Bellyful of Knives

Mouthful of razors.
Bellyful of knives.
Hiss and slither.
Slit wrist cake.

I’m dying,
dearheart.

So bury the final

blade.

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star — S. K. Nicholas

people are scum, girl so run and don’t look back just drift into outer space on a magic carpet and leave behind those human stains until the air in your lungs runs out and you end up being reborn in the heart of some faraway star the details are not important whether or […]

via star — S. K. Nicholas

Prince of Roses

I could write a thousand songs for your majesty,
but the rains would still fall, and autumn come,
and at the end of the day, fall leaves your hair
would brush against my cheeks among the red oaks,
I would smell your bonfires, hear your guitar slip
into the empty spaces of the branches canopy to fly
like geese flocking south, while I migrated North
to the highest castle’s walled rose gardens, red
petals a musk on stone pathways through the water,
you are the prince of brier blooms, wings cotton
leftover from milkweed, soft as the rolling clouds
over the valley of my heart, sweet archangel, kiss
away all my fear and bathe me in the sun, embrace
me on the edge between poetry and prose, I am your
fledgling, you are my falcon, eternal saint, smile.

Dvalin

I am the beaded beard, sun-beaten smith of gold.
My cavern forged Brisingamen, the stars freeze me
but only because I am in love with the day, so much
I, dwarven kin, turn to stone out of sweet firmness
of desire, piercing the sky with pointed red cap.

Freyja found me on a dew-wet morning, marveled at
my crafts and charms, glorious trinkets shining wild.
I asked her for a night in my arms, she gladly oblijed,
and her love inspired two twin arm bracelets of Sunna.

I am of the damp earth, but even dwarves dream of light.
In this coldest Yuletide, remember, spring awaken in
the softest of frosts, a daisy like Mardoll’s tears.
I am Dvalin of the Day, and I say, merry Spring-finding.

Khairete! Salaam! Em Hotep!

Happy Yule and Winter Solstice! My short story “Ghazal” has debuted in my favorite literary magazine – a retelling of a Thousand and One Arabian Nights with rocs, poet queens of Paradise, and necromancy galore! Check it out!

Eternal Haunted Summer

Welcome to the Winter Solstice 2017 issue of Eternal Haunted Summer!

“Yuki-onna” (snow woman) from Hyakkai-Zukan by Sawaki Suushi. Image courtesy of wikimedia commons.

In Poetry, Cameron Coulter makes his debut with the haunting “The Anthem of Stardust,” as does Zachary McGar with the Greek-inspired “Apparatus Criticus.” TJ O’Hare returns with “The Divine Hag of the Celts,” while Deborah Davitt looks to ancient Hellas for “Diwia” as does Alison Rumfitt in her EHS debut, “The Fifty Daughters of Danaus.” Allan Rozinski mixes ancient mythology and modern psychology in his debut “In the Labyrinth,” while Evelyn Deshane looks to the Greek Goddess of memory in “Mnemosyne (A Villanelle).” A different Goddess is the focus of Jennifer Lawrence’s “The Morrigan at War,” and Bettina Thiessen returns to EHS with “One Spark.” Amy Karon makes her debut with the seasonally-appropriate “Solstice,” while Chelsea Arrington sings the praises of a misunderstood monster…

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Deus Vult

The war is eternal, the barracks are full of gutter swill, and Michael sits with his soldiers – some young angels not yet scarred by battle, some hardened veterans with crooked broken noses and lashes across their skin, burns from brands, twisted flesh from whips and swords.  In the trenches and camps, the border never falls, and the only thing to sing you to sleep is Israfel’s weeping over the Damned.

Sometimes, when there is a pause, and the demons retreat, Gabriel pulls out her battered trumpet and plays hymns.  Raphael has an accordion, and Uriel a makeshift drum.  Michael sings then.  It’s a ragtime band, Vaudeville in the wastelands, for shed enough immortal blood in Heaven and the grasses, flowers, and sedge drown in ichor.  All that blooms is asphodel.  The angel will dance among the plain white flowers and bramble thorns.

There are also roses.  One blooms every time an angel utters his or her last words.  They are sickly sweet with the fragrance of lost hope and a rain that never comes.  Michael picks them and presses their nectar and delivers their prayers to God’s throne room.  God weeps at the loss of his children, and another poppy blooms in the fields of the slain as the snow of their Father’s tears buries the corpses.  Roses, asphodel, poppy.  Pink, white, red.  It’s like a twisted Valentines, a love letter from Heaven to Hell.

Oh sweet nothings between Michael and Lucifer as one bites the heel and one crushes the head.  Oh sweet somethings between Raphael binding Azazel in Dudael.  Oh sweet possibility as Gabriel plays up the dawn with her song.  Oh sweetly impossible wishes of Raphael, for healing of the broken hearts of his comrades.  Oh bittersweet light of Uriel, who has run out of tears to shed – all that is left in her amber eyes is salt.

It is a Crusade.  It is a Cold War.  It is a chess set with poker on the side.  Two masterminds, Left Hand and Right Hand of God.  Over humanity perhaps, or perhaps so much more than mere hairless humans.  Perhaps they fight over free will, for freedom, or perhaps they forgot what they were fighting for long ago, and the lances and armor are dressings over empty burning hearts swiftly turning to coal.

Deus Vult.   As God Wills.

God left

a long

time

ago.