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Interview with Novelist

Mari Sloan Hear how she dealt with the nightmares most

writers face and saw her ghost story appear on bookstore shelves.

You Can’t Get

Published

Without An

Agent, Right?

Wrong!

Stephanie Osborn

Editors Pick Poetry and Books submit-ted by members of the

Cold Coffee Writers Community.

M A G A Z I N

E

Eric Stowell thought he found the perfect place to live but what he discov-ered was a small southern town held in the grip of a psychotic ice cream vender.

Cold CoffeeCold CoffeeCold CoffeeCold Coffee

“Employ your time in improving yourself by other men's writings so that

you shall come easily by what others have labored hard for.”

Socrates (BC 469-BC 399) Greek philosopher of Athens

NO. 3

Scream For

Ice Cream

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Photograph provided courtesy of Lloyd Cross, Flikr.com

Featured Writer

Boris Glikman

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Cold Coffee Magazine is a quarterly publication produced by members of the Cold Coffee Writ-

ing Community. It is dedicated to the voice of promising writers everywhere, writers who might

otherwise go unheard.

Each issue features an interview with a successful author, a short story, a number of poems, a list

of twenty books found in the CC Bookstore and several helpful articles on writing. All work pub-

lished in CCM was submitted by members of the CC writing community

(www.coldcoffee.ning.com).

Those writers interested in seeing their work published in CCM need only join the CC writing

community and read the submission process. All who submit will be considered but not everyone

who submits will be published. As compensation, those writers whose work is published will

receive an invitation to the online web site where each issue of CCM is produced.

Advertisers interested in having their company or their products represented in CCM or on the

CC community web site may go to the CC community and submit your interest to David Price,

creator of Cold Coffee.

Magazine Staff David Price – Owner, Designer, Chief Editor

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What’s in Your Cup?

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Cold CoffeeCold CoffeeCold CoffeeCold Coffee Scream For Ice Cream by David Price

Eric Stowell thought he found the perfect place to live but what he discovered was a small southern town held in the grip of a psychotic ice cream vender.

What is Cold Coffee? by David Price

You’ve heard about it but your not sure what it is? In this article Cold Coffee creator David Price explains not only what Cold Coffee is but also what makes it so special.

Interview With Novelist Mari Sloan

Hear how she dealt with the nightmares most writ-ers face and saw her ghost story appear on book-store shelves.

Cold Coffee Featured Writer Boris Glikman

Cold Coffee Members come from all over the world. This issues featured writer hails from Melbourne Australia but his writing is known around the world.

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M A G A Z I N EM A G A Z I N EM A G A Z I N EM A G A Z I N E THE CLEARNESS AND THE IMPENETRABILITY by

Boris Glikman

An award winning short story by an internationally known writer.

You Can’t Get Published Without An Agent, Right?

Wrong!

In this article Stephanie Osborn dispels myths about the world of publishing.

Editors Choice, the top ten books from the Cold

Coffee Bookstore.

Editors Choice, Poetry by members of the Cold

Coffee Writers Community.

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6

Eric Stowell loved the little town of

Rockledge. Like most small towns, part

of Rockledge’s charm lay in the family

owned stores with parking right in front.

The surrounding neighborhoods were

dotted with white houses lined with care-

fully measured streets with pleasant

names like Happy Hills drive and Smil-

ing Trace. However, amongst all the

charm there was one thing Eric noticed

that Rockledge didn’t have, and that was

an ice cream parlor. In fact, he hadn’t

even seen an ice cream truck or heard

one’s playful music. Summer tempera-

tures on the rise and Eric knew he had an

opportunity to carve his family a niche in

Rockledge’s little slice of heaven.

Frank thought of himself as a

town historian but to everyone else he

was a nosy old man with wisps of gray

hair and too much time on his hands.

He’d spent most of his life working with

rocks and minerals, knowledge that

made him a bit of a celebrity in the field

of local geology. However, when fund-

ing from the mining institute dried up, so

did Frank’s usefulness, or so he thought.

Now, instead of searching for pockets of

minerals, he spent his time at the coffee

shop hoping to strike up a conversation

with anyone who had the time to listen.

Eric’s attention was focused on

a set of blue prints for the ice cream par-

lor he planned to build and hadn’t no-

ticed the thin weathered face peering

over his shoulder.

“So, did I hear right?” Frank

asked as he eyed the diagrams. “Are you

going to build an ice cream parlor in

Rockledge?”

Eric turned, saw Frank’s with-

ered face, and smiled at the old man’s

obtrusiveness. In the month since mov-

ing to Rockledge, Eric and his wife had

noticed that very few people had shown

an interest in talking to them. Being a

small town, Eric figured folks just need

time to warm up to them and he saw

Frank’s nosiness as an opportunity to

break the ice. He gave the curious man a

friendly nod. “Yes, I am. Do you think

it’ll work?”

Frank’s eyes darted from Eric’s

blueprints to the cup of coffee he held

cradled in his leathery hands. He curled

his upper lip as if he smelled a foul odor

and said, “Maybe … in another town,

but not in Rockledge.”

Eric thought the old man’s

deadpan answer was about as peculiar as

the mismatched blue and black socks he

was wearing. “Really?” Eric asked.

“Now, why would you say that?”

Frank peered through the steam

rising off his cup and scanned the coffee

shop, checking to see if anyone was pay-

ing attention. He lowered his voice and

half whispered, “Let’s just say the last

fella to sell ice cream ‘round here left a

bad taste in folks’ mouths.”

Frank’s haunted tone gave Eric

pause yet sparked his curiosity. He rolled

up his blue prints, set them aside and

turned his full attention to Frank as he

asked, “Why? What happened?”

Frank’s smile was barely visi-

ble through the steam rising off his cup.

“How ‘bout we grab the booth in the

corner and I tell you?”

Eric found Frank’s mysterious

air only made his new acquaintance all

the more interesting as they moved over

to the empty booth and settled in. Frank

took a long sip of his coffee but Eric

could see his eyes dart nervously around

the room, making sure they hadn’t drawn

any unwanted attention. Satisfied, Frank

lowered his cup and began speaking with

a hushed, gravely voice.

“It was 1957 and it was the

beginning of the hottest summer South

Carolina had ever seen. Drought was

everywhere. Old refrigerators and the

tops of forgotten cars were breaking the

surface of Jasper Lake. Folks were going

outside to find a piece of shade and a

light breeze to escape the clinging heat.

Everyday, hundreds of townsfolk opened

their morning paper hoping to find good

news that the weather would soon

change for the better.” Frank shook his

head, never taking his eyes off his cup.

“Their hopes were misplaced.” He set

his coffee down and pushed it away.

“Relief did come though, but it didn’t

come in the form of rain, it came in the

form of an ice cream truck driven by a

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Scream For

Ice Cream

7

clown.”

Eric covered his mouth and

cleared his throat to mask his grin. “A

clown you say?”

Frank cast Eric an irritated

glance but continued. “His name was

Filbert. He wore bright red hair that

stood straight out except on top where he

had no hair at all. His face was obscured

by a layer of thick friendly makeup ac-

cented by a bright red ball that somehow

stayed fixed to end of his nose. He came

to town in a panel van clad with stainless

steel skirting and a big painted sign dis-

playing his bright, happy smile. The

sound of cheerful music playing over a

loudspeaker mounted to the top of his

van pulled folks from their heat-induced

dreams. Everywhere he stopped, Filbert

released a handful of colorful balloons

and then temporary relief at ten cents a

scoop.”

“What was that name again?”

Eric asked.

“He went by, Filbert.” Frank

said, as if he could see the clown there

before him.

Eric thought for second but

nothing came to mind. “I’ve never heard

if him.” Eric said.

“And for a good reason,” Frank

replied with a knowing smile. His eyes

rolled towards Eric. “No one ‘round here

wants to remember him.”

Eric frowned at the old man.

“And why was that?” Mary brought a

full pot to refill their cups.

“Sir?” Mary questioned as she

reached to fill Frank’s cup.

“He was talking to me.” Frank

said in a low and almost threatening

voice.

Eric shifted uncomfortably in

his seat at the old man’s remark and

waited for Mary to leave.

Once she was gone, Frank lifted

the now steaming cup to his lips and

blew across the surface to cool the hot

liquid. “Forgive me for sounding rude.

You see Rockledge is small town and

poor Mary means well but she tends to

be a little chatty. It’s best we leave her

out of our business.”

Eric glanced across the room

and watched Mary go politely about her

work as if nothing had happened. “But

what’s the harm?” Eric asked. “We’re

talking about a guy who sold ice cream.”

Frank cast a glance towards the

kitchen and then locked his steel gray

eyes on Eric. “Let’s just say, Filbert was-

n’t your typical clown.”

Eric let the words sink in as he

searched for a sign that the old man

might be slightly out of his mind. He

found none. Everything from the old

man’s wiry eyebrows to the patch of

missed whiskers on his neck suggested

that Eric should gather his blueprints and

leave, but he couldn’t. It was the un-

clouded, steadiness in Frank’s eyes that

kept Eric hanging on to hear more.

“Okay,” Eric said as he

watched Frank look again around the

coffee shop to see if anyone was listen-

ing. He wasn’t sure how Frank’s story

would end but he wanted to hear more.

“So, what was so astounding about this

clown?”

Frank set his half-empty cup on

the table and pushed it away again. “Not

in here.” He nodded toward the window

and the park across from the shop. “Let’s

go for a walk.”

Eric laid a few bills on the table

for Mary and followed the old man out

of the diner. After a short walk, they

found a park bench with it’s back to a

stand of trees and shrubs. Frank reached

into his pocket, pulled out a small burlap

sack, and sat down beside Eric. Eric

watched curiously as Frank reached into

the bag with his long, weathered fingers

and retrieved a pinch of birdseed, which

he flicked onto the ground.

“You have to understand,”

Frank began. “This town was in a bad

way when Filbert came along. It didn’t

matter that no one had seen or heard of

him before. When Folks heard Filbert’s

music children and adults alike would

come clamoring to his van for a cold

treat.”

Eric pushed his fingers through

his hair, pausing to scratch a spot on the

back of his head. “I don’t know, Frank. I

can’t say I see anything wrong with

that.”

Frank reached in his little bag

and looked at Eric. “Neither did most

folks ‘round here.”

Eric shook his head and

laughed. “You make it sound like he was

poisoning them or something.”

Frank tossed another pinch of

seed at the gathering birds. “No, he was-

n’t poisoning them, that would have

been too kind.”

Eric’s jaw went slack in disbe-

lief but Frank continued before he could

8

say anything. “See, folks couldn’t get

enough of that clown’s ice cream.

They’d gather on the street corners

whenever they heard his music and some

wouldn’t wait. Those that could walked

from one block to the next to meet him

as he approached.”

Eric shook his head. “Sounds to

me like he was serving some damn good

ice cream, wouldn’t you say?”

Frank raised his eyebrows and

glanced at Eric. “I questioned it too and

do you want know what folks said?”

“What?” Eric asked.

Frank’s eyes followed the brick

path to where it bent out of sight. “It was

to die for.”

Eric shook his head in disbelief.

He knew the old man was exaggerating,

but he couldn’t help but wonder what

made Filbert’s ice cream so good. “I

don’t suppose you know what his secret

was, do you?”

“Secret?” Frank spat. There was

no damn secret. He was controlling the

minds of everyone in town. All folks

talked or cared about was, when they’d

see him next. He had them so enthralled

it barely made news when the Armstrong

boys went missing.”

Eric leveled Frank with a flat

stare. “You don’t mean to say…..”

“Well,” Frank said as he tossed

another pinch of seed, “You wouldn’t

think so, but I did find it suspicious

when federal authorities weren’t called

in to find those boys.”

Eric looked up from the gather-

ing pigeons. “The local authorities knew

about it, didn’t they?”

“Oh sure. I was standing there

by the fountain.” Frank pointed toward

the double-tiered structure in the middle

of the park. “I heard the boys’ parents

and the sheriff talking about it over a cup

of ice cream.”

“So your saying the boys was

never found?”

“I’m saying no one ever looked

them or the ten others that went missing

that summer.”

“What!” Eric said as he turned

on the bench to face Frank. “You’ve got

to be kidding me! Twelve people vanish

and nothing was ever found?”

“Thirteen to be exact.” Frank

corrected. “The Taylor's red-haired boy

was the last one.”

Eric stared at Frank for a long

moment, and then laughed. He laughed

so hard he slapped his knee and had to

wipe a tear from his eye. He nodded.

“Thirteen missing people? Wow! That’s

good, Frank. You really had me going

there for a minute.” Eric stood up and

reached out to shake Frank’s hand. “I

really appreciate your taking the time.

You tell a very convincing story.”

Frank nodded. “I can’t say I

blame you for not believing me. Your

reaction is about like everyone else’s

when the Taylor boy came back from the

Johnson place with a wild story like he

did. You want to know what the boy

said?”

Eric smiled, closed his eyes and

shook his head as he sat back down. On

the inside Eric was kicking himself for

not walking back to his truck, but at this

point it didn’t matter if the story only

existed in Frank’s head. It was too good

to miss the ending. “Okay,” Eric said

with a deep sigh. “What did he say?”

Frank turned his burlap bag

over, shook out the remaining bits of

seed and dust, and then stuffed it back in

his pocket. “Bobby was really shook up

the day he came barreling into the coffee

shop. He was panting so hard he could

barely catch his breath, but all that was-

n’t near as strange as the wide-eyed look

of sheer terror written across his face. By

the time he was calm enough to speak

the whole coffee shop had filled with

folks eager to find out what had him so

frazzled. When they heard him describe

how he saw Filbert burning clothes,

shoes and handfuls of human hair you

could have heard a pin drop.”

Eric felt a ball of spit rise up in

his throat, and he had to swallow hard to

speak. “Human hair?”

“The boy said he saw Filbert

throwing handfuls of hair onto a bon-

fire.” Frank looked at Eric. “Some was

blonde and some was brown but he was

quite sure the hair was human.”

Eric sat quietly, and then asked,

“So … what did the sheriff do?”

“Same as you did.” Frank said.

“He laughed. He laughed harder than

anyone, and then he sent the Taylor kid

home to his father with a stern warning

about making false accusations.”

“He didn’t even check it out?”

Frank shook his head. “And it

wasn’t long after that the Taylor boy

went missing too.”

Eric thought for a moment, and

the longer he thought about all Frank had

9

said, the angrier he became. “This isn’t

funny, Frank.”

Frank shook his head. “I didn’t

think it was funny either. That’s why a

couple of fellas and I decided to go out

to the Johnson place to have a look for

ourselves. You want to know what we

saw?”

Eric wasn’t sure if he did or not

but gave in to his morbid curiosity.

“Fine. What did you see?”

Frank crossed his feet and

leaned back on the bench. “I’m not sure

how much thought Filbert put into

choosing where to set up camp, but he

couldn’t have picked a better spot. The

Johnson place was an old dairy farm

with two towering silos and a large, rus-

tic barn. About fifty years ago the John-

son’s used their creamery to provide

Rockledge and surrounding towns with

all sorts of dairy products, including ice

cream.”

The possibility of the existence

of an abandoned creamery piqued Eric’s

curiosity. “I don’t mean to interrupt.”

Eric said. “But what happened to the

Johnsons?”

“No one knows.” Frank said.

“One day they just left. A man from out

of town set up an auction and sold the

livestock and farm equipment. After that

the house was boarded up and since then

only kids looking to fish the pond in the

old pasture go out there.”

“That was until Filbert showed

up.” Eric said.

Frank’s gray eyes turned to

Eric, and then drifted back to his shoes.

“That’s right. So anyway, Gene and I

rode out there with Bill Taylor. Aside

from me, they were the only other peo-

ple in town not enchanted by Filbert’s

ice cream. We almost missed the place

because of the underbrush and if it had-

n’t been for the Johnson’s enormous

cedar mailbox, we probably would have

driven past. As soon as we turned onto

the driveway we could see where a vehi-

cle had recently pushed its way through

the outstretched limbs along the drive-

way.”

“Let me ask you this.” Eric

interrupted. “If the whole town was con-

sumed with Filbert’s ice cream, why

weren’t the three of you?”

“Well, for one, I can’t eat ice

cream.” Frank said as he lightly patted

his stomach. “And Gene, well he had

hated clowns ever since a circus incident

when he was a kid.”

Eric rolled his eyes and half

smiled. “And what about Bill? Was he

lactose intolerant, too?”

“No,” Frank answered. “Bill

weighed close to three-hundred-pounds,

and was living by the grace of God. His

doctor gave to him if he wanted to see

forty he had to stay away from things

like ice cream.”

“Ah, I see.” Eric said as he nod-

ded in mock belief. “And what about the

house? Why didn’t anyone want to buy

it?”

“I suppose someone would

have,” Frank answered with a slight

shrug. “If anyone were interested in see-

ing it sold. But, like I said, the only thing

on anyone’s mind was …”

“Ice cream. Yes, I think I‘m

beginning to see a trend.” Eric finished

sarcastically.

Frank spat. “If you’ve heard

enough, just say so.”

The story had traveled well

beyond Eric’s capacity to believe, but he

also wanted to know more about the

dairy farm. He laughed apologetically.

“Wait. I’m sorry Frank. It’s just … your

story. Please continue.”

Frank looked at Eric with some

apprehension but then let his gaze drift

to a place just beyond his shoes.

“Alright. Let’s see, so we pressed on

until the Johnson house came into view.

Its windows and doors were boarded up

but we could see a thin column of smoke

rising from somewhere out back. The

barn came into view as we passed the

corner of the house, and there along side

one of the silos was Filbert’s van.”

“My boy was right.” Bill said.

“That clown’s been up to no good.”

Gene scratched his beard and

looked up at the smoke. “Yep, and by

the look of it I’d say he’s somewhere

nearby. What say you, boys?”

Bill reached behind the seat of

the truck.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Getting my shotgun.” Bill an-

swered.

I watched him load one barrel,

and then the other. “Listen, I understand

you’re upset about your boy, but I think

it’s important that the clown is still

breathing when we take him in.”

Bill snapped the barrels closed

and looked me dead in the eye. “Don’t

worry, I want him alive, too, but if that

10

clown even blinks the wrong way, I’m

going to blow his head clean off.”

“I say we split up,” Gene sug-

gested, “and give a holler if you see

him.”

“Sounds good,” I said. “Bill,

you check the ice cream truck. Gene,

why don’t you check inside the barn

while go around the outside.”

Crows lined the edge of the

barn's roof above a pig enclosure cawed

and flapped their wings angrily as I ap-

proached. Below them were eight black

pigs, all squealing and grunting as they

dug and fought for a turn at the trough. I

climbed up, stepping on the bottom

fence rail for a better look at what they

were feasting on. It was hard to see past

their shouldering bodies, but I did see

glimpses of what appeared to be a white

gelatinous mass covered in flies, and

maggots. A breeze carried the smell of

decaying flesh from the trough and

drove me from the fence.

Frank paused and looked at

Eric. “I must have heard Gene scream

about the same time that Bill did, be-

cause we both burst into the barn at the

same time to find Gene staring with

wide, frozen eyes toward the rafters.

Beams of light filtered down from a

plastic covered window to cut the dim-

ness inside the barn and shine upon

Gene’s stricken face. His mouth was

open in a frozen scream and when I

looked to the rafters I saw the horror that

gripped him. Hanging from steel cables,

on metal crosses, were three complete

skeletons. A swarm of flies and other

flying insects were fleeting from one to

the other, eating away at small bits of

meat still clinging to the bones.

I looked away and blocked

Gene’s view of carnage taking place

above us. In my next breath I asked Bill,

who had also turned away, “Did you find

anything in the van?”

Bill’s face had turned almost as

pale as Gene’s as he held out a pickle jar

full of a white powder.

“What’s that?” I asked.

Bill spoke over his shoulder.

“I’m not sure. I thought it was drugs or

something but it tastes sort of like pow-

ered sugar. What do you suppose he

…..?”

I watched Bill's gaze rise to

something above and behind me. I

turned around expecting to see another

skeleton but saw large steel drum stand-

ing next to a raised wooden platform.

The drum had to have been 10 feet tall

and was setting on a foundation of cinder

blocks, over several rows of lit burners;

steam rising above it.

Bill swallowed so hard that I

heard him, and then he asked, “What do

you suppose he’s got in there?”

My eyes darted from the burn-

ers to a set of wooden stairs rising up to

the platform above the drum. My lips

were suddenly very dry. “There’s no

telling.” I looked at Gene. “How ‘bout it

Gene? You feel like going up and having

a look with me?”

Gene grimaced and vomited on

the dirt floor.

Bill stayed below with Gene as

I climbed the wooden steps to the top of

the platform and looked down into the

drum. The smell coming from the bub-

bling liquid reminded me of when my

mother used to boil the meat off a

chicken. A layer of thick froth prevented

me from seeing anything inside, but I did

notice a cable running along pulleys

from the rafters into the soupy mix. I

followed the cable to a hand-operated-

winch, mounted on the platform.

“What do you see?” Bill asked.

“I'm not sure. Hang on, I think I

found something.” I grabbed the handle,

removed the safety, and started winding

the cable onto the winch. The cable

wound easily at first, but then gradually

became harder to wind. The platform

creaked and the cable popped like a gui-

tar string as it wound through the pul-

leys. I had to turn my back to the drum

and use both hands but was able to keep

it going. I heard the sound of water

splashing back into the drum but stop

winding until I heard Bill’s mournful

wail.

“No!” I heard Bill cry. “Please

God, no!”

As soon as I turned around my

heart stopped, and a cold sickness crept

up from my bowels. The air rushed out

of my lungs, preventing me from

screaming as I backed away and almost

fell off the platform. Hanging from an

iron cross, three feet away from me, was

the freshly boiled remains of Bobby

Taylor.

His hair and clothing had been

removed and his body wire-tied to the

cross. The boiling water had bleached

his skin white and caused his flesh to

swell to an almost transparent state, re-

11

vealing a pattern of his blue veins be-

neath. His milky eyes bulged in their

sockets, threatening to dislodge them-

selves from the boy’s skull. The muscles

in his legs and arms had shrunk as they

cooked, snapping his tendons and tearing

the cartilage from his wrists and ankles,

exposing the white bone beneath.

Bill dropped the jar of powder,

fell to his knees and vomited.

I kicked the winch desperately,

breaking the catch and watched as

Bobby’s body splashed back into the

drum.

Suddenly Gene cried out cried

out in pain. “Frank!” He gasped as he

clutched both hands to his chest.

I rushed down to Gene’s side

and called for Bill’s help but he was

looking up into the rafters lost eyes mut-

tering something about his son being

gone. “Bill!” I yelled. “You have to get

Gene to a hospital!”

Bill stopped and his eyes slowly

came down to meet mine. “What about

you, Frank? He’s still out there.”

“Leave me the shotgun,” I said.

“I’ll deal with the clown.”

I helped Bill get Gene into his

truck and took the shotgun. After they

left, I went back to the barn and cau-

tiously looked for Filbert. My heart

pounded in my chest and a nervous

sweat ran in small rivulets down my

brow and cheeks. With his van parked

beside the barn, and a body boiling in the

drum, I knew that he couldn’t be too far

away. I went back to the broken jar of

powder, dipped my finger in the soft

white substance and tasted it. Bill was

right. It tasted almost like sugar, but it

had the consistency of flour. I heard a

creak from the other end of the barn and

raised the business end of the shotgun.

Walking carefully down to a

door near where the skeletons were

hanging from the rafters, I slowly made

my way inside. It might have been a tack

room at one point but now it was being

used for something else. Filbert wasn’t

there. Instead, I found an electric grind-

ing machine and mixer plugged into a

bright orange extension cord. Both were

covered in the same powder that Bill had

found in Filbert’s van. I was about to

leave when I noticed a bucket on the

counter near the mouth of the grinder. It

didn’t quite register at first what I was

seeing, but then, to my horror, it became

perfectly clear. The bucket was full of

human bones.

I turned away from the grinder

to catch my breath when I noticed the

large bags of powdered sugar on the

floor next to the mixer. On a shelf was a

row of jars, just like the one Bill

dropped.

It suddenly seemed very hot in

the little room. I gathered myself up and

backed out into the open air of the barn

only to be startled by a loud, metallic,

clanking noise. I spun around with the

shotgun ready to fire only to find empty

air. The noise was coming from another

room off the other side of the barn.

I wiped the sweat from my

palms and swallowed hard as I tightened

my grip on the shotgun and started

across the barn. The noise grew louder

the closer I got to the doorway. I peeked

around the corner cautiously, and

through the dust-silted air saw a stainless

steel machine with small brass gate on

the front. There was no sign of Filbert

but I knew the machine hadn’t started

itself. Light from outside was filtering in

from beyond the machine, shining be-

tween the cracks of another door. I

crouched and quickly crossed the room

to the side of the machine while keeping

an eye on the door.

A long tail of white creamy ice

cream had started coming from the open

gate on the front of the machine and was

reaching for the mouth of a shinny dairy

pail sitting on the ground. Then I noticed

another dairy pail on the other side of the

first. It was half-full of a milky cream,

and had a long wire whisk in it. An open

jar of the white powder was sitting there

too. I closed my eyes at thought of all

the people who lined up to eat Filbert’s

ice cream.

I stepped from behind the ma-

chine and turned towards the door when

I froze in my tracks. The shotgun trem-

bled in my hands as I looked across the

room into the painted face of Filbert the

clown.

I was caught off guard, but

then, so was he. His make up did little to

hide the fear in his eyes. I broke out of

my paralysis and aimed the shotgun at

Filbert’s chest. The metallic click when I

drew both hammers back echoed across

the room and triggered Filbert’s move.

He lunged to his right and hit a light

switch, blanketing me in darkness. The

sudden change from light to dark left me

temporarily blinded. All I could see was

12

a bluish outline of the clown. He moved

again before my eyes could adjust,

knocking over a stack of empty dairy

pails on his way out the door. I was

blinded again, this time by the bright

light flooding in from outside. I didn’t

wait this time and ran after him, tripping

on the strewn pails.

Pain, fear and anger coursed my

body as I picked myself up off the

ground. I saw a flash of Bobby Taylor’s

face the day he came into the coffee

shop gasping for breath, looking for

help. I kicked the pails out of the way

and took after Filbert. I made it out of

the barn in time to catch a blurry glimpse

of the fleeing clown disappear through

the back door of the farmhouse. I ran

after him.

I shoved my way through the

back door with the shotgun ready to fire

at the first thing that moved, but found

myself in an empty kitchen. I could hear

Filbert cussing and screaming as he

stomped across the floor above me.

“Filbert!” I yelled. “You come

down here with your hands empty or I’ll

shoot you dead.”

The stomping stopped, but I

could still hear the ceiling creak as he

took a few steps across the floor in the

room above me.

“Who’s down there?” He

yelled.

His voice sounded familiar but I

couldn’t put a finger on it. “That doesn’t

matter.” I yelled back, nervously. For all

I knew he might have a shotgun too. “I

know what you’ve been doing and it all

ends today, one way or another. Now

you can come down here peaceful like

or…”

The sharp crack of a pistol

made my heart leap into my throat and I

felt the wood floor near my feet vibrate

as if it had been pounded with a hammer.

An insane laughter filtered

down from the room above me. “You

saw the boy, didn’t you?” He laughed

but his laughter quickly turned into a

menacing threat. “There’s room for you

in there, too.”

I fired a thunderous blast

through the ceiling, initiating a rain of

plaster and bits of wood.

“That’s one,” Filbert taunted.

He fired another shot through the ceiling

from the room above, knocking a can of

kerosene to the floor. “Oh, and in case

you didn’t know, that means you only

have one shot left.” He laughed. “You

hear me? That’s one shot between you

and a hot dip.”

He was right. Bill had all of the

shotgun shells with him and Filbert had a

pistol. I had to assume he had at least

four more shots left, if not more. I took a

step toward the door, but stopped when I

heard the wet sound my boots made on

the floor. I was standing in a puddle of

kerosene and there were a dozen more of

the gallon-sized cans on the kitchen

counter. I remembered the fire burning

under the steel drum and grabbed one of

the cans of kerosene and removed the

cap. Moving quickly, I tipped the can

and made a wet trail through the down

stairs of the house.

“What are you doing down

there?” Filbert chided.

I made it quietly back to the

kitchen and turned two more cans over

on their side, draining their contents

across the floor. “You’re about to find

out.” I answered. It took a minute but my

hunch paid off, and I located a box of

matches in one of the kitchen drawers

next to a stash of candles.

I heard a creak from the stairs

in the hall off the kitchen and then I

heard Filbert’s gravely voice. “Have you

considered leaving? Think about it, no

one would have to get shot,” he cackled,

“or cooked.”

I stood near the back door and

dropped a lit match to the kerosene

soaked floor. A blue flame sprang to life

and I watched it run a trail out of the

kitchen. “You know something Filbert.”

I called. “You’re at least half right. I’ll

be outside.”

Frank paused from his story

telling. A satisfied smile spread across

his face. Eric’s expression was a mix of

horror and disbelief. Frank continued.

“I heard Filbert beat against the

stout timbers across the windows and

doors, and I heard him curse and scream,

but I never saw him step a foot outside

that house.”

“So you killed him?” Eric said.

“Don’t know.” Frank Shrugged.

“When the fires died out, the ashes were

searched but a body was never found.”

Eric leaned back on the bench

and looked at Frank. “Nothing?”

Frank shook his head. “Nope.

Not a thing.”

“Was there an investigation?”

“No,” Frank said. “You could

13

ask around but folks will just shrug their

shoulders, or smile and nod, but nobody

will talk about Filbert. It’s almost like

the whole town is waiting to hear it

again.”

“Hear what?” Eric asked.

“The music.” Frank said. “It’s

like they’re waiting to hear Filbert com-

ing through the neighborhood.”

“Wait.” Eric interrupted. “If all

this is supposed to be true, where’s Bill

and Gene?”

Frank sighed and shook his

head. “Gene was right about his heart.

He never made it back to town. And Bill

… well he didn’t take the death of his

son too well. A week later he put his

shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trig-

ger.”

Eric stared at the brick path in

front of the bench and sighed. “Come on

Frank. Tell me this is just some twisted

fantasy you cooked up.”

Frank shook his head. “I wish I

could.”

Eric turned on the bench to face

Frank. “So the Johnson place…it’s

real?”

“It’s a mile or two out of town.”

Frank answered.

Eric searched Frank’s face,

looking for something to suggest that he

was making the whole thing up, but he

found only stern sincerity. If the cream-

ery was still intact, he might be able to

reopen it. “Fine,” Eric said. “Let’s go. I

want to see it.”

Frank laughed. “Why? Don’t

you believe me?”

“You’ve just told me the most

horrific story I’ve ever heard. I just want

to see something to back it up.”

Frank nodded. “Okay. I’ll take

you, if that’s what you want, but it won’t

make you sleep any better at night.”

True to Frank’s word, it didn’t

take long to get there. Frank slowed the

truck as cedar mailbox came into view.

“Steady yourself.” Frank said. “It gets

bumpy from here on in.”

To Eric’s delight the broken

foundation and jagged timbers that re-

mained of the farmhouse loomed into

view, silhouetted in the afternoon sun.

The barn and the silos looked just as

Frank had described them, adding an

element of truth to Franks story. All the

talk of murder and cannibalistic recipes

seemed horrifyingly real as Eric looked

around. Frank pulled to a stop in front of

the barn doors. Eric was out even before

had a chance to put the truck in park.

“Well, here you are.” Frank

came around the front of the truck. “You

seen enough or do you want to have a

look inside?”

Eric smiled and cast a sideways

glance at Frank. “Why, are there skele-

tons still hanging from the rafters?” Eric

joked.

Frank pushed the barn doors

apart. “No, those were taken down along

time ago and, before you ask, the drum

is empty too.” Frank stepped aside and

said, “See for yourself.”

When the barn doors opened

Eric saw an ice cream truck decorated

with a large picture of a clown’s smiling

face. “Oh my God! That’s it.” He

glanced at Frank who returned his enthu-

siasm with nod and urged him inside.

Eric was amazed at how clean the van

was as he trailed his fingertips down the

side. “My God, I can’t believe this.”

“Is this proof enough?” Frank

asked.

“Sure.” Eric peeked inside the

van’s service window. “I guess I figured

that it would be rusting away. It’s so

clean like its ready to …”

Eric turned to see Frank point-

ing a pistol at him.

Frank clicked the hammer back

on the pistol with his thumb and mo-

tioned for Eric to step away. “I’d say

you’ve seen enough.”

“What the hell are you doing,

Frank?”

Frank smiled and glanced at the

picture of the clown. “I used to love the

circus and all those crazy clowns.” He

chuckled. “Oh how they could get the

crowd stirred up.” Frank turned the pis-

tol to its side, admiring it, and then he

shook his head. “When the mining

money dried up, things got real tight,

hell, it got to where I could barely afford

to eat. So, I came back to this godfor-

saken little town to my parent’s farm and

tried my hand at selling ice cream the

way they had done. To make a long story

short, I didn’t do so well and I was about

to give up when I remembered the

strange man from who worked the farm

when I was a kid. I had caught him steal-

ing one day and in exchange for my si-

lence, taught me to work a magic that

would give me control over any mind.”

Frank laughed at the horror on

Eric’s face.

14

“He said the secret was in the bones.” Frank continued. “He told me a story from when he was a boy about how his family

raised goats back on the islands and how they used the goat’s bones to make a spell. The spell gave them power to control the goats,

to keep them from wandering off. The trick he said was that the bones had to be from of the same species of animal you wanted to

control.”

Eric took a step toward the barn doors, but Frank moved into his way, threatening him with the pistol. “The first bones I

ground into powder were my brother’s. He died at a young age and was buried in on the farm. So, I dug him up and made a powder

from his bones and mixed it with the cream.”

Eric sank to his knees in sheer terror as Frank aimed the pistol at his forehead.

“The result of course has been most beneficial.”

“Jesus, Frank.” Eric said pleaded. “You’re a murderer. You’re Filbert the Clown.”

Frank lowered the pistol, “And you know what the best part is? Nobody really seems to mind. I mean really, who doesn’t

love a clown?”

Tears began to glisten in Eric’s eyes as he looked from the smiling face on the side of the van and Frank. “Please tell me

this is some kind of really sick joke.”

“I wish I could.” Frank said as he aimed the pistol back at Eric’s head.

Eric’s body began to shake uncontrollably. “I’ve got a wife and little boy.”

Frank smiled. “Don’t worry about them. Tomorrow I’ll be back to making my rounds and one of my first stops will be in

front of your house.” Frank laughed. “In a couple days they’ll never even know you were gone.”

The end

15

What is

Cold Coffee?Cold Coffee?Cold Coffee?Cold Coffee?

Cold Coffee began as an attempt to offer writers a more interactive writing community. I was tired of bland post-and-read websites. CC was going to be warm, inviting and comfortable. I wanted it to feel more like a home than a website.

The name Cold Coffee was derived from good conversations, warm chats between good friends where the coffee goes cold before it’s ever finished. Communication was key to creating the environment I was looking for. Members had to be able to commu-nicate in real time. CC members enjoy two chat rooms, one that is exclusive to CC members and another that is shared with other writer communities.

Aside from the warm colors and intimacy, members also enjoy the same aspects they liked in other writing communities. They can post work not only in blogs or on dis-cussion boards but also in groups dedicated to specific types of writing.

CC is inviting not only to the up and coming writer but also the more polished one. Writers who have books and want a community that provides them with a place to display their art enjoy the Cold Coffee Bookstore - a free boutique where members can upload their book cover, blurbs and links to where their book can be purchased.

In an effort to offer the promising voices in the community a better opportunity to improve their craft, CC offers workshops hosted by seasoned writers who want to help. An exclusive Events feature allows these workshops and meet-ups to be an-nounced and/or scheduled.

Of course if you’re reading this, there is a good chance you’re reading it in CC’s exclusive voice, Cold Coffee Magazine. Members of the CC community take pride in knowing they have a publication that caters only to them. In each issue, CCM publishes the best of the best that the CC community has to offer in poetry, short stories, novel and articles for writers.

If you’re looking for a warm, interactive writing community that offers the same amenities other websites do, then Cold Coffee might be your home away from home. The cost of membership is free; the friendships are priceless. What’s in your cup?

www.coldcoffee.ning.com

David Price

16

Interview with Novelist Mari Sloan

The Cold Coffee Community is home to a large and growing number of writers. It is also home to Cold Coffee Magazine, which serves to represent the best of these writ-ers by publishing their work. The writers who’ve found and walked the path to suc-cess have a story to tell, a story that might help up and coming writers find similar rewards. This issue of CCM shines its spotlight on Mari Sloan writer of “Beaufort Falls,” a para-normal thriller about a mother who returns from beyond the grave to protect her chil-dren. Mari’s book has been sold in Barnes & Noble stores, and is available to be or-dered from any store, or online. She also contributes helpful articles for CCM, and in this interview she will share with readers some of the steps and events that led to her writing success.

CCM: Thank you for joining us, Mari. We’ve talked on many occasions and in the past you’ve helped me with my writing. Now I get the opportunity to deliver your wisdom to our community. Thank you. Mari: Thank you, David, for interviewing me and letting me share my story with other writers. One of the best things that happened to me since becoming an author has been meeting and mingling with a lot of very bright new talent. The world of writing is expanding and it’s more fun than ever to be a writer. CCM: Writers face many challenges. Life, family, day jobs, all inhibit our ability to write. What was your big-gest challenge in writing “Beaufort Falls”? Mari: Previous to “Beaufort Falls,” I’d written short stories and a lot of very bad poetry. I wondered whether I’d be able to sustain the energy to finish something novel length and there were stops and starts. A total of three years went by before I finished the first draft. If it hadn’t been for a writer’s E-mail group I was a part of, I doubt that I would have finished it. CCM: I read your book, not just because I know you, but also because I’ve always loved a good ghost story with Southern roots, in fact, I wrote a ghost story based in Louisiana. Having grown up in the South made writ-ing a Southern based novel easier for me, but I still had to invest a lot of time to research. How much time did you invest in researching your book? Mari: Very little, actually. I grew up in Atlanta, Georgia and in several small towns in southern and middle Georgia, then I lived for three years in Tuscaloosa, Alabama, so I knew small towns and I knew the area that I used for my imaginary town. I had to check dates on a couple of things, but other than that, “Beaufort Falls” is totally fiction. CCM: I think most writers have a personal connection to their writing, something they pull out of their heart files and use to template their stories. Was their anything from your life that went into “Beaufort Falls” and if so how did it help make your story better? Mari: My grandmother was my mentor and my inspiration. She grew up inside of the Atlanta City Jail; called “The Tower.” She was known as, “the little girl in the jail.” Her mother was the first Women’s Matron for the

17

state of Georgia, and her Dad was the engineer in the jail, and kept everything running. Together, they lived in an apartment on the third floor of the prison. My Grandmother had to go through three sets of iron doors to get out to go to school every day.

She became friends with many of the prisoners, who were deeply superstitious and all believed strongly in ghosts. She quickly learned that people were not always like they at first appeared. She also learned how to tell fortunes by cards, and had prophetic dreams that were never wrong. There were times she was reportedly seen in places while she was home asleep in her bed. This was my background and is why I have an interest in people, particularly unusual people. CCM: Many writers I’ve spoke to think the best practice to doing rewrites is to shove the rough draft into a desk drawer and leave it for a month or two before editing. What is your formula for rewrite success? Mari: Not me! I rewrite constantly. I work myself into writing mode by correcting the chapter I’ve just written. It’s a constant, ongoing thing, never finished until it sees print. Fortunately My Sweet Man, my husband, lets me read to him no matter what else he is doing. I have trouble writing at all when he isn’t home. He’s a wonderfully, patient, man. He always says, “That’s great!” unless I’ve really missed the boat somewhere and confused him. CCM: I’ve written stories simply because I had an idea and needed to get it on paper, never really intending to publish. How did the writing of “Beaufort Falls” begin and was it a story you always meant to publish? Mari: I didn’t really think I would publish it. In fact, for a long time I didn’t think much of it until I sent it to a friend to look at, (she later became my editor), and she wrote me back excited, telling me that it was “really good!” I began querying then, and she soon began doing free-lance editing for a small publisher and recom-mended “Beaufort Falls” to them. Unfortunately, we were both fooled and after a twenty-two day print run with that horrible small press, I did the dance of joy when they let me go and I regained my rights to my book. CCM: All of my writing endeavors including this magazine and the community it represents are something I do in my spare time. I imagine there are many writers, me included, who would love to write and do things with writ-ing for a living. How big a role does writing play in your life and is it your main source of income? Mari: It’s not an income yet, in fact, we only recently crossed the hurdle where we’d sold more books than we’d given away! I consider it a hobby at this point that sometimes pays for itself. When I say “we” I mean my hus-band and myself. He is not just a support but he’s an active partner in everything except the actual writing of the book. CCM: Writing a good query letter can be almost as challenging as writing the story. Sometimes you have to write your query specifically for the kind of agent you’re hoping will accept your manuscript. When you set out to become published did you have to send out queries and if so what worked for you in writing them? Mari: I sent out queries until I got my ill-fated contract. I used several writers’ guides and I sent to publishing houses and got a number of rejections, nice ones, form letters, the usual mix. CCM: Part of the challenge in writing and sending queries is accepting letters of rejection. What part of becom-ing published did you find the most challenging and how did you overcome those obstacles? Mari: The toughest part of being published is the marketing. When we were with the small press, they never intended to make the book returnable, intending to sell to the “friends and family” market and let it drop. I kept insisting that it be “returnable” so that I could market to bookstores, until I was more trouble than I was worth. I’d sold around 135 copies the first twenty-two days, and the publisher thought that was about all she could expect, so she let me go. Hooray! My husband and I redid the book from cover to cover (PLUS the cover) and published it ourselves as “It’s ME! Ink Press. We’ve sold plenty more, and replaced every one of the “ugly blue books” we could round up—for free.

18

CCM: I’ve been to your website and saw the photo of you sitting on a bench in front a bookstore window dis-playing your book, a great end to a long road, one I dare say we all hope to experience. Now that you’ve tasted the sweet wine of success, what’s next? Is there a sequel in the works? Do you have one of those cher-ished two or three book deals? What does the future hold for Mari Sloan? Mari: That was a very proud moment, that book signing, but it’s barely the beginning. That Barnes & Noble stocked my book for a year, even though it returned books usually after the first six weeks. There are lots of markets and it’s up to you to make sure it gets out there, and that includes the Internet! You have to schedule panels, book signings, appear at libraries, and JOIN book clubs. Make sure you are a part of at least one ma-jor organization that is geared toward books of your genre.

Sisters in Crime/LA was VERY helpful to me and I was able to sell and sign at the Los Angeles Times Fes-tival of Books for the last three years in their booth. Also Gayle Bartos-Pool, who runs their Speaker’s Panel, made sure I got made a part of many local panels and Rose Ann Savo, Co-coordinator for the Arts in Ventura County, California, kept inviting me to her groups. Now I’m learning the ins and outs of having a presence online. You can’t do it alone. In answer to the second part of your question, yes, there is a sequel to “Beaufort Falls “ that is now half finished. Molly grows into a difficult teen-ager who decides to make her fortune by taking the little pink trailer cross country to Beverly Hills, where she plans to sell it and make her fortune. I also have begun a serious fiction novel that is based in Chicago during the end of the Civil Rights Movement and THIS book is going to teach me how to research! CCM: In closing I like to give our featured writer a chance to share with others some parting words of wisdom, something that you feel will help guide other writers on their path to realizing their dreams. In a sentence what would like to say to your fellow writers? Mari: JOIN a group that can help you with advice, information, and inspiration with writing in your favorite genre. Once you are part of a group, you are no longer alone. Cold Coffee Magazine would like to thank Mari for taking the time to give us some helpful insights on the world of writing. Be sure to order a copy of Mari’s book, “Beaufort Falls” at a book store near you or online, at all of the usual places.

Interview by David Price.

19

originate from scenarios and ideas in his dreams. When asked, Boris says,

“Writing for me is a

spiritual activity of the

highest degree. Writing gives me the conduit to a world that is unreachable

by any other means, a world that is populated by

Eternal Truths, Ineffable Questions and Infinite Beauty. It is my hope that

these stories of mine will allow the reader to also

catch a glimpse of this universe.” His stories, poems and non

-fiction articles have been published in various online and print publications, and have been featured on na-tional radio and other radio programs. In 2008 his short story “The Clear-ness and the Impene-

trability” was nominated for the prestigious Push-cart Prize. Boris is also a recognized philosopher of a spiritual community. Many of his articles have received world premiere, being read in public programs in front of hundreds of people. He is well versed in the fields of maths and physics and has developed many theories, results and dis-coveries in both fields as well as in other areas of science. Boris’s life-long ambition is to become a child prodigy and then humbly aim to change the very fabric of space-time itself.

Meet Boris Glikman, writer, poet and philoso-pher from Melbourne, Aus-tralia.

Boris has two de-grees, Bachelor of Arts (majoring in Philosophy and Linguistics) and Bachelor of Science (majoring in Mathematics and Physics). After com-pleting his degrees, Boris decided to pursue a career in writing. His biggest writing influences are Kafka and Bores. Boris claims that dreams are an important source of crea-tive inspiration for him and that many of his stories

Featured Writer

Boris Glikman

20

My companions and I realise sud-denly that we are actually in the world of the dead. We walk towards an open-air market that has many different stalls and see a newspaper head-line about a boy from Titanic tell-ing his story of what it was like to go under. This newspaper also features letters from road-kill ani-mals relating their experiences of the last moments of life and the first moments of death. I go to the CD stall first. It is sell-ing music that musicians have composed since their deaths. I am particularly excited about find-ing John Lennon's and Jimi Hendrix's new post-death al-bums. I also purchase Beetho-ven's 11th and 12th symphonies, Haydn's 200th Symphony and the completed version of Mozart's Requiem. Poor Mozart never did finish it during his lifetime, but thankfully in this dead world he has had plenty of time to work on it. Next to the CD stall is a bookstall. I browse through books that tell of the experiences of dead people, how they met their end, what their deaths felt like and what exis-tence has been like for them since then. Those who are concerned that death would bring an end to their personal hatreds and conflicts can be reassured that in this world they will be able to resume with renewed energy and the kind benefit of limitless time all of their

old animosities and feuds. Indeed, many wars that those in the living world think have ended with signed peace treaties are still raging in full force and with un-abated ferocity and rage in this world, with slain soldiers picking up their weapons and resuming their formations. The Hundred-Year War has now become the Six Hundred-Year War and First and Second World Wars have amalgamated into one conflict, with Kaiser Wilhelm II and Hitler assuming joint direction of the German armed forces and the Allies being commanded by leaders from both the First and Second World Wars. Japan is in a deep conundrum, not knowing which side to take, having fought for the Allies in the First World War and for the Axis in the Sec-ond World War. There is a whole paranormal sec-tion devoted to such esoteric, mystical subjects as Near Life Experiences (NLE) and making contact with the living world, which here has the appellation of "The Impenetrability" due to its characteristic feature of being composed of dense substance and because of its cryptic nature. As the properties of the dead world are directly opposite to that of "The Impenetrability", its deni-zens call it "The Clear World" or "The Clearness" and refer to themselves as the clear beings. I pick up a book that addresses

the NLE phenomenon. It de-scribes how during NLE there is the sensation of drifting through a tunnel, away from a dazzlingly bright, warmly comforting light towards darkness and of accom-panying feelings of great agita-tion, anxiety and confusion. Consequently people in The Clear World dread the NLE and do all they can to avoid exposing themselves to circumstances that could make them leave The Clearness and return to the world of The Impenetrability. Indeed so great and all-pervading is the fear of the NLE in the Clear World, that it is considered to be an imperative civic duty on the part of any citizen of this world to help those beings who are under-going or are in danger of under-going the NLE. All citizens are required to learn to recognise the symptoms and signs of NLE, and to know the First Aid procedures for preventing a clear being from returning back to The Impenetra-bility. Sometimes overenthusiastic citi-zens take the symptoms of NLE too literally and one sees a per-son, his loud protests ignored, being dragged out by his legs from a tunnel just in case that un-fortunate fellow could be experi-encing the NLE. Another book deals with the soci-ety structure and daily existence of the Clear Beings. It turns out that the epitaph "R.I.P." that the grieving relatives affix to the

THE CLEARNESS AND THE IMPENETRABILITY

21

tombstone could not be more misjudged and incongruous, for a person's existence only really be-gins when they die and become a Clear Being. No, there is no time in The Clearness to read a book, let alone rest in peace, so rich and vibrant is life in this world. Possessing an unlimited life span, the clear beings are free from the many life-sapping inse-curities and anxieties that stem from the ever-present threat of death and that plague the people in The Impenetrability. The only fear that blights the joyous exis-tence of the clear beings is the possibility of returning to the land of the living. Consequently, in the wars that still rage in The Clear-ness the objective is to make the enemy alive again. And so we have this paradoxical situation in which the impenetra-ble beings are tormented by the fact that their lives have to end in death and the clear beings are tormented by the fact that they might possibly become alive again. As with all human communities The Clear World has its hierar-chy. One often sees a particular citizen surrounded by hysterical groups, which vary in size from just one or two to hundreds and thousands, showering flowers on that citizen and begging to be set any task so that they can experi-ence the ecstasy of fulfilling the desire of their idols. A particularly curious sight is of certain beings that have no devo-tional groups accompanying them and yet they still throw flowers on themselves as they make their way along the street. I was mystified as to how these particular citizens gained such

fame, devotion and fanatical fol-lowing, why they were always followed by the same unchanging group of devotees and why some groups were quite small while others consisted of hundreds upon hundreds of followers. At first, I was of the opinion that these beings made an excep-tional contribution to the welfare and happiness of humanity back in The Impenetrability and that their devotees consisted of all those people whose lives were saved or improved by their work. My reasoning, however, was woefully off target. Given that the overriding and most powerful factor that ani-mates the existence of the clear beings is their fear and hatred of the Impenetrability, the citizens who are the object of such fanati-cal celebration are those that back in The Impenetrability were called murderers and their devo-tional group consists of all their victims. The murderers of young impene-trable beings are held in an espe-cially high regard for having given a child a way to partake in the glory of the existence in the Clear World. A uniquely intimate and extremely loving relationship exists between the killer and his every victim. The victim is forever in debt and devoted for all eternity to his killer for having had the courage and wisdom to overcome the ridicu-lously misguided taboo against murder that exists in The Impene-trability and enabling the victim to escape the dreary clutches of the living world. As suicide victims are their own murderers, they throw flowers on themselves as they walk, making

certain that others know that they too possessed the bravery and intelligence to escape the living world. Young clear beings, in particular, love their killers with the intensity that never even existed between them and their parents back in The Impenetrable World. Some-times their unflagging devotion and endless expressions of grati-tude wears out even the most patient of killers. There are also books speculating about the possibility that people exist in the world of Impenetrabil-ity before they are actually clear, a world wildly different from The Clearness. According to these books, in The Impenetrability all people come into existence at the same age and form, namely at the age of zero in the form of a tiny, helpless being. The inhabitants of The Im-penetrability are apparently all composed of solid, crudely wrought material that deteriorates over time. Their bodies, this book claims, are incapable of such simple actions as penetrating physical objects, making them-selves invisible to sight and over-coming the tyrannies of gravity and time to move freely in all the four dimensions. The purported existence of The Impenetrability is a hotly disputed subject in The Clear World and is the cause of an ancient and deep rift in its population, contributing directly to major conflicts and ca-tastrophes throughout its history. For The Believers the existence of Impenetrability is a fundamen-tal and crucial plank in the foun-dation of their world-view and is of inestimable significance to their spiritual and emotional wellbeing.

22

The Believers are of the firm opinion that human beings un-dergo a period of growth and de-velopment in The Impenetrability that prepares them for their real existence in The Clear World. Our characters and our destinies in The Clearness, according to their sacred tomes, are shaped and determined by our experi-ences and our lives in The Im-penetrability. The Unbelievers reject any claim of person's existence prior to The Clearness. They cling strongly to the view that it is beyond the scope of human knowledge and reason to comprehend what oc-curs prior to a person coming into being in The Clear World and therefore all such discussions are just empty words. According to their creed, the clear beings come to exist in The Clear World already possessing, ready-made, all of their attributes, abilities and imperfections and that the destiny of a clear being is of his making only. A favourite way of passing the time for The Unbelievers is to mock mercilessly, to the point of tears, The Believers for their blind, unquestioning faith in some imaginary world, asking them to point to where they think this world is situated. Partly as a way of countering these attacks upon what they hold most dear, a sizeable pro-portion of the Believers has formed a splinter movement that goes by the name of The Believ-ing Believers. For this schismatic group the act of believing has become more important than the issue of what it is that they actually believe in, namely the existence of The Im-penetrability. In effect, belief has

disassociated itself from what it was based upon in the first place, and it is this pure mental state of faith, in and of itself, that has now become an object of veneration and a source of spiritual and emotional nourishment. Indeed a vast majority of The Be-lieving Believers no longer re-member what it is that they be-lieve in, only knowing that it is their faith that distinguishes them from The Unbelievers and gives them the identity and the security that they so cherish. Recently, there have been unmis-takable signs of rising levels of tension and antagonism between The Believers and The Believing Believers, with The Believing Be-lievers accusing The Believers of undermining the whole move-ment. The Believing Believers are of the opinion that by obstinately holding on to the belief in some conjectural world of The Impene-trability, The Believers infect their sublimely pure faith with an im-perfect and uncertain element as well as making themselves vul-nerable to the attacks from the Unbelievers. Those who have studied the past events of this world and are now studying the present state of af-fairs are predicting that in the fu-ture eras, there will be cataclys-mic conflicts the likes of which this place has never seen. These conflicts will no longer be between The Unbelievers and The Believers, but rather between The Believers and The Believing Believers, given how vociferous and zealous The Believing Be-lievers are in proclaiming that their faith should not be sullied with any alien ingredients and how ignorant they are of where their faith came from in the first

place. Another splinter group that has garnered wide recognition is the Clear-Again Believers. This movement puts great stress on the significance of the Near Life Experience that I have mentioned previously. The rising popularity of this movement is a clear indi-cation of the extent to which the phenomenon of NLE has im-pressed itself upon the Collective Consciousness of the populace of this world. A key feature of the Clear-Again movement is the initiation rite that is centred upon the re-enactment of NLE, of experiencing the dread that it provokes and the feelings of relief and ecstasy that arise in one after escaping its clutches and becoming clear again. Hence the name of this group, which, incidentally, in our old parlance would be known as the dead-again movement. To make the NLE re-enactment as close as possible to the real thing, very narrow, dead-end tun-nels are constructed, with bright, shiny lights being put up at their entry points. The Going In part of the rite is conducted in absolute silence and consists of crawling through the tunnel and never looking back. The director of the cere-mony decides when they have gone far enough, and proven their courage of staring The Im-penetrability in the face. In the Coming Out part of the ceremony, the director com-mands a member to pull the crawler out by his legs and this is accompanied by shouts of great jubilation coming from the partici-pants surrounding the tunnel. The new member has officially be-

23

come clear again and now can bear the title of a Clear-Again Be-liever. This simulated acting-out of the near-life experience is considered by some rather reckless mem-bers of the movement to be but a mere shadow of the real deal. They flaunt their bravura and dar-ing by deliberately subjecting themselves to situations that they know will bring them close to the edge of life. These foolhardy clear beings then take great pride in describ-ing in detail their exploits, of how they feel their bodies acquiring a solid and unwieldy form, of sens-ing some intractable, unyielding power emanating from the ground and cancelling out their free movement capabilities, and of the astonishingly intense feelings of impending doom. I tire of reading all this esoteric stuff and continue my promenade through the market. There are flower stalls selling wilted flowers, fruit stalls selling dried up, rotten fruit but otherwise everything is exactly the same as in the living world. All of a sudden, an astonishing insight strikes me. I clearly see a way to resolve the endless con-flicts between the factions and make this world one again. It now becomes my duty and my mis-sion to spread my revolutionary, world-changing solution to the whole population of The Clear-ness. I gather around me my first group of disciples and impart to them my Two Worlds Are One Gospel: " Given that there are no differ-ences between the dead world and the living world, except in the

names that we designate them by, how can we prove that this is not the real living world after all? Given that we cannot even re-member any differences between this world and the real world, how can we then tell that the real world even existed in the first place?" I employ a mathematical argu-ment to embed my solution in a firm, scientific soil. "Suppose there exist two worlds, the real world and the dead world. Designate the real world by X and the dead world by -X. But on the other hand the 2 worlds are identical and therefore it must be that: X = -X. Solving this equation we find that X = 0, and if X is zero then so is -X. So we get this absurd result that neither world exists. It then fol-lows that our initial assumptions were incorrect and that there can only be one world. We can call it either the living world or the dead world. It is just a name and it makes no difference in the end."

24

REVELATA SUBTERRANEA One day, my friends and I descended into the sewers underneath the metropolis and discovered the most unusual eel-like creatures lounging indolently on the concrete banks of the sub-terranean river. There they were,

lying close to the river's edge, only deigning to bestir, dip their heads languidly into the passing current, when a particularly choice morsel of human waste floated by. Their appearance overpowered me with its repulsiveness.

"How could Evolution ever come up with such a horrible abomination?" I remember wondering to myself. "How could Nature ever allow such a glaring insult against Her-self to arise and flourish, such a travesty, such a betrayal, such a perversion of the very natural order?"

I WROTE THE STORY OF MY LIFE BUT NEVER ONCE DID I STOP TO READ IT

I wrote the story of my life but never once did I stop to read it.

Words, plots, characters gushed out of me, yet never once did I take the time to see

If the words were apt, if the plot had inner consistency, if the characters were realistic and likeable.

Not once did I peruse the footnotes and attempt to research further the story I was writing.

Not once did I check for for the minor spelling and grammar errors nor contemplated whether indeed the whole construction of my work-in-progress was fundamentally flawed from the very first word on the very

first page.

Never once did I pay heed to the better advice of my elders, to keep a constant tone to my novel, to not por-tray realism as fantasy, to not turn tragedy into comedy.

But recklessly I mixed passages of horror with passages of humour, blended magic realism with surrealism

and clumsily juxtaposed soaring poetry with indifferent pedestrianism.

Not once did I look back to see if my story made any sense, leaving it instead to others to try and make sense of the story of my life.

And so preoccupied was I with the writing of this book that I forgot all about existence and my life instead

became this book itself.

And now as I come to the final page, I think to myself:

Is there still time enough to begin the book anew?

25

Yet when I looked closer at these anathemas, a most astounding feature revealed itself to me. Somehow, through some playful whim of the Goddess who directs and oversees the evolutionary proc-ess, these overgrown worms developed human faces. Nay, not just human faces, but visages of angelic beauty such that no earthly woman would ever dare to possess, lest the Gods became spiteful and jealous. This discovery was so unex-pected, the radiance of their mien so in-tense, I stood transfixed, unable to take my gaze even for an instant away from these heavenly crea-tures. Their eyes looked at me

with all the cognition of a person. Their facial expressions were those of kindness, serenity, wisdom. There were two over to the left, holding their heads close to one another, gazing deeply, just like two lov-ers, into each other's eyes. Suddenly I felt an odd sort of compassion for them.

Cold Coffee acknowl-edges the talent of great writers in its community by show-casing their work and Boris Glikman is one of those talents. Cold Coffee would like to publicly express its gratitude for Boris’s amazing contribution, not just to this maga-zine but also to the Cold Coffee Writing Community. Thank you.

26

Cold Coffee

Cold CoffeeCold CoffeeCold CoffeeCold Coffee

Cold Coffee pours

like drops of rain

on a warm summer’s day,

as words gather,

floating along pages,

sharing secrets that paint

images of brilliancy across

the emotional spectrum.

Each drop dances

to a freefall,

glides downward,

warmed by a sun

behind a cloud of thoughts

that await to shake,

rattle and roll in each mind

that willfully accepts the pen

that writes horizontally

on the canvas.

In the moonlight,

it forms a tear,

glistening in the hearts and souls

from still images transposed

by uttering words of magic

that awakens the passions

that sizzles in the night’s air.

Each day,

after the watersheds,

the soil unearths,

another writer is born,

and with it a new message,

feeling, and love that crosses into…

The Cold Coffee Zone.

----Ralph PiccoloRalph PiccoloRalph PiccoloRalph Piccolo

Betrayal: A TankaBetrayal: A TankaBetrayal: A TankaBetrayal: A Tanka I stopped, you walked by.

Your scent captured my dark soul;

Left me here to die.

Betrayed by my love for you,

Leaving me without a clue.

----Mary SweeneyMary SweeneyMary SweeneyMary Sweeney

Editors Choice

P o e t r y

Green MoonGreen MoonGreen MoonGreen Moon

An opaque moon grew transparent in

light

My memory recalls that dreadful night

Creatures most foul, too hideous to

view

their icy presence chilled red blood to

blue.

The thread of evermore folklore fore-

told

of restless spirits so deadly and bold

and vampire's hunger for taste of blood

as zombies rose from dark graves of

deep mud.

Werewolves howling a dark haunting

night threat,

your soul quivers to a deathly cold

sweat.

These unspeakable things roamed

about night.

Specters cast dark shadows of fearful

fright.

The moon shone eerie green, I shan’t

forget.

The memory remains, lingering yet.

----Fran MarieFran MarieFran MarieFran Marie

27

Ray of Light

The rapping of change beckons the door to my soul

carrying a sickle of unrequited notions to swallow

a blackbird of destiny caws in the barren background;

a song of loss chills my broken-spine mentality.

You were my gift,

salvation wrapped perfection;

the light piercing darkness…

Many suns have buried themselves in the moon’s glow.

Opaque stars laugh from above at fools who lay waiting.

Falling tears provide life to the weeping willow shelter

while silence remains the only constant sound of night.

I remember fireflies

and the scent of earth,

its solemn grass cradling me…

Blistered bloody feet walk the same path aimlessly,

hope being their only recourse to find a destination.

A secret wish buried deep within the heart’s silly song.

Prayers heard by benevolent beings ignored by circumstance…

All that remains is the wind,

blowing disappointment coldly.

A reminder of your absence…

Gently golden hairs brush my rosy tear burnt cheeks,

almost as if giving a tender loving kiss goodbye.

A sentiment left behind the chaos of life’s bidding,

the only memory that will leave my heart stained.

The candle that burns brightly

is the one who fades first,

though it’s brilliance unrivaled…

My sweetest lover drowned in a heart kept caged,

never to be seen again in the light of endearment.

Held deep inside of hushed passions yearning whisper,

lost forever in the sadness of knowing defeat…

Day breaks in its new agenda,

forgotten is my face.

These words, just black ink

bleeding through the pages

of what once was light that pierced my darkness…

----Shannon MorrowShannon MorrowShannon MorrowShannon Morrow

So Simple

When we met,

I questioned your taste

and you replied tacitly

with something close to

‘simplicity’;

yet you failed to appreciate

Simpletons,

for intelligence and simplicity

was your style.

My courage was the bond

binding us to our small adventure

as my bold smile and wild hair

brought you to another angle

of your logical life.

Throughout our excursion

I tried to prove I wasn’t

simple-minded,

but you failed to figure it out

until the last minute

before the end.

My attempts to show the

simplicity of laughter

and light, swirling kisses,

along with jokes that made

doves croon beneath

a deep blue sky

amidst streaks of gold

that drew you in…

but only for a moment of time.

For then you saw through

my blunt simplicity of words

and simplicity of expression

resulting from the envious

nature of my slightly dangerous

affection,

which ruined simplicity’s

beautiful definition.

Yet I am glad

that before you left,

I had the courage to tell you

that I enjoyed

the simplicity of it all,

the simplicity of our time,

like two carefree birds

breaking free from the sorrows

of their nests.

-Veeraya (Mint) Leevongcharoen

28

Meaning in the Moon

Restless wandering specter stalking slow about the room,

the ghost of Dylan Thomas round the old White Horse Saloon

Searching for a whisky glass, an ashtray or a broom

to sweep up broken bits of April scattered round in June.

How the smoky blues fulfill the places where we yearn.

The empty, sad and fractured spaces longing to return.

Can we place a sweet embrace like ash into an urn

or trust youth’s fiery passion once the memory is burned?

Sweat on asphalt steaming, people screaming for more room

for souls to grow and fools to know the meaning in the moon

and not the words of two young lovers singing different tunes

when laughter born just yesterday fades away too soon.

Are the craters simply Braille for angels who are blind

Wandering round the galaxy not knowing what they’ll find?

Or maybe they are roadmaps to a place we’re coming soon

while searching for a whisky glass, an ashtray or a broom

Pour the empty, dusty glass all full with shades of blue.

Kick the broken, lonely pieces of April round the room,

sweep the floors, lock the doors and light a cigarette.

Liquor, darkness and sad music mix well with regret.

All the simple answers to hard questions I have learned

are simply foolish notions foolish people have discerned.

The truth is settled to the complex corners of this room

searching for a whisky glass, an ashtray or a broom.

----Fabian G. FranklinFabian G. FranklinFabian G. FranklinFabian G. Franklin

The PatternThe PatternThe PatternThe Pattern

A pattern forms inside my mind,

I see it everywhere.

It haunts me as a ghost might.

This pattern is a riddle, a mystery,

the enigma of a life filled with secrets

captured forever inside a tortured brain

walking that fine line

between the sun and the moon,

always helping the stranger

yet hurting those that get too close.

The pattern, I am so near now.

It stalks me like a jungle cat,

so quietly that when I turn it is gone,

nevertheless I feel it's breath

as if it's a living creature

not a pattern of shapes and colors.

Is it a mathematical secret,

the formula that will solve this final mystery?

Perhaps it is proof of God's existence

or the gateway to hell's mouth.

If I could bring it to life,

would the world die

or could we all transform

into butterflies?

Will the blood stop flowing from my hands?

Can my sins be forgiven, forgotten?

The pattern will answer me soon.

Will I turn out beautiful, ugly,

evil, good or some shade of gray?

Can it make the pain stop

or give me a belief in love again?

I can see your thoughts,

even at times, the future.

Mine is just a colored pattern.

Have I lost my humanity,

like a song taken from me,

will my words even matter?

I would give you anything

but I would take everything.

The pattern tells me this:

We can never touch for you would burn.

I am as the comet streaking though the sky.

To share a piece of myself

would demean us both.

The pattern repeats again.

Your day is my night and yet I see.

Is there anyone to understand my call,

to reach out in the night,

not in fear, but willing to seek answers?

The pattern is there, waiting.

Who solves it decides the fate of us all.

----KismetBTRKismetBTRKismetBTRKismetBTR

29

Coffee Flavored LipsCoffee Flavored LipsCoffee Flavored LipsCoffee Flavored Lips Your coffee-flavored lips so warm

A singular smile that melts my

storm.

A stroke as soft as chamomile

within your touch, I deeply feel

a treasured life for us to share,

meadowed wilds without a care.

Dancing in the garden lane

and Spanish omelets in the rain.

Laughing in our happy place,

days of loving, days of grace.

Our reflections now we see

I for you, and you for me.

Your coffee-flavored lips so warm,

come smile and melt my steely

storm…

----Craig FromanCraig FromanCraig FromanCraig Froman

The Dark

As evening comes in, creatures of the night now rise.

On the wings of the wind, small preys send out helpless cries.

Sleek black bats, prepare for their nightly flight.

Long, dark shadows, take the last of daylight.

Night begins to settle, evil is on the roam.

Worshippers of the dark chant prayers from old tomes.

Silent, wicked, and cunning, the dark one comes.

Drawn in by their offering, and beating of drums.

Chanting, and dancing around the sacrificial fire,

They pay reverent homage to the king of liars.

The sacrifice begins, the innocent is brought forth.

Looking to the sky, the evil arrives from the North.

Tied by her limbs, they hoist her high in the air.

Place her over the flames, she is stripped and laid bare.

Their sacrifice complete, they pray the dark one is pleased.

Watching and waiting, they can only hope he’s appeased.

Their lives he does own, the ancestor’s debt must be paid.

Locked into this evil, forever bound by mistakes made.

They gather together, offering gifts to the king.

If the dark one is calmed, a good harvest it brings.

All through the night their evil rituals go on,

serving and worshipping, straight through to the dawn.

The night has now faded. The birds awaken and sing.

The tribes are all sleeping, dreaming dreams of dark things.

----Ria AdamsRia AdamsRia AdamsRia Adams

A Solid Gold SoulA Solid Gold SoulA Solid Gold SoulA Solid Gold Soul

Her spirit tends to wander

for it hates to be bothered.

Her spirit tends to hide

as it flies through the night;

free adolescent soul

wandering somewhere cold

and soaring into hope.

Paint me a picture with words

of a beautiful girl

ith a solid gold soul.

Sing me a beautiful harmony

of nothing but every perfect note.

Still, it wont be good enough

to sing or show

to the girl that taught me all:

My beautiful mom.

----Jaymee MorrowJaymee MorrowJaymee MorrowJaymee Morrow

Come SisterCome SisterCome SisterCome Sister

Come Sister, Come take my hand.

We'll run through the meadows

like we did when we were children,

chasing butterflies and clouds and wind.

Come Sister, Come put flowers in my hair

and I will put them in yours,

while we whisper in each other's ear

our secrets and wishes and dreams.

Come Sister, Come race me to the river.

We will make mud pies along the shore,

wading along the cool shallow water

studying pebbles and minnows and tadpoles.

Come Sister, Come now, the sun is getting low;

the light is fleeting and night is almost here.

I long to have a glimpse of our childhood

and have that innocence again before I go.

----Jill RicciJill RicciJill RicciJill Ricci

30

I Am Famous

I walked down University Ave, before it was the valley of silicone..past the tangent and poppycock...looking for St Michaels

den...where kids from distant states carefully picked over goodwill clothes to attain that "I don't give a shit what I look

like...look."

I passed by the cellar when Ginsberg was there, but was on my way to score...more. I knew Ferlingetti when he worked for

Macy's as Santa Claus...he wore camouflage...

Kerouac was a pimp of the pavement...an open boxcar door calls to some like a street corner whore, both demand a price...

I am famous.

I smoked a joint with Ginsberg's boy of the week. I panicked. I was sure he slipped me a Mickey. I bolted from the room,

checking to see if my underwear was turned backwards.

I am famous.

I touched Janice Joplin before she died in the early morning hours... trampled to death by a white horse... that I rode, too.

I lived in the house of the merry pranksters...my house mentioned in Ken Kesey's cool aid acid test.

I am famous.

I invented the smoke filled balloon...I walked the be-ins with balloons filled with the smoke of wowie maui and panama red,

giving shotguns to friends of the earth. The crowd cheered as I released them, when the cops neared...

I invented the string tacked to the ceiling with a clip at the end...no more did the circle have to be unbroken...just swing it

across the room.

I am famous for scarring unsuspecting faces, who were not expecting a joint from across the room...and sparks exploded

I am famous.

For coming close to a near life experience...

it opened my eyes...I saw the dark in a different light.

I once took acid and spent all night in a closet...curled up...curled up...curled up...

A turtle on the shelf above me was my friend

I am famous.

I made the front page during an all out riot...the city burned on the Westside...where all the long haired hippies took to the

street...it burned on the Eastside... where dark skinned warriors sent us smoke signals... this war was indeed televised.

The front page picture showed me shirtless...in the background a street lined with hundreds of helmeted police...teargas

drifted in the air.

I am famous.

I was the symbol of anti war...I was crossing the street looking to score. I didn't give a fuck about peace and war.

I am famous.

I know where the key to the under ground is hidden, where the lost poets keep all their secrets stashed in cardboard boxcars,

but I cannot tell...

I am famous.

----Ray “Rain” NeighborRay “Rain” NeighborRay “Rain” NeighborRay “Rain” Neighbor

31

Hope Immortal

Hope...

leaps in the womb of the broken and oppressed

driving endurance to exceed even its’ own limitations.

Tucked...

into back pockets of little boys

when people were colored

butterflies still had wings

and metamorphosized into greatness.

Burned…

into the backs

hands

and feet

of those…

who walked

because their soul

was not for sale.

Scribed...

on the tongues

of Griots

and Elders

when ink could shed blood.

Hieroglyphically recorded...

in stone walls

built to protect

not prohibit.

Hope...

once rode the tip of a warriors spear

remaining in his footsteps

trailblazing glory…he would not live to receive.

Songs sung...

in many tongues

of genesis

exile

and renaissance.

Rising...

in unlikely places

on the petals of urban crocus,

close calls,

history

and miracles.

Trapped...

in under layers of concrete,

crushed by the rubble

of weakness and fear;

dogma and excuse

stereotyped.

Cashed in

and Sold-Out

for the appearance ...of arrival

without venturing the journey.

Sprawled...

across the horizon

like tagging project walls

in the heat of city summers

with toxic misplaced pride.

Rebellion

sterilizing dreams,

vacuuming crumbs of

destiny and excellence.

Auto-genocide...

extinction,

death by friendly fire;

comrades have morphed into enemies.

Hope...

rises boldly on prayers of the faithful,

that the fight

will not die off

and victims

will become

Victors

that generations might seek the face of God.

-Jennifer HamptonJennifer HamptonJennifer HamptonJennifer Hampton

32

Capturing the MomentCapturing the MomentCapturing the MomentCapturing the Moment

To feel the subtle waves

of cushions of softness,

reaching from waters,

and tranquility motions,

rushing sounds

sends quivers up and down

the spine.

The cool refreshing scent

as it touches one skin,

inhaling as if a bouquet of red roses,

lifting the spirit on a overcast day.

To see the warming light

shine from the eyes that shares

hopes and dreams

as if singing to the soul

like a choir enchanting notes

that wake the glory of God

from a gentle rest.

The wraps of love

brings forth a glow,

a honor that one can only share

if heartbeats,

shake the very ground

that life treads on…

pure, loving and graceful…

----Ralph PiccoloRalph PiccoloRalph PiccoloRalph Piccolo

We've Been RookedWe've Been RookedWe've Been RookedWe've Been Rooked

I'll be your king,

you my queen

and we'll have the bishop marry us to our misjudgment.

We'll spend lustful knights fencing beneath sheets,

pawn our hearts for the gold of sweating skin,

slip across a bed board

and crash into a head board when it's all over.

Check love at the door,

call Alice and get another fix.

You and I are no more than a "trick"

up the sleeve of a blind streetwalker,

an immodest jaywalker,

a naked gun, smoking after an expired

stalemate.

Checkmate,

game over.

Put away our crowns, like sick love toys,

the charade is over, our kingdom found out

as fraud.

We're just masochistic chess players

postponing the inevitable,

taking way too long to make a real move.

-Jacob ErinJacob ErinJacob ErinJacob Erin----CilbertoCilbertoCilbertoCilberto

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Buckle Up Emmie Buckle Up Emmie Buckle Up Emmie Buckle Up Emmie

I plan to rise above the other teens...

show the world that I'm worthy enough.

Show the world that I'm Emmie...

Somewhere up in the sunshine,

is my future.

It's as fragile as a snow globe

and

I've put enough cracks in it.

If I continue to beat myself up,

it'll be gone.

I'll have no future.

Somewhere up in the sky,

is my meaning to life

but

I'm too young to know what life means.

With time will come my newfound discov-

ery.

Away with the wind,

are all my insecurities.

I don't want them back.

They’re the winds to keep.

I'm standing proud,

on the mountainside,

staring at the sun,

the sky,

the rainbow...

and hearing the wind...

I think to myself,

"It's gonna be a long road",

but I like road trips.

So, buckle up Emmie....

----EmmieEmmieEmmieEmmie

Favorite ColoursFavorite ColoursFavorite ColoursFavorite Colours

My favorite color is black

swam thru blues just to get back

thought I'd return to bright yellows

instead it all seemed gray

though you alone were pink

which caused so much green

it led to black and blue

and so much flowing red

till I was turning blue

so now into the white

as my body slowly turns green,

a beautiful rainbow in darkened dreams.

----James BrowerJames BrowerJames BrowerJames Brower

The VoidThe VoidThe VoidThe Void

My muse’s silence

whispers mockery

across a gritted wind,

handing me nothing.

Anemic of word

pages blink back;

the ink’s flavor

only hints upon

their empty brightness.

Potentials held back

to beckon beyond,

edgy and blocked

in hopes they won’t fade

from the endless wait

or a final retreat

through the blinded space

that spills fast behind,

free of replacements.

-Rachel BrowerRachel BrowerRachel BrowerRachel Brower

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I Never Tasted Champagne I Never Tasted Champagne I Never Tasted Champagne I Never Tasted Champagne

I never tasted Champagne.

No, I have never tasted Champagne,

never wore garters or lace.

No satin sheets, not for me.

No diamond rings or other fancy things,

but I have tasted love.

To my lips, it was bittersweet.

The pavement hit me like concrete.

I fell and collided into hell,

where the flames are eternal;

melted into his arms, like an inferno,

where the flames were so hot

like fire melting ice.

I paid the price

I came through lukewarm

like the calm after a storm.

No, I never tasted Champagne,

never wore garters or lace.

No satin sheets, not for me

but I have tasted love,

so bittersweet

like fire melting ice.

I paid the price

From the frying pan into the fire

I fell into his arms with a burning desire

as fire melts ice.

I paid the price

Nearly cost me my life,

being his wife.

----Debileah A.k.a. Deborah Lea KrempaDebileah A.k.a. Deborah Lea KrempaDebileah A.k.a. Deborah Lea KrempaDebileah A.k.a. Deborah Lea Krempa

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GriefGriefGriefGrief

I need strength!

Frightening visions are engulfing my senses.

A friend is lost.

Memories are painful and tears flow too easily, blurring a summer's day.

Will I meet old souls again when I return?

Will their eyes give me comfort and reassure me that life is indeed eternal, infinite, a lesson, a test!

Laughing at fate is not so easy when the heart beats out of time.

Pointless days lay apathetic hands upon my face.

Sleep is minimal.

Countless, numbing hours: The clock ticks and destroys another second. I lose all concept of time.

Shades of gray have embraced shades of red.

This infertile heart has become sterile.

Life has taken away the moon and her lunacy.

Vengeance has devoured security.

There has been an eclipse of the soul.

I float adrift.

-Poppysilver

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The old adage, “You can’t get published without an agent, and you can’t get an agent without being published,” isn’t true – but it isn’t far from it. Many of the big publishers won’t even look at anything that isn’t handed to them by an agent. With some of them, it’s impossible to even find contact information for the budding author. Contrari-wise, most agents won’t look at anyone who isn’t published. But there are some good publishing houses out there that DO accept unagented submis-

sions. The trick to these is that, unless you know somebody, your submis-sion goes into a “slush pile” and will remain there for some time. Slush pile submissions are read in the order received, so your baby will be there for how-ever long it takes for the company’s readers to dig down to it. So be prepared to be patient.

How do you find these publishers that don’t re-quire an agent? The best way is to get a copy of the Writer’s Market. This is a

book that is published an-nually, and which lists all possible markets for writ-ers, from magazines to book publishers. It will tell you the name of the pub-lisher, type of submission, what is expected to be in-cluded (e.g. query letter), what format in which to submit the manuscript, the address (snailmail or email) to use for submis-sion, and so forth. It will also note which publishers require agented submis-sion and which do not.

It is difficult – in fact, next

You Can’t Get Published Without An Agent, Right? Wrong!

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to impossible – for a new author to obtain an agent, so for the time, don’t even bother with the publishers that require agents. Look through the Market for publishers in your genre, that accept unagented, un-solicited submissions, and compile a list. Then check this against the Preditors and Editors website. (The appropriate pages are http://anotherealm.com/prededitors/peba.htm for book publishers, and http://anotherealm.com/prededitors/pema.htm for magazine publishers.) Preditors and Editors keeps up with the publish-ing industry and is a very good version of the Better Business Bureau for new writers. You can find out if the house with whom you’re considering submis-sion is legitimate, fair, and aboveboard.

Once you’ve selected your first submission site, get together everything they want. If the submission is to be via email, your email is your query letter; the manuscript file should be in the format requested, usually .doc, .txt, or .rtf. If the submission is hard-copy, you should deter-mine if the publisher wants the entire manuscript or just the first 3 chapters.

Format the page appropri-ately, usually double-spaced, single-sided; mar-gin sizes may vary. Print out the submission, com-pose and print your query letter, and enclose the ubiquitous SASE – self-addressed stamped enve-lope. This should be large enough for the return of the manuscript.

Some sources recommend including a self-addressed stamped postcard for the publisher to return, ac-knowledging receipt. This is easy to get overlooked, however, and many don’t bother. My feeling is that it is not worth the time to worry with it.

If your chosen house is overseas, obviously a stamped envelope does no good – their postal system will not accept U.S. post-age. There is a work-around, however. It is called an International Re-ply Coupon, and it is ob-tainable from the U.S. Postal Service. You pur-chase the IRC at your local post office and include it in your package. Then, if necessary, the publisher redeems it at his or her lo-cal post office for airmail postage.

Now you include all of this material in a large manila

envelope, addressed to the appropriate person per the Writers’ Market (did you direct your query letter to that person? A bland “To Whom It May Concern” will not do here), and trundle it all down to your post of-fice and mail it.

And you sit back and wait.

Because unsolicited manu-scripts invariably land in something called the “slush pile.” This is a chronologically-ordered stack of manuscripts awaiting review. Readers and editors pull off the top manuscript and go through it to see if it is interesting, what their readers want, and appropriate to their house. Manuscripts are read in rough chronological order. You may or may not receive a processing num-ber attached to your manuscript for future cor-respondence. Do not ex-pect to hear back from the publisher for at least six months, sometimes a year; this is typically how long it takes to get through the backlog down to your manuscript. At the end of that time it is per-fectly acceptable to send a second query to the pub-lisher inquiring after the status of your manuscript; I have known authors’ manuscripts to fall through the cracks.

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Once your manuscript has been reviewed, it will ei-ther be accepted – in which case you will receive a contract offer – or re-jected, in which case it should be returned to you in your SASE, with a polite rejection slip. If you’re lucky, the slip will be an actual letter detailing why they did not accept your submission. Count this as a plus, and use it to hone your writing. Then you get to start all over with the next publishing house in your list from Writers’ Mar-ket.

There are two ways to speed up the process somewhat. One is to use multiple submissions. This can be tricky, however. It is necessary to state IN EACH QUERY LETTER that you are submitting your story to multiple houses simultaneously, so that they know they are in competition and someone else may well snap up your story before they do. This lets them know also that they do not have exclusive selection on the story. Some houses do not care for this technique and will simply ignore the submis-sion; others will take it in stride. Either way, more eyes are looking at your manuscript in a given amount of time, so the

process is faster.

Do NOT send a single-house submission, decide they are taking too long, and send out multiple que-ries without first contact-ing the original house to determine your status. This is considered ex-tremely rude, especially if you have not allowed the first house at least six months’ leeway to get to your story. If you have al-lowed at least six months, have queried the original house, and notified them you intend to multiply sub-mit, THEN you may submit to more than one house.

Another way of speeding up the process is to culti-vate a friendship with an established writer. This writer can function as your mentor and your agent. He or she can review your work before submission and make any recommen-dations based on experi-ence that could improve your chances of accep-tance. Once you and he are both in agreement that it is ready, he can then submit it to his publisher(s). This often tends to by-pass the slush pile and go straight to a reader/reviewer. It doesn’t guar-antee acceptance, but it greatly increases the likeli-hood.

Believe me, from personal experience: A mentor helps. He or she should be someone already experi-enced in the business, and willing to take on a pro-tégé. HE is the “somebody you know,” your entrée into the business. He can act as your reviewer, your advisor, your agent, your friend, and your shoulder to cry on when an editor says your beloved baby is a pile of horse manure. (And yes, this does happen occasionally.)

Your mentor can point you in new directions, and tell you if and when someone is trying to take advantage of you. Sometimes he even becomes a co-author, and then it’s really fun.

And sooner or later, your story is accepted. You have a contract in hand. YAY! Go off and celebrate!

Because now the REAL work begins…

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B O O K S T O

R E

B O O K S T O

R E

B O O K S T O

R E

B O O K S T O

R E

B O O K S T O

R E

B O O K S T O

R E

B O O K S T O

R E

B O O K S T O

R E

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Of Aztecs and Conquistadors by Brian Porter -

From The Preditors & Editors Best Poet of the Year, 2008 Award Winner, Written by Juan Pablo Jalisco, the poetry within this vol-

ume is spell binding and captivating. His writing makes the reader yearn for Mexico.

Goodnight Robinson by Marla Fair -

Phoebe’s job as a historic interpreter does little to prepare her for an encounter with a ghostly inhabitant of the home where she

works. What will happen when she ends up in the past and must choose whether to let him live or die?

CHEYENNE WARRIOR by Michael B. Druxman -

This is the story of a forbidden relationship between a young preg-nant pioneer woman and a Cheyenne warrior chief wounded by

buffalo hunters. Kelly Preston and Pato Hoffmann starred in the 1994 movie.

The Coming Of The One by Donald Drake

This is the story of a young man who is coming to grips with being thrust upon the throne of his homeland when he meets strange

Druid.

Burnout: The mystery of Space Shuttle STS-281 by Stephanie Osborn

On Fictionwise's bestseller list, Burnout is a SF mystery about a

deliberate shuttle disaster. Crash Murphy & Mike Anders find a coverup, fleeing as friends & colleagues perish. Whodunit? How

big is the conspiracy? Will Crash & Mike live to find out?

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2012 Kin Bin Tin Nah by John Miller

The Mayan legend speaks of changing the world. A leader of a Psy-chic Circus, Calvin, sees strange events occurring. Can he race with

his group to help save the world in time? will this Mayan legend chose his fate for him?

Holy Hell by Michael Jodoin

While researching material for his final sermon assignment, Jack-son uncovers a horrifying truth about God and Lucifer. A truth that

if revealed could undermine the very foundations of Heaven and Hell.

Murderous Passions by B. R. Stateham A police-procedural featuring two homicide cops by the name of

Turner Hahn and Frank Morales.

Inside Realms by A. F. Stewart

Walk through places where magic and music intertwine, where King Arthur reigns, where ghosts, deities and vampires drift among us.

Eureka Point by Betty Ann Harris

A spellbinding romantic suspense thriller

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We at Cold Coffee would like to thank you for purchasing your copy of Cold Coffee Magazine. All proceeds from the purchase of this publication go to help the Cold Coffee Writers Community and the many promising writers that call it home.