
A.R. Salandy is a mixed-race poet & writer whose work tends to focus on social inequality throughout late-modern society. He travels frequently and has spent most of his life in Kuwait jostling between the UK & America. His work has been published 95 times internationally. A.R. has one published chapbook titled The Great Northern Journey. Follow him on Twitter and Instagram @anthony64120.
A Gift for Baba Yaga
by Nori Rose Hubert
String the tinsel, sew the stockings, hang ornaments on the tree, each
with a special story of its own
— swallow amanita essence to fly
through midnight blue
Toast the wassail, bake your great-grandmother’s sugar
cookie recipe, build the gingerbread house of sweet spice and frosting
— steep mugwort, wormwood, and snowberry in well water and brandy to lure
illness into the oven
Make cards the color of holly and ivy to send
your beloveds, share the fruits of the final harvest
— toss the bones of rat and bat to see ahead into
the new
Light white candles, sing prayers, ring bells
to welcome back the sun
— light a black candle dipped in blood
to chill the bones of those who call hate love
Remember to keep the hag --
healer, fighter, whore, mother
— in your heart and hearth all the year
She too offers gifts
to those who come unbidden, unhindered
without fear
with a special story of its own
— swallow amanita essence to fly
through midnight blue
Toast the wassail, bake your great-grandmother’s sugar
cookie recipe, build the gingerbread house of sweet spice and frosting
— steep mugwort, wormwood, and snowberry in well water and brandy to lure
illness into the oven
Make cards the color of holly and ivy to send
your beloveds, share the fruits of the final harvest
— toss the bones of rat and bat to see ahead into
the new
Light white candles, sing prayers, ring bells
to welcome back the sun
— light a black candle dipped in blood
to chill the bones of those who call hate love
Remember to keep the hag --
healer, fighter, whore, mother
— in your heart and hearth all the year
She too offers gifts
to those who come unbidden, unhindered
without fear
Nori Rose Hubert is the co-founder and editor of Crown & Pen. She holds an AA in Creative Writing from Austin Community College and a BA in English from the University of Texas at Austin. She is the author of the forthcoming novel The Dreaming Hour, and her short stories, poetry, and essays have appeared in The Rio Review, Feminine Inquiry, Musings of a #LonelyFeminist, Hothouse, and online in Gingerbread House Literary Magazine, Corvid Queen, The Elephant Ladder, Mookychick, The Freque, and the feminist anthology The Medusa Project. She is a bimonthly contributor to the Work & Bipolar or Depression column at HealthyPlace Mental Health, and writes about all manner of taboo topics on Medium. She is a lifelong Texan and divides her time between Austin and Dallas, sharing a home with her husband and a small menagerie. She believes in magic, stories, and you. Connect with her on her website, Tumblr and Instagram + Twitter @norirosewrites.
