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RHYSLING PORTFOLIO FOR LORI R. LOPEZ — 2020 Poems

Lori R. [email protected]@fairyflyentertainment.com

Thank you for reading and considering my verse!

Poems first published in 2020:

SHORT POEMS

the storm of NightBeyondDismalThe Miserableson the edge of nightFirebirdGraveyard HoursThe Twilight LadyBitter SweetShudderous QualmsAutumn’s DescentMud BabyOn Eternity’s BrinkThe Beast Who AbidesMarionette

the storm of Night

I am a monstrous gale that cleanses landA wildfire of air, scouring, devouring soil and seaWith wolfen howls, lashed by darkness toPurify the earth, wood, flesh; the rock and brushSweeping debris, dead leaves and riffraff fromThe surface of things

To collect in gullies and hollows, the bottom ofLakes and streams, ocean floors. Each gutter

Dredged by humankind running deep undergroundSapping the planet’s blood and soulDraining her lifeforce, harnessing her elementsStripping her bare

Leaving only plastic. Beads, rings, bottles, capsLittering any possible place, even theBellies of fish and whales. The lungs of everyLiving gasping creature polluted by smoke and otherNasty fumes, turning them toxic, cancerousInsanely unhealthy

I am the Nightwind, the breath of SleepThe negative speck between Dusk and DawnOnce I was the scent of EvenshadeThe gloaming’s magnificent starlight fallHear the crystalline drops splatterLike hard-edged rain

Tears of sorrow. For now I must be the voice ofCastigation, the cold-steel tongue of FurySpeaking myriad languages in wordless syllablesThat hurl emotions spear-like to every cornerOne long harsh scream to reach all that existAnd shake them

A wail of anguish so intense and immenselyDisturbing, it will wash away the pain and sufferingShatter the bonds of greed and evil that chokeOur matter to the core. I am the storm of NightAnd it is my solemn grievous duty to rescueRevive, restore the Day

Before all chance is lost.

37 linesThe Horror Zine Magazine Spring 2020 Print Edition, February 2020https://www.amazon.com/dp/0999402471/ref=sr_1_1The Horror Zine Magazine May 2020 Issue (online)

* * *

Beyond

What do you know of the places below,the crawlspaces and crevices wherein

cold nocturnals curl to sleep more,grrrrowling gently whilst they snore?

Between most strands of spidery thrall,so deep and syrupy, pooled ethereal,tucked in rows of viiiiiiiiiiiiinish decay,the Midnight Terrors wait to play . . .

In nether-reaches past a chasmous yawnwhere lies the opening cosmic eyeletof Sunset’s dawn; crouched nefariously fora tardy awakening furtive outpour.

From shadow and corner they’ll creep!Out of the depths in a Grand Mal Pageant,any manner of cretins prance and foray,festooned with moldy green and gray.

To the off-beat of the Moon’s tambourine,the howl of an angry Twilight Loon;peeping with a thousand-or-so-eyed stareat the skittish gait of a reluctant Night Mare.

Far past the fringes of Never More,beyond the borders of Nobody’s Land;on demonic feet wearing threadbare socks,these darlings of dusk sneak out of the box.

Teeming up cracks to greet Day’s demise,they stamp countless tracks like little lost sheep.Sprung from bed with the least of care,Evil Dreads feast on hearts and souls laid bare.

Rollicking madcaps they scurry, Devil-may-care,though not in a hurry the beasties of Noir.Capering, tapering, picking stout locks,these nasties are awfully unorthodox.

Then burrow again neath handcrafted quiltsas the Hourglass measures its up-and-down tilts . . .ere the Sun spoil their eldritch eeriest fun —all the leeriest conniptions they reap on the run.

Abiding beyond till the fireball succumbsin a gloaming sky from which shadiness comes,disrupting their slumber to maraud once again:

the darklings, the dingies, and their closest kin.

40 linesThe Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 49, Spring, March 2020http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/pdfs/SirensCallEZine_March2020.pdf

* * *

Dismal

Out of wet murk thick as black velvet oilSlides a hag, darker of heart than pitchSo morose in nature and substance is sheThat her name would make you itch

Ears may bleed at the awful soundAnd the rest of your life be accursedShe only appears on the deepest MidnightsWhen lights, even stars have all burst

And everything positive’s been upendedOr buried down a shallow unremarkable graveWhere it won’t be found till arrives the mourningTo salvage what shards can Dawn save

An abysmal and lachrymose state of affairsWhenever this crone should crack her eyesHow we shiver and moan on such terrible EvesYet most of our days could not realize

The true cause of our dreads, our unnamed fearsIn the hours when pulses throb or skipFor it’s such quiet turns of horrendous throesThat lead stable senses and minds to slip!

Her presence is nothing but a candle’s waxMelting away, then forming anewOn each dismal dusk that becomes too denseSure to bring havoc from a witch’s stew

You had best not resist . . . yield to the frightsOr suffer the damage of shudders and quakesLike a ship the commotion could break you apartA body can die in the thrall of her shakes.

28 lines

The Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 49, Spring, March 2020http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/pdfs/SirensCallEZine_March2020.pdf

* * *

The Miserables

They’re a clan devoid of couth or common traits,not to mention being especially bizarre.Their behavior is extravagantly peculiar,and a little bit essentially Bête Noire.

The Miserables are not the best of neighbors,for they haven’t learned the meaning of Polite —each morning making racket much too early,then arguing like mumps and grumps all night.

The world could not embrace so dismal natures,the lawlessness exuding from their cores,a morbid flair of undebonairy awfultry . . .’Tis ill-advised to let them lick your floors.

Never, in case you glance by chance upon them,for a glaringly rotten misbegotten curse,would the risk or need arise to raise your gazeand meet a sorrily-orbed stare in the reverse.

They might be Second Cousins of the Kraken,and twice removed from Sharks with arms and legs.The cretins waltz and minuet Piratically,balancing on sea-limbs and wood pegs.

Revolutionary, evolutionary, born of madness,they are not the nicest creeps to be around . . .The crumps and lumps are likeliest to send an invitefor a bite from which you’ll nevermore be found.


* * *

on the edge of night

Way out there on the fringes of the nightscape

where stirs the soup of grimmer-than-dark treacheriesthat skim the surface of bloodpuddles and woelie untold creepen morasses, the goop of unsettled dreamsbottomless bogs of sylvan fog, wretched surprises, of screeches that curdle the spine’s fluid to ghost-miststhat dance between Pines and a Willow’s Weeplike rivers of regretful undone endeavors that can neverbe retrieved or returned, from the depths of tribulation lodged in the bellies of dead Whales flopped on a beachlike the songs of Greek Tragedies and nautical tunescrooned by mariners at the foot of an ocean’s sleep

Out there turbulous entities scramble and scrawl underfeetunable to touch ground, floating in the netherpools ofspectacular eddies and oddities, for that is the zone ofNo Return, the edge of a twilight gloaming unawakening brinkwhere Day’s End shattered heavily to scattered bitsand who can tell where it terminates or beginswhere it drops off into a gulf of deplorable horrible mayhemthe dingiest fathoms that harbor unimaginable beastschildren of the Tide’s worst nightmares and lost screamssilent as the Universe without an atmospheric bubbleor breath of relief, without a coastline or limitsharp as a blade . . . it will make your skin bleed.


* * *

Firebird

I am soaked in death’s mildew,crawling, unable to stand,eyes and heart swollen by tears,limbs blackened with the decay of beinglost, forgotten, somewhere beneathwhere the voices of the damnedand the innocent mingle —and cannot be heard. Except by us.We listen to each other’s misery,the wailing of doomed tormented souls,arias of remorse and despair.A dark twisted poetry. Versesfrom the void. And it only adds

to our own personal suffering.A beak tears at my neck,searing flesh, its febrile bitehotter than the blazes of this landscape.Beyond lies an opposite horror,the cutting edges of frozen knifeblades.I have reached a threshold in mystruggle to escape, yet ice will neither dullnor extinguish the burn of this place.I could conjure a thousand worthless excusesfor being punished — no different thananyone else’s habit of self-defense or abuse.Guilt, like depression, can manifesttangible shapes, convincing forms thatmake us believe we are impaired, tainted,afflicted, our moral or physical or mentaldisease, condition, far worsethan in reality we are. Do not trust. Them.Shadow figures. Phantoms. Illusions.They are not actually there.Hallucinations.But I am afraid this bird of fire is nomere fiction. I fearthat I am truly in the Abyss —for no good reason!I fear the hellbird is me.

39 linesThe Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 50, Summer, June 2020http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/pdfs/SirensCallEZine_June2020.pdf

* * *

Graveyard Hours

A spook must flee the Sun’s rude shock!The crowing Rooster’s “Ode To Peacock”.Whether ruled by gears, a mechanical tock,Digital clickings of hands to mockThe passage of Time in ticks or Epoch;An endless flow round the chimes of a clock.In Graveyard Hours do revenants flock . . .

Ere the light reclaim their stagnant breath.

Bound by the iron of bars and gate —

A pen that is stifling however ornate —When left outside to perambulate —A soul may tread the earth too late —Drifting the gloom on a certain date —Alarming those who investigateIn a vain attempt to communicate —

Or scare the living half to death!

Chained to their motives, fickle of plot.Springing from earth like a Forget-Me-Not.Skipping, slipping from shade to inkblot.

Restless and flimsy, haunting a houseWith the stealthy scur of a secretive mouse,Temperaments prone to moan and grouse.

Drafty and aloof, transparent or opaque,The spirits are willing to keep you awake!Phantomesque figures clad in heartache,Flimsy and tattered as a paper snowflake.Preternaturally eerie as Unbirthday Cake;Perhaps undertaken by a dismal mistake,Yet home they must at the crack of Daybreak.

Melting quicksilver through a closing Veil . . .

Wan traces remain; few slippers are shed.Apparitions may travel to where they lie dead,But back to the Nether at Dawn must head,Drawn by the yank of paranormal thread —Jerked from the Surface; Quantum-sped.Though some will appear in the shining steadTo fill bright hours with a curtain of dread . . .

Ghouls are less frail in the moonlit pale.

Crackling and lucid, masters of surprise;Traversing with a wail to terrorize . . .A specter inhabits the blinks of our eyes,Then pounces out and we realizeNo space is empty where darkness lies!If you listen close you can hear the criesOf the Gloaming’s roamings and lullabies.

These Graveyard Hours are rather brusque

For wisps who have lost their physical husk —Mere loominous sparks in each drop of Dusk.


* * *

The Twilight Lady

Her realm is the frigid air when gathersthe least light, the most shadow to be found.

Edges in motion like dark sinuous flames:tresses billow, her dresses float; they fluctuate.

Soft layers of majestic ballgown, nocturnal mane!A satin queen, Miss Delicado Curtins presides . . .

Her skin like the finest Chocolates, the kindwrapped in pretty colors, but she would tell you —

“I don’t melt!” Watching, royally amused; regallyaloof, aloft, alert to the foibles of subjects.

Humankind, burdened by massive shortcomings,weighted by enormously petty or pithy concerns.

How she feels for them, roots for them; a figureof deep compassion, viewing their struggles.

The image of a colorful spirit, a Twilight Ladyin vibrant purples, blues, golds, red trim.

Cheshire-grinning, Miss Delicado Curtins abides —the height of fashion, a passion for vivid hues!

Yet you will only glimpse her beauty, herbright spectacle at your rock-bottom neediest.

If the Night is long, without respite, Dawna distant gleam at the farthest end of a tunnel.

And your luck is nowhere in sight; yourpockets empty of hope, any glint of salvation.

Brimming with ill-fortune, desolation,false and hollow sentiments, bleak pity.

That is when she takes your hand or patsyour cheek whispering, “Don’t fret.”

And whether you survive till Day or not,she will lead you to the other side.

30 linesSpace & Time Magazine, Autumn Issue #138, September 29, 2020https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08KB39SVQ

* * *

Bitter Sweet

On an unctuous Eve would insinuateThe slither of a Cobra, the grace of a GhostThat can drift through walls with burglarous stealAnd the lingering smell of well-burnt Toast.

This punctuous duo had a flair for drama.Their creptitude bled down a deeply carved street,Spilling Caramel goodies in a sticky trail,Causing kids to weep for the Bitter Sweet.

“No candy for you!” they blithely taunted.“It’s melting away in a Chocolate Tide!Get used to it, children, the world is that way.One day you’ll be happy you cried!”

The dreadful pair slunk merrily alongSpreading Halloween tears, a wave of dejection —Adolescents and Toddlers reduced to sobs;Leaving Teens and Adults with no confection.

Passing lanterned porches of ghoulish fare,The terrified grins on Black Cats and Skellies;Pumpkinhead Goblins and see-through SpectersThat crooned eerie notes like an opera of wails.

Reminisced the Spook in a whispery voice:“I remember these lanes, once upon a time.It was such a thrill. In a haunting party

We roamed the shadows until Morning’s chime!”

The Serpent lisped, “We shall have our fun,my wissspy friend! Just wait for the punchline.It’s coming sssoon.” They paused at a door.The Spirit invited his companion to dine.

“Trick or Treat?” boomed the Bogey,Expression glum. His tone rang dour.A lady was caught in a flummoxed knot;She tasted afraid and a little bit sour.

The Snake bulged and beamed in satisfaction.“I believe this will be an exceptional night!”Tapping doors or windows from house to house,Scaring up random horrors to their delight . . .

“We must do this again! We’re so awful at it.I think we do make a most terrible team,And we ought to continue it year after year.I fear I am suffering a very good dream!”

Vainly the vapor tried to pinch himself,But the poor Apparition could not gain a grip.Nonetheless both agreed to meet in twelve months.Then a Viper promptly gave his pal the slip.

And a Ghost leaned back for a solitary nap,Sinking into earth like a swooning deadbeat,To faintly recall the best Halloween —When he and a chum turned the Bitter Sweet.

44 linesThe Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 51, Halloween/Fall, October 2020http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/pdfs/SirensCallEZine_October2020.pdf

* * *

Shudderous Qualms

All year I have waited for a single day,yet thoughts of these hours never stray.

Immersing my head in shudderous qualms:The Tightrope Walk of fits and calms.

A mind well-inclined toward macabreties —Alert for certain shifts, peculiarities.

While eyeballs grown wide beneath the coversImagine all manner of shiverous hovers.

Alurk betwixt shades of the glims and me,In case I should peek, what terrors to see?

I cannot foretell nor risk a mere guess,For I am quite the coward I must confess.

And such that slithers inside my brainIs naught compared to the true insane!

Nerve-prancing to the beat, an unsteady heart;Lips mumble, cajoling to not fall apart.

I stumble from bed, sock-dusting the floor,Intrigued and determined to know what-for.

These fraught furtive steps across the lineOf light and gloom do chill the spine!

That creak of the floor an unsettling house,Or is what bestirs more soup than mouse?

Piano-Wire tension keeps me attuned.Gothically occult; cobweb-festooned . . .

Giddily gruesome in retro attire —Spookily clad as a Witch or Vampire . . .

I fear I have frightened a night-guest away!And on Halloween, what can I say?

Come back, this is how I always dress!And why no-one visits for Cards or Chess.

They won’t even knock on All Hallows’ EveTo exchange a scare. How it makes me grieve.


* * *

Autumn’s Descent

There is no scourge like Autumn’s descentA widow-hag who moans and staggers a bit To claim the living in a ghastly shroudA drab lengthy veil she trails over ground

Dragged through mire and brambled spacesThe raggedy fen where unburied remainsEnrich loam trod by a gaunt Femme FatalePacing Gothic ruins of prior seasons

How crisp and dainty the tracks of colorsTumbled in her wake as she hobbles the earthReminding that even beauty must wiltAnd beyond her steps come frost and snow

What was green and ripe now lying witheredDry as September bones; the remains of a cropWasted to naught, scattered and preservedBy November’s cold. Forget them not . . .

’Tis the moment for witches and woebegonesTo rise out of spells: conjurings, enchantmentsThe Harvest Moon’s long gilded shadow luredThrough the reaping of souls, whispers of grain

Shivering in a cool breath of October windAs orange and brown tones prevail. FestoonedTill December grays when raptor wings beatTheir furies aloft, toward the Twilight Sinistre

Yet this is the time most memorable to thoseResiding on the edge, whose hearts beat wilderWho see the shades darker and heed the nightcalls —The hoots and screeches. Voices of Nocturne

We dance and delight at the tunes of a forestBleak ballads of a graveyard, haunted abodesAnd wait three-fourths of the year for the worldTo resemble us again and speak our language

Impatient for Bats, Black Cats to be honoredAnd Pumpkins to grin as kids demand their due!

Gloriously at home among Spiders and CobwebsEmbraced by kindred spirits in the lachrymose Fall.

36 linesTales from the Moonlit Path, Halloween 2020 Issue, October 29, 2020http://talesmoonlitpath.com/poetry-2/autumns-descent

* * *

Mud Baby

The water of the lake mirrors an adjacent sky —and a bleakness of emotion, this numbnessof soul that shrouds me as I drift in a Rowboatthrough a gulf of stillness. It’s too quiet.

Focus on the setting. The flat glazed surface.The fuzzy uncertain contours of trees, likeone of those inkblots they ask you to define.I see only Death. Hear only silence.

When does it change from a tranquil sceneof mesmerizing foliage? When did the firstripple emanate? Did a bird fly up? Did waterlap the side? Was there a creak, a slight dip?

My brain grapples for connections, leaps atconclusions. What does it mean? I don’t know!It’s irritating. Upsetting. I must listen. And wait.Will there be any warning, a splash? A drop?

Something is in the lake. Nobody believed it.Just an old legend. I was making things up,the way I always did. Except it was true!I didn’t push my Little Brother . . .

It was no accident either. Cory was dragged.Snatched by pale clutches. They found himlifeless in the muck. Drowned. Sure, I admit,I was annoyed at him. I didn’t shove the kid!

Now I’m back — to prove my innocence.Using myself for bait. I don’t care abouthunting ghosts, only clearing my name.And getting even. Killing the Mud Baby.

I’m older. Stronger. Try and grab me,you piece of slime! The memory tortures.Grief, guilt. A day until my Twelfth Birthday,Corny wanted a ride in Granddad’s boat.I was supposed to be watching him,but wound up staring at whatever yankedmy younger sibling from his seat. Coatedin algae and silt. Hair like pondweeds.

If it doesn’t go well, if the video endures,I want everyone to know — I loved him.More than I showed. Back when he wassmall I held him, wouldn’t put him down.

Was that a face? A flash of movement.The boat is rocking. It’s here. It’s causingturbulence. Show yourself. Come up!Quit hiding! Here I am, come and get me.

Oh man! Behind — Crawled out — Grotesque — I can’t — Too powerful —Strangled, choking — My knife fell in —Hope I’m getting this —

(A loud splash.)

49 linesThe Sirens Call Ezine, Issue 52, Winter, December 2020http://www.sirenscallpublications.com/pdfs/SirensCallEZine_December2020.pdf

* * *

On Eternity’s Brink

The restless weary stalk this earthin shadows of a black ocean tide.Their steps will drag, carve tracks of rue,trenches like the furrows upon facesthat have witnessed worse and brighter days.Or the deadlight in someone’s eyewhen hope has gone out like a candle,the future a dimming flame,tapering down to a burnt wickafloat in wax. Regrets the burden oflimp shoulders, borne across a sea of dustenash; ponderous and un-redeemable

for credit, un-recyclable, un-exchangeable,just terribly inexorably heavy.A weight that must be carried to the tenebrousgrave and beyond — the place of originto which returns the mortal coilfrom whence their lives, their seedsand roots were sprung. Disappointed, spiritless,dog-tired footprints leaving no trace,invisible to the living ranks,yet they trip through ruts and welter thedeep mire of tear-sodden toil, remainsof the dead passing before them . . .unglimpsed until traversing that line —entering the veil on the brink of Eternity.That dark threshold some postponewith earnest measures; by healthful caution,exertion, a feast of plants. While othersplay and teeter precarious at the steep vergeof a waiting abyss, laughing and toastingDeath. But it is the struggle for moral justice,truth and dignity with selfless concern thatelevates, preserves, most heals the living,thwarting the Reaper’s grasp — the coldand lonely confines of a thankless forgottentomb. On the edge of Forever one can almosttouch angels. Or fall to the depths whereno glim of virtue, of hope will reach.


* * *

The Beast Who Abides

An ancient napped in an overgrown caveInvisible to the eye unless immensely riledFeeding off the arrogance of hunter-brutesWho lay in wait to ambush the mild

This guardian of the noble creature realmExisted for a timeless eternal ageThrough every form of pernicious calamityAn icon of Nature’s underliant rage

Abiding in a dormant state of solitudeAsleep for a breathless age of KingsWhile battles fought for land and goldWere the most important things

Till an awakening of Taliona should passHer crass silver orbs glare alert againUnsheathed like swords, cold as steelImpaling hearts of unkind men

On a feast of killers the appetite grewSo many to be had in a tangled woodTraipsing half-loaded, trampling the wild —Become the quarry to spare the good

For the beast had her own wicked sportYet offered more odds to surviveThan was granted to any of the preyThat they would callously deprive —

Of precious life, the chance to rear —Everything dartlings held most dearIn a natural untainted atmosphereAbsent the terrors of man-made fear

The crack of guns an alarming soundDisturbing a tranquil forest dayThe presence of predacious trophy-seekersA blight that must be warned away

Lest a sylvan call for justice ring,Pealing across these brackenous tidesTo claim the hides of two-limbed intruders . . .A banquet of flesh for the beast who abides.


* * *

Marionette

The Marionette sits with a stiff frozen smileA tinder heart throbbing on the Toy-Store shelfWishing for a home like an orphan child

Or the last pup in a litter, staring fromA window at the world’s mysteryEyes round, sad yet eager with expectationYearning for parents, a place to belongTo be special and cherished, embraced byA family who was waiting to find thatPrecious one-of-a-kind face beaming withJoy, excitement, hope. Unlike the MarionetteWhose grin will never changeHis expression engraved, too woodenBut his solid heart pounds with the beatOf a Carpenter’s hammer, the same asA child longing to be wanted, chosen —Lifted from the shelf one miraculous day.

Who knew there would be a period whenNobody shopped in actual stores, the worldBattened up, locked down, Closed Signs onEvery door? Tipped awkwardly, the MarionetteSits crookedly in that uncomfortable poseUnder a coating of gray dustForsaken, dejected, untouched for monthsIt seems an eternity to a toy with a poundingAche, an urgent core, the need to be heldPlayed with, adored. Who wants toLeave this silent cheerless tombWhere even the Cuckoo Clock had stoppedTicking, popping out and chirping theHour! Utterly alone, abandonedA carved heart may grow harder stillThat intense desire extinguished, expiredWith a gust of Fate, a wind of illness.

The Plague eventually abates. StreetsFill once more with traffic, life, activity —Yet the Toy Shop remains unopened.The Marionette’s last fading sparkDies out. Unnoticed. Unattended

Uncounted among the casualties.

30 linesSpace & Time Magazine, Winter Issue #139, December 21, 2020https://www.amazon.com/Space-Time-Winter-139-Magazine/dp/B08RL67X9S

LONG POEMS

LeviathanInto the bitter arms of NightIf Stardrops FellBorderlineHinter EveNotre Dame is burning!Night’s Whispered BreathInner DemonDarkest DeedsPassive-AggressiveThe Imperfect StormReal-EstateGrim HouseUnfair TradePoison PieKaleidoscopeFlora Dooley’s Bad DayThe Miser’s DemiseSocial GracesThe SacrificeThe Infernal CallerInfectiousThe Whistle StopPandemic Protest: May and June 2020

Leviathan

There are legends of kiddies robbed in their sleepRumors that give fodder to our fears and frightsOf wily creatures causing doubts and dreamsThat stalk the depths of the darkest Twilights

Tales of woeful wrongs and tearful tribulationsOf slithering, smithering, blithering eventsThe terrible attempts to distract and confound usAbysmal dismal horrors that nothing prevents!There are moments we all might fall out of stepOr have yet to smother our druthers and ruesWhen surprises can beset from an inken vastUpending our path into ground we don’t choose

Unstable footing that wobbles and warpsAnd constricts our muscles, our chest in a hugLike an Anaconda’s ever-tight squeeze —Crushing our body — a fist of snug

With a wily unsmiley sense of humorThe virulent viperent disdain of a SnakeComplete and replete with cold shoulderless baneA dastardly film too sticky to shakeAnd so it was a child would wraptly disappearIn the misty must of downspringing showersA monsoonish tempestuous storm in her townLed to a mudbath, some roof-leaking hours

’Twas a rapid napping, a despicable crimeFor the wondering eyes of kin to beholdWho blamed themselves and shamed each otherDeploring the vacancy in their fold

To a pair of parents with a burgeoning broodThe whole were precious; a family dividedThey couldn’t a single sweet darling spareAnd should fetch her back the lot decidedMarching off did the Hoffs trek a wendful trackFretting their every step was too lateMitzy may be the youngest one bornBut her memory bore a pond’rous weight.

Stolen too the most obvious signs of abductionRain washed away a monster’s grim treadTill at last sighting traces of the abominationthat plucked a wee child from her bed

This journey brought a close bunch nearer stillToward faraway reaches rocky and parchedOn the trail of a heinous Hornless LeviathanVentured the staunch as if starchedTense over the fate of beloved MitzyTaken by a thirsty ravenous Whip-Kraken —They found the girl had completely tamedA Sealess Land Serpent’s temper to slacken

The Hoffs adopted an ungainly petWho hasn’t chomped or gulped them yet!


* * *

Into the bitter arms of Night

Stalwart plods traverse the darkof a solemn Twilight.Quiet steps ring loudestwhen all is calm and minds are hushed;as clocks wind down to Nil,and the soft still tempo of nocturne refrainsunderscores each tread in notes of dread.Tension slowly raised like crimson velvetbefore an owl’s watchful stare,under the Moon’s burlesque pearlesque hue,the blinkless survey of an eventide’sstark mood. A plain shadow-lacedatmosphere unfolds, misty trails inviting,forged by an inkwell oceanthat has no beginning or end despitewhat we might think.

Yet into the arms of Night go we:intrepid, dauntless, dream-eyed voyagersmost without a moment’s apprehensionof the bitter straits and turbulence we mayencounter. Sailing toward the distant Dawn,a Ghost Ship gliding through the haze ofmurky unconscious, our hopes anddaylight reveries entwined.Between Finale’s lowered drapeand Morrow’s early rise, the curtainsdescend ever more, and I am mosttranquil drifting, floating amidst no shores,my aims at rest and needs at bay . . .I am simply here, rocking in Comfort’scradle, nothing to interrupt the current ofthoughts. A serene flow, gentle waves,the dance of Sleep Fairies paintinga deep blissful scene.Until the jolt of abrupt collisiontosses me awake! Alert . . .

My vessel run aground, my peacedisrupted. The embrace of bedtime withdrawn,peeled away like the skin of a ripe Bananalaid open to the bite of monkey teeth!My soul bared to the perils of Duskfor those who cannot rest in a state ofignorance; who cannot submerge to the depthsof the mind’s abyss — the plane wherebodies lie inert, abandoned, and spiritstake wing on magical flights — where the worstterrors cannot reach, unless we allow them in.Until the rebirth, the return to light,before next we set sail, shut eyes and sink . . .back to the bittersweet arms of Night.


* * *

If Stardrops Fell

Beneath a Wolf Moon on a silver-laced nightwhen the fogs were dense roamed a girl in white.

Her eyes toward the clouds she flowed with the brush,never snagged by a thorn, seldom caring to rush . . .

But if stardrops fell, the lass traced their descentto the base of the heavens, her visage content.

And quick would she travel to pillage the shinesby filling an Hourglass for selfish designs.

All the luminous orbs gaily flickered on boughslike a diamond-bush forest or candlelight vows.

In her haste to collect them she grew less relaxed,her dress a bit torn, her veneer showing cracks.

Movements more rigid, aggressively paced,intent on the prizes, the girl swiftly raced.

Peasant villagers knew to stay in on such Eves,yet none of them gathered what she had up her sleeves.

The female a phantom, the subject of tales;her rambles were legend, unlike those travails.

In the story they knew, a balance must be keptby avoiding her mention, even while they slept.

Her names were untold and should never be spoken —for to breathe either one, a truce would be broken . . .

Harsh storms of agony, blood-rains of turmoil,bleak worlds of dismay down from ether could boil . . .

A tranquil mood nixed, transformed into rage.The tantrum of a child. A virulent rampage.

Tease not a whisper. Bite your tongue clean off!In these times of cold gloom, risk nary a cough.

Any syllable might come too close in sound.Every clue was lost, not a shred to be found.

No record remained of what shouldn’t be said.The guardians of lore were long ago dead.

Still she wandered the hills sprouting plants of Bane,black of fire and sun, gray as ghost terrain . . .

Remote as a desert of shy desolate dunes,an oasis of tufts solely fit for near-loons . . .

Swept by a sea of writhing frosts and vapors,like a widow’s veil wafting feathery capers.

She pranced through the froth in a garden of fleece,attracted by winks on her bounding caprice . . .

Chasing sparkles and shimmers of Fire-Flies;a loner out wading the mist with mooneyes . . .

Reaching the shrubs flecked by spectral glow,pausing to admire them, poised on tiptoe.

Then picking and plucking as if handfuls of berriesto stuff in a jar, or capturing Fairies . . .

She robbed Constellations from a Map Of The Stars,till the single bright point at night would be Mars.

“Now finally I can get some quality sleep!”Curled up on the grass, she was slumbering deep.

But the rest of the planet would plunge in despair,overrun Dusk to Dawn, gangs and mobs everywhere . . .

Bad elements and brutes, bands of villainous knaves;the savage, the ghoulish, the rotters from graves . . .

The corrupt and immoral, the stonehearted cruel;only the two-faced could otherwise rule . . .

For the balance of Light versus Dark is precise,and stealing the sky’s twinkle wasn’t that nice.

58 linesThe Ladies Of Horror Flash Project, February 2020https://spreadingthewritersword.com/2020/02/26/ladies-of-horror-flash-project-horror-author-lori-r-lopez-lorirlopez-sotet_angyal-loh-fiction-poem-poetry-18

* * *

Borderline

The spot was cold and indistinct, uncertain,with no remarkable qualities. It was simply there,and not really anywhere. Which made me wonderif it could stray, shift slightly from the previouslocation, or if there were no path but this.I hesitated . . .

Having passed the enigma blankly, unprepared.What was that? Startled, I turned to peer behindin puzzlement. I had felt a chill. And far more,I experienced a weird sensation — a flash, a chargeof strangeness, all at once. Blatant. Stunning.Clamorous.

Like jumbled visions and sounds. Chaotic faces,voices, forms. Frightful expressions and screams,lunging or plunging hurdles, heavy intense emotions.It left me gaping, a little breathless and confused.Down the Rabbithole, lost in the woods, outside the box

afraid . . .

Starkly, deeply, internally. In terror of whatI had just been through. And it was nothing! It wasmadness! Pivoting, I saw no sign that something out ofthe ordinary had occurred or been present. Absurd,unthinkable that a random stride in my journeyaffected me so.

For a crazed instant I fancied it was no placeas much as a moment, and what if it could happen atany time, anywhere, to anyone? In need of answers,I had to test the consequence of retracing my footsteps —the mystery too bizarre, demanding truth,an explanation.

Despite my fear, my utter reluctance, I venturedback. It had little to do with finding an exact minute.I tried to reverse and duplicate the action of treadingforward, yet knew I was not that earlier me who crossedthe threshold. I had become older. Wiser. Toughened.A changed person . . .

Who could never be as unsuspecting, untroubled,untraumatized again. I scoffed at the preposterous jestof a situation that I couldn’t pinpoint or define inphysical degrees! It was clearly paranormal,some feat of magic, or I was going insane andrequired help.

Life isn’t always Multiple Choice. Being a loner,independent by nature, possibly to a fault, I chose the mostlogical or acceptable conclusion: There was an uncanniness,an eerieness about it. Preternatural, and by that I meantpeculiar. Downright odd. I must have wanderedbeyond the pale . . .

That division between what is and isn’t allowed —and this was out of the reasonable limits. ClumsilyI had stumbled over the fine or dotted line intoanother zone with a loose or alien code ofprinciples. I did not belong, and yet the cold spotdevoured my liberty.

I can’t say whether I was in the wrong place at theright time or the right place at the wrong time . . .

I am there and shall remain, part of the uproar,a piece of the bedlam and babble. That appallingburst of shock and disorder when you set footupon its curse.

I could have escaped. My egregious error wasin returning to do it again. For that I shriekand shove to warn the unaware. To chase offthe oblivious. “Keep going! Do not repeat myfate!” The words are drowned amid other shouts.We are legion . . .

We are borderline headcases and crackpots ina Candyland loop-de-loop follow-the-Yellow-Brickworld.


* * *

Hinter Eve

On Hinter Eve stalk the creepiest kooks,whether deviantly dreamt or mildly foul,their watchful eyes as round as Tarts.They can turn their heads like an Owl.

The goons grumblemoan and whimpersnort,yet lack significance as they abidealone or in stagnant transparent huddles,shorn of substance — neither hair nor hide.

Although some are quite another case:stout of girth and bristle-coated;stubby-limbed and grim of purpose;rather bumpy and grumpy-throated.

That hinterzone wherefrom they comeis a land of legend, the peculiarest tales,and none can imagine how far it extends,for nobody goes but mad hounds and cur-tails.

You won’t even spy a Nightingale’s throat,

or hear a note for no bird is heard singing.The air is so still that a needle could dropand the noise would echo like a large bell ringing.

Well-known as the bumbles on a Bee or Wasp,the route to Nowhere is paved by misery.Cardboard Cut-Outs of Cactus point in silence,while the path is treacherous, no guarantee.

Visible then unseen, woven of tears and bloodshed,a trail of torment carves through the sand,snaking in or out of fog and dark fairydust —a misleading serpent; a sinister band.

The usual signs for Rest Stops, Food and Gas,billboards sparse as Phone Booths and towns.The barrens seem wild, abandoned by daylight;tonight they writhe with glares and frowns.

When clock gears grind to keep pace with time changes,the ball in the sky has gone from gold to gray,maps and calendar pages tumble like weeds,and walls of shadow-puppets refuse to obey . . .

This blacktop shimmers with eerie delusionsand circles back to places once passed.Every stone at the wayside hides a creature —each stranger and spookier than the last.

Hinter Eve may dawn every once in a while.Twice a year some claim; others aren’t as firm.A third time when Blue Moons mess up Astrologyand The Zodiac goes haywire for a collective squirm.

A mere twitch to those in grand urban towers,far from the outermost wasteland and moor.We vulnerable denizens who live too near,inhabiting the ground, the earthen floor . . .

On this desolate Eve may suffer grave tolls,being sacrificed to a fiendish horde —feeding the Hinterbeasts to halt a fierce tidefrom reaching, overrunning the cities un-toward.

I would move were I not so terribly poor —to avoid the lottery of eventual bad luck.

Being swift or clever leaves much to chance.The next Hinter Night, I might be a dead duck.


* * *

Notre Dame is burning!

Great shadows of wings expand against limestone.There are times to defend, and moments to take flight.Now it seems the latter as stiff bodies unfold, shaking feathers.Rustling scales and fur. Odd shapes, horned heads arise.“Leap to the balcony! Beware the smoke and heat!”

Not all of them, Gargoyles, Chimera, have wings.There are creatures of many ilk, at home in high places.Some growl and pace or huddle in fear, watchful,A hellish gleam reflected in the orbs of crouched monsters.Far above the city, the river. Trapped on a stone fortress.

Notre Dame is burning! Unbelievable. Unbearable.Cries of outrage echo across the Cathedral. A city wails —A dreadful clash of sirens and bells. The world mourns —An icon in jeopardy, charred and broken, sections crumbling.Sacred objects must be spared, secrets and vows preserved.

“Strength, unity, courage!” shouts the snarlish horned ogreAt my side. Baboon-faced, humpbacked, he urges retreat toSky or land. Confined like many to climb, flee on foot, butWhere? Crowds gather below, weeping, praying. Some withEyeballs peeled. Can we slip unnoticed from lofty perches?

There are witnesses. Will they see? Might they wonderIf statues are missing? A number busy themselves at the base,Rescuing relics, aiming streams of water, battling an inferno.Will they save us? Will they care? Bizarre, grotesque inDesign. But we are part of the structure and beauty.

A few unruly goblins launch like sullen bats, brooding,Abandoning belfries to wheel in protest. Gliding, veiled . . .Obscured by plumes of gray yet risking detection, attention.They screech with pain and horror, their haven in ruins,

Expressing for the flock a shared and shattered dismay.

Greedy tongues of fire lick at the night, voracious.The unholy maelstrom roars, consuming the heart of ourRefuge, our castle. A mighty sanctuary from Monster-Slayers.Long a bastion against Evil, invincible we believed.Clinging to charred edges, avoiding the blaze, heads bow.

Will it stand no more? The pride of Paris, deconstructing —Disintegrating, a noble centerpiece in flames, in peril,Before granite gazes. The death of a grand lady, Notre Dame!Citadel of lonely souls, gruesome specters, gloriouslyMisshapen figures! A mother’s ugly precious children . . .

Beloved, perched for ages, watching over streets, warning,Guarding the gentle and forlorn, glaring down at the cruel,Punishing the unjust. At times revered, feared. Repulsive yetCherished, almost angelic. “Come down!” summons a ChimeraKnown as Stryga by humans, though he is no Vampire.

The hybrids flap to grip a balustrade and scowl, disturbed.Seething orange flames smirch stone and iron. Wood melts toAsh and embers. An orange-red glow lights darkness as Spire andRooftop burn. Cinders sail, borne on currents, the dance ofWarm and cold, an aerial Ballet; a grim concert without applause.

We must all adjust to change, as even mountains and citiesErode. By nature I am just a bird. On Notre Dame I haveRoosted among Saints and Kings, myths and monsters. I haveSwooned to magnificent Organ songs, thrilled to the tunes ofBells, the Rose Windows, the Buttresses jutting like a ribcage.

Carved by Mysticks, elite Stonemason-Masters; once a fierceLine of defense, our numbers diminish — scarred by conflict.Weathered, damaged, eventually retired. The small cadre ofMasters gone. They cannot repair us. None are left toSeparate truth from rumor, to realize the hazards.

She is vulnerable. A target of insidious trials, demonic orManmade. Our duty remains, to defeat sinister forces at workAgainst the Lady, seeking to bring her down. Beleaguers . . .They pose a constant threat. We can never rest, alwaysVigilant. But this night we failed to prevent an attack.

“Who or what is responsible?” Emitting bass rumbles,The Dragon settles behind in shade. “I will crack heads open,

Tear limbs, blacken bones!” An ape-like countenance blats,Tongue protruding. Winged and horned, a Monkey-BeastCharges to the Wyrm cloaked by fumes, hugging steep walls.

“Too late!” Vaulting, Stryga confronts the incensed Wyvern.“Spare your hot breath for the next assault. It is in human handsTo save her now.” Peering down in sorrow and despair.“The Spire may collapse. The core is lost. We can merelyHope like them. Who wishes to leave? I shall stay.”

Voices reach them from every side. “I will stay!”Only my neighbor the hunched Babewyn keeps silent,Staring in dejection from his corner of the rail, like a statue.“And you!” Stryga boldly steps toward him. “What are you,A coward or sentinel?” I gasp in an ominous tone of quiet.

The last to respond utters a statement I will not forget:“Mes amis, I share this post with all of you — and thoughWe were not born, we were crafted with affection, elaborateDetail, every one unique, remarkable, yet possessed of commonPurpose and substance. In this we stand together, a family . . .

Respect for the Past is as vital as optimism for the morrow.We cannot desert Notre Dame in her hours of need any moreThan a man or a woman should abandon the mother whoEmbraced and sheltered, guided and nurtured a childTo the best of her ability, out of the purest love . . .

Let us combine our hopes. In her there is grace, history,Art, inspiration, morals, compassion, fellowship at stake.Reverence for symbols, for tradition has been shrugged off,Discarded as insignificant in modern times like the sandsOf an Hourglass. But each single grain is a treasure . . .

Shining with virtue and value. Each moment weDevote to this cause, protecting Our Lady Of Paris,Will be our deepest brightest honor. I stand with you,My brethren, until the final block falls. However worn.Gruff and faded. We marvelous beasts must hold on . . .

To the end.”

101 linesSpectral Realms, No. 13 (Summer 2020)https://www.hippocampuspress.com/journals/spectral-realms/spectral-realms-no.-13

* * *

Night’s Whispered Breath

What lurks within the call of Night —that elusive thrill of darkling tides,of hidden secretsencountered past Midnight’s toll?Beyond the gearworks of theclockworld Metronome,the sun-wheeled scheme of things my heartseems reluctant to obey.

A lifelong yearn; a daytime spurn!Drawn to the arcane clandestine hours,the shadow-lair of Nocturne . . .this magnificent macabre madness thatlures me like oddness and quirksappeal to an eccentric nature, my out-thereflair, the whirly-giggles of a creative soul.

Night’s whispered breath entices methe same, tickling my dark side,flirting with my sixth sense of spookiness.The darklit flame we children ofthe Night may share that refuses toextinguish, unlike some trappings of youth.

We cannot shed or shirkwhat is part of us, deeply ingrainedlike black threading vines woven through fabric;an umbral layer behind a painting’s surface;the Universe behind the glare of a bluesun-shiny sky. We feel that presence, thatmagnetic pull. As sunrays blind and bake —we dream of gloom, thunderclouds, Night.Where we belong. We glow undermoonbeams, starry heavens, black and whiteChiaroscuro contrasts. We echothe resonance of shadows and streetlamps.Connect with uncanny eldritch depths;the embrace of a forest,of myriad mysteries and stirrings.

I will not regret moments spent out oftouch or sync or tune, existing apart

from the daily grind, the scheduleof normal activity.Catching rare glimpses ofa toxic corporate-industrial atmosphereoverwhelming the planet, choking lifeby massive amounts of poisons, plastic,chemicals, nuclear waste,exhaust fumes, concrete, war.Instead of thoughtful reverent acts,well-planned intentions to fit in, adaptto the natural world around us better.

How I wish to see such evils vanquishedin my lifetime, animals and the environmentcherished when next I venture out in theharsh light of Day under a wide brim,full body coverings, a face-mask againstinfectious disease . . . the hazards of foul air.

I much prefer the whispers of Night.

Line: 56Bewildering Stories, Issue 869, August 24, 2020http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue869/nights_breath.html

* * *

Inner Demon

There are many ways to be consumed:by desires and disease, frenzy and rage,madness and jealousy. Not to mentionparasites, worms, insects, ravenousman-eating beasts from the shadows of a jungle.Then there are Headhunters, both civilizedor not. One day I awoke to find myselfbeing swallowed from within —digested alive in my very own juices!(Which I suppose makes me a lot lessVegan than Cannibal.)

In a weird spiraling effect, akin totaking a long tumble down a shortoptical-illusion Rabbithole that appears tohave no depth yet goes on and on, it madeperfectly illogical sense in an impractical

manner of speaking. In other words,no sense at all. I should know —as the one being self-absorbed.You can either stand in the rain waitingfor an umbrella, or stand under an umbrellawaiting for rain. I prefer to not miss outon a good soaking.

Likewise, if I were to be eaten, I wouldrather not forsake my principles in orderto be spared. But it seemed in this caseconvincing my Inner Demon to ceasedevouring my Outer Demon might be easiersaid than done. Demons make terriblenegotiators. And listeners . . .They are pretty bad at just abouteverything! (In case you’re wondering,it is possible to be repossessed, as intaken over twice. My true nature wassandwiched between.) The dueling devilscompeted for damnation.

And domination. I was their pawn, theirhost, an innocent bystander — the paltryFirecracker Jack Prize in their grotesqueBoxing Match; the private joke in theirPunch and Judy Showdown Slugfest.They were cruddy as a mudbath,provocative as Crocodile Kisses . . .I had a Middle Row Seat between thewarring factions. Or so I thought.Until the Inner Demon won — gobblingus both, becoming me in the process!It will be over soon, this power struggle,as I fade to a mere possession.


* * *

Darkest Deeds

Hush, the shadows are speaking. Can you hear?Low and growlish as a Grizzly with a Cold.

Listening when everything’s subdued, while I stiffly tryto sleep — rigid as a body in a box awaiting the tomb —I think I can make out bits and pieces of grumbles,sullen murmurs. Resonant, appalling, plotting.Conniving to overthrow my neighbors and town.The grimmest elements; the fruitless seeds of unrest.Frightful how badly they want it, our demise.How much they envy us.

And what they will do if they act upon that ire!We have been lax, failing to brighten every inch of nightwith cheer, thwart their mischief or murderousschemes, prevent their phantom pining’s spread.Now it is too late, and the worst may come to pass.A window shatters, from no gust of airbut a thrust of foul bleakness, an umbral stab.Rising, huddled alone in panic, I cling to words andfrail glimmers of hope, illumination. Afraidmy lamp will be next . . .

The bulb bursts. I discern a dismal-throated snarl —beside me — no, behind me! They surround.And then, a piercing broken cry at another houselining the street. Who was it? Who amongmy allies on this gloom-shrouded lane was the firstto die? We are doomed I fear . . . done for.And not by human hands. By the Supernatural.Apprehensive, I lay pen and notebook down.I must see what is happening out there, to friends,acquaintances. We are one.

Differences shed. I once distrusted many.Now I sympathize. Another scream. Cut off.Trembling, I part drapes and peek, aware the brittlepanes might splinter, riddle me with shards.I watch in horror as lights extinguish, snuffed inrandom order. The lane belongs to a quiet dismalatmosphere. I release curtains and retreat.Nearly blind, back to scribbling with only a wanmoonsheen penetrating. At the mercy ofa force that engulfs, invades.

I confess, I wasn’t prepared for this.No lock or bullet, no cash or Insurance Policycould spare us from disasters beyond reason —provide a decent shot at surviving till Sunrise.

No option is left, aside from insanity or prayer,but to anticipate the darkest deeds. Already herethey pause. Keening silence and suspenseshall finish me if they don’t! May thesewords be legible. Yet what good is a warningcome Nightfall . . .? We all join them soon.


* * *

Passive-Aggressive

I strolled by a doorway between thoughtsof where I was going, what I needed to do,just at the point when a mood has begun to fade,merging into another shape and form, anotherfeeling still undefined. In that moment ofvulnerable lapse, a curious sound wafted to ear,slammed me in my tracks, drew me like thestring tethering a Yo-Yo. A bird? A peculiarexotic creature? I was hooked.

Entering, the premises held a vibe unlike anyencountered — a threshold to mysterious otherances,the bizarrest of unworldly items beyond compare,offered up to the stray visitor as if any of it madesense but of course it did not, could not ina million trillion years of deepest contemplation!I had simply to wonder at the shelves thatwondered at me back as if I were the oddball.Ridiculous, me in my drab overcoat and gray suit,the working-world attire shared endlesslyfrom office to office in every tall building oneach block of cities that paved the globe.Surely I represented all anybodies in a sea ofslightly unique countenances.

A Sign addressed me, squawking in a raucousvoice to behold a message, a bold invitation:SHOOT ME FOR A DOLLAR! “Shoot me?”I snorted. It must be a joke, some sort of prank,the placard tied round the neck of an ordinaryJoe. A wide-eyed fellow wearing an inscrutable

blank expression as if he didn’t have a care,not a single thing to worry about — certainlyno threat of being shot with a Revolverconveniently resting on the table before him.Non-aggressively I sauntered past.

“What’s wrong, don’t you have a Dollar?”The Sign taunted me, so I turned to mutterthat I did and extract a silver coin I wouldcarry for luck. “Pick it up then. A Dollarfor one shot.” I protested “I don’t wish toshoot someone!” Yet the coin (worth far morethan face value) slipped from grasp, ringing.Wobbling an eternity until it settled. Tails up.My head hurt. My hand clutched the weapon,aimed it unsteadily, trembling. A digit jerkedthe trigger. A bullet blasted its course —straight through the heart. I gaped ata bloody shirt as bells chimed. The prize?I now find myself wearing the Sign, unable toscream or squirm. Impassive. Please,read my eyes. Do not raise the gun.


* * *

The Imperfect Storm

Creeping out of Night’s periphery whereall forms of ill-mannered beasties lie in crouchedwait — festering, scheming nefarious little plots —an erratic Squall leaked through netherdark crevicesto gather intensity and layers of froth. Lopsidedalong the edges, filled with strange sounds andeven more tempestuous uncanny temperamentsapt to curdle one’s soul, the Weather Tantrumswept forth with brash belligerence, loose of foot,beholden to no Moon, seeking outrageous fortunesand infinite amusements to ingest.

Swallowing, swirling, undecided which direction,a revolving dervish of fits and starts, of clockwiseand counter-clockwise helixes hurling caution to

the wind and rain, this monstrous Stormnadoof spontaneous bustion and false bravado sprangto drown the unsuspecting (oblivious overits howling gusts of bad breath; its cracklesof clumsy broken homes, tipped wreckage,shredded towns). Such isolated unobservantindividuals who sat alone on all Hallows Eves —porchlight off, too out-of-touch to apprehendthe occasion or afraid to open their door.

Perhaps failing to discern branches whipping,scraping, thrashing as if to claw inside —an assault or escape —at the other end of flimsypanes. Huddled with the drapes closed for privacy.Unwilling to listen or unable to hear as voices ofgales clashed and canceled each other out.Not everyone caught the latest News, followedevery nuance of an unpredictable force . . .Some were simply too weary or distractedto notice the difference between clement andinclement. Until their den was deconstructed.Or lifted whole and heaved to another address,rudely transplanted without warning.

An Imperfect Storm never apologizes forwreaking mayhem, rushing off to its subsequentmisdeed. If cursed enough to encounter thisrare event, charmed enough to survive, a person hadbest invest in better Life Insurance than four walls.Next time (because it wasn’t just Lightning and couldcome back for seconds), those prepared for the worstout of habit should be ready for anything! It mayflip the world upside-down, yank Reality inside-out,bring the unexpected through each door.Do not greet it with trepidation, be fearless. Tell ityou will not be pushed around! Surprise it withkindness. Offer it a hug. Embrace its quirky nature.It might be more like you than you think.


* * *

Real-Estate

The Handyman arrived in a snortinghiccupping Pick-Up. He consulted a smallnotepad page containing scribbles.The job posting listed this address. It must bethe place. A For Sale Sign leaned at an angle

with SOLD plastered boldly across.Whoever bought it got ripped off. Jobs, a nickname,shook his head — squinting through a dusty windshield.Creaks accompanied a shift of weight as hisleft leg descended to gravel. He strolled to the rear,lowered a tailgate, slid out a fancy portal.It shouldn’t take long. Whistling, he luggedhis burden to the top of uncertain steps and leaned iton the porch, against a rough peeling wall.

The grizzled Farmhouse had seen better decades,probably centuries. It was a dump, needing a lot morethan a new door. He walked to the truck for a rustedToolchest that once belonged to his Gramps,who gave it to his father, who eventually handed itto him and bought a shinier box. It was the thoughtthat counted. Jobs felt proud to be carrying ona family tradition. He reached fora knob to open the weathered slab beingreplaced. It wouldn’t yield. Did they forget tounlock it? His knocks produced no results.The house seemed abandoned. A chill prickledforearms and neck. He peered at a second-floorwindow. “Hello?” The man thought hespotted movement up there. Tired eyes froma lengthy trip he dismissed, as silence persisted.Jobs hunkered and solemnly inspected a lock.Should be able to jimmy it. He was hereto take the thing off and doubted they’d mind.Whoever hired him. He couldn’t remember.

Too much static on the phone.“Anyone around?” He waited.“Okay.” Selecting an awl, a sturdy hammer,he pounded the handle, driving a steel point intothe keyhole. Implements clattered. He jumped back.

Was that a scream? Wind from nowherestroked his flesh. The gruesome abode mocked,rippling, wavering with rustles and squeals.“That does it.” Slamming tools in the box,he lifted his heirloom and turned. Maybe the housewas haunted. Maybe just a creepy relic,

nobody’s home. Needing to be torn down —before it could collapse on the poor dayworkersent to repair it. A plank rose andwhacked his face. He wound up flat, staringwide of orb while spirits inhabiting the real-estatedanced on his corpse. Gusty breath fluttered a paperthat blew off, unveiling seven letters spelling

FOR SALE. There would be further accidents.Until a jinxed, bedeviled, spooked propertywent back on the Market and remained . . .

UNSOLD.

55 linesAltered Reality Magazine, Issue 23, May/June 2020https://www.alteredrealitymag.com/real-estate-by-lori-r-lopez

* * *

Grim House

Sordid and austere, ill-wrought beyond compare,A creaking morbid mass feared and loathed by name —Grayer than the sky, a mood of withering glare,Uprooted from her soil, on barge and wheels came.

Of timbers born afar in dirt untouched by tool;Quenched by blood and rain, cut by foreign hand.Constructed out of spite, with lack of lawful rule,An act of ruthless might, the claim of stolen land.

Erected to outlast disputes of mortal lives;A stain upon a hill, overseeing those displaced.Inside her walls contained, as mold corruptly strivesTo smear a coat of black, a noble line disgraced . . .

Fine reputations tainted. Honor sacrificed.Integral traits allowed to rot and lie in waste.Choices cast as if Dice; values underpriced.Corruption bleeding into cracks, wicked-laced.

Repository of bile and uppercrust greed,The basest morals amid blue-blooded ranks.A despicable coffer guarding their creed —Absorbed like smog by plaster and planks.

With a dark atmosphere of pernicious shade,

She moved to avoid the Demolition Ball —Well past the swings of an Executioner’s blade,Condemnation posted on her outer wall . . .

A dry document nailed. Wet crimson strokes.Declared by ink and paint, a vengeful complaintVoiced by villagers, a league of wrathful folks —Her fate decreed harshly, for she was no Saint.

A den of grudges and doom, appalling gloom.Lair of spurious conceits and skullduggery.Ghost-draped antiquities crowded each roomLike dismal dusty parlours of perfidy.

Naught could prevent, neither will nor deedHer sly transcendence, possessed by treachery;Rolling lane to lane with torpid speedAt the peak of night, stealing toward the sea.

Thick and moonless dusk, upon a legless jaunt,Under cloak of fog a mad-manor slipped . . .Carting roof and floor, every wisp of haunt;Just her basement left, from her belly ripped!

Malediction-primed, shifting stairs and nooks;Toting joints and corners, windows and towers;Jiggling cups and cabinets, unshelving books;Quaking portraits and busts of frozen glowers.

The Eleventh Hour, in a grand departDown an unpaved road, beams and rafters jarred,Fled a house without home and no space for heart.She escaped on a boat from a lumberyard.

As disease will spread so her specter grew,Turgid waves of rancor and disregardWhile crossing the brine for a distant milieu,To arrive intact, one piece and unmarred.

Yet leaning from stiffness, grunting with age,Her eaves acquired birds bleak of feather.Skulked a Grim House through shadow and Sage;Scouting new berth in the teeming Nether . . .

Encountering a ghost town barren of limit,The journey halted on a dead-end street.

Not home sweet home but an approximate,And she groaned with delight, her aim to eat!

The menace would settle for a lofty perchWhere a malignant mansion could visually scour.The dwelling conducted a rapacious search,Demanding a toll, its countenance dour.

Such dire malediction exists to this day,Inhabiting hamlets and draining their soul . . .A tomb with an appetite, cryptic and fey,Dining on innocents — gobbling them whole.

68 linesAltered Reality Magazine, Issue 23, May/June 2020https://www.alteredrealitymag.com/grim-house-by-lori-r-lopez

* * *

Unfair Trade

We were a crew of idealists —sailing a rustbucket mortgaged spacecrafttransporting products between planets,a jumbo deliveryboat manned by seven —adventurers reaching for the Stars.The latest voyage of our merchant vesselwould lead us to a little-known planet.The Trade Dealwas recently announced. A bit far offbeaten lanes, charted routes,but we had nothing scheduled.We wanted to see new worlds and faces.Competition increased hourly. Bills overdue,I accepted the assignment. Halfway there, during a Wake-Up Callfor status and safety checks, my First Officernoticed peculiar data. Our missionswere clean; we expected to be informed, awarewhat was being hauled — refusingto traffic bootleg materials, dangerous drugsand chemicals, guns, explosive devices,anything illicit or contributing to conflict.This time the cargo, labeled Food,was loaded in advance, before we boarded.A curious item had been overlooked in

the status report. Our weight did not increase.Solanon woke me. The two of us broke intoa locked Hold. Instead of contraband we foundair — a completely empty chamber.Examining the manifest, a second detailsparked concern. There were no further instructionsfrom the company that hired us to convey the shipmentto the party requesting it, other than coordinates,a destination roughly translated to “Urkphistung”.I blinked at the record in disbelief.Not even an authorization to refuel!Suspicious dreams plagued me the rest of the trip.Ominous vibes prevailed when we landed.The ramp lowered and guards entered,rounding us up. Herding us in spacesuits.We were escorted across a paved areato a large dim hall by dark figures. AndroidsI assumed, packing heat.We tended to travel light, preferring dialogueover drama. I struggled to process the deception —our vessel breached as if they knew the codes.Did they hack our system? Was the craft sold outfrom under us? I wouldn’t put it pastthe greedy creditor . . . How could we get home?It stunned me, hindered my reaction.The situation felt like we’d been taken prisoner!We operate by the strictest standards of Fair Trade.Without a shred of freight to steal,a ship not worth the effort,the only possible explanation: We are the cargo.My brainchip is transmittingimages, observations.

Send to: The C.T.C. (Cosmic Trade Commission)From: Captain Maureen Elena Cho

The structure resembles an enclosed arena.At the opposite side a group waits for us, a councilor court to welcome “guests”. Nearing them,distinguishing features, I strive toestablish intent. The first clue notedis the size of their teeth.

65 linesAltered Reality Magazine, Issue 23, May/June 2020https://www.alteredrealitymag.com/unfair-trade-by-lori-r-lopez

* * *

Poison Pie

An exotic raven-maned accomplicewith a black satin floor-length gownglides forth in strides of diabolic grace.

I follow, my face a broken frown . . .

Ill-at-ease, my own steps clunkingin toe-crunching budget Cowboy Boots.What I get for dressing to half-impress

from a closet of clearance-rack suits.

“Make yourself comfortable.” Onyx clawsgesture smoothly. “You’ve nothing to fear.”(When they say that, you really should worry,

get out in a hurry — bolt like a deer!)

Admitted to an unlit private chamber,I queasily ponder what lies ahead.“The show is about to begin.”

She has a grin that fills me with dread.

I spare an anxious nod and a giggle,then slump to a perpendicular chair,designed for rigid people I imagine,

Although I’m the only one there.

So I squirm to find a compatible position,a preposterously acrobatic feat.The lady slipped me a set of goggles.

“I promise you’re in for a treat!”

* * *

Miss Dulcet’s vintage picturesque parlorbrimming with elegance caught my eye.The quaintest museum exhibit,a slice from the Past. “Piece of Rhubarb Pie?”

Jolting, I nodded and turned to examinethe curious colorless face of my host,a tray-bearing spinster in victorian dress,approaching quieter than a footless ghost.

She bustled to provide a pair of wedgesand pour fragile cups of mysterious brew.The Clock on the mantel ceased its cadenceprecisely a fraction of a minute till Two.

Its drone, a continuous ticking had lulledher innocent visitor not to discernthe poison bottle on a sterling tray . . .This would the victim belatedly learn.

Miss Dulcet offered a dainty sugarbowlwith a table-sized ladle or spoon.“It helps the terrible taste go down.”Her smile quite as pale as a Moon.

The timepiece’s morbid tone distracted;the metronome’s clicking pacified . . .Chewing and sipping, I couldn’t refuse.In bittersweet seconds a fool had died.

* * *

I gape aghast, leaning forward alarmed,fogging the mirror with frozen breath.It’s not every day that one is permitted

to observe the occasion of his death!

For a Nickel I paid the asking price,and the tragedy concluded much too quick.Why didn’t that idiot through the glass

foresee it was all a parlor trick?

I extend another gleaming Nickel.“I wish to go again!” I hear myself hoarse,willing to sacrifice an entire Dime and

solve if the crime were committed by force —

Or my murder had been an arbitrary plot,occurring tomorrow, perhaps yesterday.I cannot predict the instant of demise,

for nothing is certain either way.

A fabric has ripped, the Hourglass tipped;the globe hangs completely upside-down.A lens or an eye can no longer be trusted.

The air, the water, the leaves are brown.

It’s curtains for me as I restart the scene,watching the Final Act play out.I know how it ends yet urge the victim,

Think twice before swallowing your doubt!

* * *

Miss Dulcet uncorked a bone-labeled bottle,then dumped lots of Arsenic liberally . . .into my teacup and into the Sugar;onto the portion of Pie cut for me.

A dollop of powder from a porcelain box,a dose of Strychnine sprinkled for topping.Still I drank and I ate to her heart’s contentthese vile refreshments, barely stopping.

For I had been raised to finish a meal,to politely accept a generous offer.Good manners seemed vital in a civilized world.I could not be ungrateful, an impudent scoffer.

Invited to peek at an old-fashioned room,I succumbed to my doom from the cup of Fatewhile the Mantel Clock went out of order.Such a pity, it being exquisitely ornate.

The classic antique had a musical chime,an enchanting mechanical ticker as well.Its spring unwound at the worst of moments —and failed to signal an untimely knell.

I was gravely disappointed missing a listento the ringing bell of Destiny’s phone.An opportunity hails but once in a life, for the Future is a map that none can own.

* * *

The dark velvet drapes dramatically partand expose me ogling a recurrent purview,like a dream of me stepping into that lair:

a Black Widow’s parlor, sticky as glue.

Her web a sly net for collectors and fansof before the world lost its glamorous shine —preceding my day, whether now or back then.

Tangled in strands of a vicious deadline.

We exist by the Clock and expire if it haltsin a peeling, shabby, make-believe landgrown dimmer and drabber with each passing tock;

shocked at predictable sleights of hand.

It cannot be explained in a rational sense . . .There are many adrift, vapid souls lacking flairwho meander a Time Zone by choice or by chance,

and wonder all over what led us there.

Ruled by the movement of fingerless digits,the kind that will never clench in a ball,yet batter the living and entomb the spirit.

There is no relief from its beck and call.

Merely a measure of calm and despairthat marks the heartbeat, an incessant tide.A bass-drum echo we ache for and loathe —

a bomb counting down on the other side.

* * *

Captive to chronology must I languishin a prison without bars or synchronicity,suffering the waves of monotonous redux . . .Miss Dulcet served me Poison Pie and Tea.

74 linesAltered Reality Magazine, Issue 23, May/June 2020https://www.alteredrealitymag.com/poison-pie-by-lori-r-lopez

* * *

Kaleidoscope

I’ve been trapped in a kid’s Kaleidoscope —Sucked in by a girl who aimed it my wayThen cranked the tube and whoosh, I was jerkedOut of the broad light of a murky day.

Air is multi-colored in a Kaleidoscope,

Where you see every detail in myriad fragments.The abstractest designs inhabit these confines,And the residents speak plain Nonsense.

It’s tough to stay focused in a Kaleidoscope.The perspective is pointless much of the time.Things tend to change. Atmospherically strange.I cannot find Reason to accompany Rhyme.

A Stained Window broke in the Kaleidoscope.Remnants of Rainbows scatter about . . .I’m obliged to duck so I won’t be struckBy views twice as sharp as the teeth of a Trout.

You can’t pick the flowers in a Kaleidoscope.They move too fast and will flutter off,Disperse in a flash; from a sneeze will they dash —Quicker than Lightning at the hint of a cough.

It never rains in the belly of a Kaleidoscope.My Polkadot Umbrella keeps gathering dust.I remembered to bring it; there’s no need to wring it,Yet my Rose-Colored Glasses are starting to rust.

The world is a lot like a Kaleidoscope:Dancing mirrors of facets; reeling circles and squares.Mosaics insightful, bright patterns delightful,But the outlook is hazy and leads to nightmares.

I am turning to pieces of the Kaleidoscope —Multiplicitous hues, my contours in a jumble!Feeling warped and dissected, rearranged or inspected,Perceptions flail in a state of tumble.

There is no escaping the Kaleidoscope,For you can’t survive in fractions alone,Transfigured to shards and shuffled like cards.This toy has replaced my Comfort Zone.

Should you pop inside of a Kaleidoscope,There is no need to rely on formality.The rules always shift; the setting will drift,And you won’t even miss Reality.

I’ve decided to reside in this Kaleidoscope.Like a Jigsaw Puzzle being nothing but mixed,

Confetti that is flung, or Spring when it’s sprung.My combobulation can never be fixed.

I am perfectly content in a Kaleidoscope,For the scenery’s grand through the Telescope Eye.Each vivid collage may seem a mirage.’Tis a wonderful dream, like a Thought Butterfly!

Around me was gloom till the Kaleidoscope.Fate, do not pinch — I am happy to stay!You’re the Graveyard Nurse? Things could be worse?It was only Kaleidoscope Vision you say?

I’m not really inside . . . a Kaleidoscope.It was all a mere symptom. A colossal mistake.How I miss being there, and I think it unfair . . .I shall eagerly await my next brain-ache!

56 linesImpspired, Issue 6, August 2020https://impspired.com/2020/08/01/lori-r-lopezImpspired Magazine Volume Three, Print Anthology, September 29, 2020https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08K4K2KBW

* * *

Flora Dooley’s Bad Day

Wipers scrubbed in knife slashes side to sideA sheet of thick rain helping tears to hideThe world had crushed Flora’s soul againReminding her at midlife she couldn’t winHeavy tires of Semis kept rolling overThe fragile stem of her Four-Leaf Clover

Bit by bit, a brittle leaf-crackling spiritWas crying, a dying scream; none could hear itThe tyrant had stolen her last gentle dreamLike tossing a sack of kittens into a streamHoping to submerge her with a depth of sorrowAlways she clung to a branch of the morrow

Strangling, stumbling out to tremble, suffer aloneConfront the naked feelings of failure on her ownThis cataract, an unfought battle’s watery aftermathLike a frigid Baptism, an emotional bath

No refuge was left for someone damaged as sheHer sobs escaped, then she set them free

A kitten abused for a canine’s chew-toyTrauma and fear kept her latched to the killjoyThough never had he slugged her, or even yelledShe was battered inside, tethered and belledJohn had claimed her, a piece of soft property—Too young to know what else she could be

Now driving tear-stained and slightly recklessWounded and bitter, a little mad and fecklessFlora yearned to go anywhere except in that houseWhere she lived without love, hitched to a lousePicking up the pieces endlessly knocked downThis time she vowed she would rather drown

Than return to a cage, that eternity of wallsBoth invisible and plain, the unhallowed hallsOf a man without regard for considerationFlora lacked the least control, bound by frustrationChildless, at his mercy, with only a Library CardTo save her from an early grave, but it was hard

Not to give up . . . She met her eyes in the mirrorRed-rimmed they wept; lids flapped to see clearerAs the road wavered, its vanishing point indistinctFrom rain and teardrops that couldn’t be blinkedFlora’s heart was kind, yet today it seemed cold . . .It cut like chunks of glass, no edges to hold

Empty of forgiveness, abandoning all hopeShe was at the end of a very long ropeHe wasn’t going to change; things wouldn’t improveSick of his Merry-Go-Round, this needle in a grooveTwisted fantasies played out, murder plots to rectifyFlora swore if she remained, someone had to die!

An Only Child, a lonely woman, nowhere to turnRaised in a home with an absent father, an ugly burnMarking her chest from the end of a cigarette —The reminder of another bad day at a LaunderetteMommy said she was to blame, an unlucky charmA second scar itched where a blade nicked her arm

Mom got angry in the kitchen for being a smarty

What else could she expect? Life was no partyJohn told her at lunch when she lifted her forkHe didn’t like fat girls; “Are you expecting the Stork?You should go on a diet. You need to lose weight.”Then, humming, complacently finished his plate.

“It was your fault for letting yourself be bruised!For having a weakness!” Flora self-accused . . .Cheeks burned, and her throat was so tight it stungFists in a deathgrip, the steering-wheel wrungA puffy parched face guarding stifled emotionFilled her view of the rear, channeling a notion

She didn’t have to go back; she could leave this townHaving thought it so often wore a very deep frownOn a visage that tension had weathered too soonImpossible. It took confidence to change one’s tuneFlora realized, quite stunned, she was braver to stayThan the courage required for running away!

“I have nothing,” she whimpered. He paid for it allThe vehicle, this clothing. A shiverous pallSquirmed between shoulders, a chilling reflectionHow completely dependent upon his protectionA woman could become, as if she were ownedThe enslavement of females historically condoned

Like a slug, Time crept when you weren’t lookingAltering perspective. Her rage a pot left overcookingTemper and despair had boiled past the rimUntil Flora couldn’t imagine a future with himHer foot accelerated while the opposite braked —At a Stop Sign, the gold Sedan jolted and quaked

An auto behind slammed against her trunkMildly denting the boot in a metallic thunkA minor accident, a simple fender-benderFlora panicked the Police might apprehend herStepping to the pavement, she approached a manWho emerged dragging a child from his Van

Flora experienced a strong flash of recognitionPeering at the girl, a sharp twinge or premonitionShe knew the child’s torment, her silent anguishAnd could not permit an angel to languishIn the presence of filth, an obvious thief

Gazes met; she must act to end the girl’s grief

“Are you out of your mind?” a surly goon brayedHis tone belligerent, he vented and sprayedThat women shouldn’t be allowed to driveHe had the mentality of a disgruntled BeehiveAnd reminded her of an insulting similar jerkWho liked to tell her she was too dumb to work

Destiny summoned. Lips formed a poutThe child needed help, there could be no doubtA victim glared; her vast well of wrath ignitedLong suppressed, now a wrong would be rightedAs if training for combat in the armor of painA champion blared “Run!” and charged quite insane

Astonished, the guy toppled releasing the childWhose defender grabbed her hand then smiledThey darted to Flora’s car. She locked the doorsA creep regained his footing amidst furious roarsHe yanked at a handle and pounded the glassFlora bumped him peeling tires to rescue the lass

She sped with the girl, checking the street behindA Van came into sight, its driver Hell-inclinedThe engine growled; a monster ate the distanceFlora swerved, putting up valiant resistanceShe had never felt so alive, adrenaline racingAs two vehicles rumbled forth, the latter chasing

Flora screeched to a skidding halt before a StationBlasting the horn, she dashed with trepidation —The girl in her arms. They reached a Front DeskBreathless, she described their pursuer as grotesqueOfficers investigated the hysterical reportAn abductor was never captured or taken to Court

The family of the girl would be traced and notifiedA happy reunion, but the hero liedGiving a false name, she had quietly slipped awayThe Newspaper called it a mystery the next dayFlora Dooley read the story then caught a liftWith a Trucker down the highway. Life was a gift.

132 linesImpspired, Issue 6, August 2020

https://impspired.com/2020/08/01/lori-r-lopezImpspired Magazine Volume Three, Print Anthology, September 29, 2020https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08K4K2KBW

* * *

The Miser’s Demise

Death arrived in old flesh and fine cloth, partially clad,The arrow of pain or love clenched tight, a bleak visage sad.Rigid of purpose, showing no sign of pleasure.Around the chamber competing sprites took measure.

Rascally or hallowed, demons and angels flockedIn a candle’s waning, a dim fate to be unlocked.The mortal path divided, the end of road unsure.Amidst a fog of vices, despite a grim humor.

The decline of a tight-fisted fellow at hand,Congested shadows breached; unsavories swept in a band.Out of concealment, a swarm of night-goblins crept.Infesting the chamber, a fey congregation leapt.

With Heaven to wrangle over a spirit long drippingOf impurities and stain — defective morals slipping.Prosperous, an example of covetous ambition;A lapsed heart, an errant being, tumbled toward Perdition.

Beside the man’s bed, gripping a sack of wealth,Did a creature tempt, offer gold exchanged for health?Perchance a fading churl sought to bribe the Devil,His back to an angel; a bare soul in dishevel . . .

Naked as a babe, or a pauper who lost his shirt,Robbed of the Five Wits by horrors covert.Indulgent, unrepentant, attempting to redeemBy purchasing more life, as if it were a dream!

A gentleman’s condition might seem less than haleOn devout contemplation, well-nigh the ghastly veil.How he blanched from proximity and wizened for fear,While the vermin of Darkness gnawed at an ear.

Yet was more behind the story of his shameful revenue?Could a motive lurk behind this macabre retinue?

For a thrifty type, the payment of bills induces woe,Thus a painter depicting his life the Miser did owe,Since the Maestro balked at laboring on portraits for free,And what use to a man in his grave would it be?

Glad company brought rent above modest regardsFor one with fortunes in land, not a game of cards.Whose properties stretched from bakery to pious steeple;An accumulation of tenants, scores of indebted people.

Merchant or cleric, brother or nephew bearing goldTo fill the coffer within an unadorned household.A pinchpenny’s hearth, no visitors welcome to tarry;For this reason would a delinquent never marry.

Enter the Master, himself prone to comfort and ease,But he balanced his religion like the sword of Damocles.Paint flowed in his blood. In the Arts, succeedingThrough toil and devotion, his effort far exceeding.

Guided by lofty missive, the premonition of alarm.Striving to make examples, shield the ignorant from harm.Simple folk lacking time to ponder, easily stirredAs a kettle of pottage; the flights of gnat or bird.

Commissioned to honor a sinner’s diminished days —No deathbed confession — a tale of prosperous ways.Presenting instead the warning of a knight’s fall.His last struggle for glory. The vain corruption of it all.

Brushstrokes conveyed a less-than-humble man’s greed,Unable to part with his possessions and need.Through disgust or amusement, portraying the surplusIn a recreant’s chest; a knave’s overladen truss . . .

Like a bony fool bound for the ferry on Acheron!Without insight, examination, no work of art is done.

Whether a keen eye recorded the hoarder’s gilt gleam,Or repeated a lesson, a vision, the cause of a scream;Perhaps the device by which to punish or mock,Reducing a patron to a laughingstock.

The public can merely conjecture, historians surmiseAny dab, every texture’s meaning, what they symbolize.Fantasy or a glimpse of truth? Parable or belief?

Ars Moriendi, Memento Mori. A moment of human grief.

A painting may not look the same for each set of eyes,The cleverest linesmith leaving points to analyze:Pieces of puzzle to define and arrange, many minds construe.No interpretation identical; no perspective the same view.

Upon final inspection, what advisements to conclude?Was the scene a mere caution, or something more rude?A chastisement of fault. A scolding or bewares.The reprobate’s trance. Representing foul mares.

A perishing breath while asking Death why.His last thoughts may be of rats — how large and slyFrom feeding too well in his pantry and cellar —As he aims to steal riches past the gaunt doom-kneller.

(Inspired by the Fifteenth Century painting DEATH AND THE MISER by Hiernonymus Bosch)

80 linesImpspired, Issue 6, August 2020https://impspired.com/2020/08/01/lori-r-lopezImpspired Magazine Volume Three, Print Anthology, September 29, 2020https://www.amazon.com/dp/B08K4K2KBW

* * *

Social Graces

The corner appeared to consumeWhatever strayed or stumbled withinReach. A blackhole at the far end of theRoom, sucking every ray or speck ofPositive energy, absorbing the dark out of

Shadows and soulsThe pigment and dirt; the essenceFrom anything it could lure, touch, trap

As I stepped inside the dim lair, fanning smokeEyes adjusting day to night at a blinkWaves of heat billowed off. Liquid fireBoiled in my blood, and I sensed it — almostSmelled its presence, the raw sinisterStench of things decayed. Nerves and musclesTightened. Not that they were looseI was tough for my age, slim but wiry

I cringed and considered departing beforeThe door sealed, the crack of light vanishedRetreat was not my habit; thirst was . . .

And an occasional need to rub elbows

Cursing my luck, anticipating trouble andNot in the mood, I barged to a counter, muscledMy way between bodies of Drinkers and theDrugged, a few Diners choking down revoltingMeals. The void beckoned, wordless —Yawning in welcome, the depths of whichEndured beyond sight or reckoning, an oasis of inkA multitude of Black Roses sprouting in myField of thoughts that I could do withoutThorns and all. A flash of childhood memoryDistant as the Stars, when I was very small

My head ached as if sun-loggedFrom the glare of a too-bright morningAfter being lost in a wilderness of Dusk, yetThis was the opposite, for I had come inTo escape the relentless stark shine ofSolitude . . . on a journey that led nowhere fastAnd gave me a very bad taste. A scowlNo booze or narcotic could erase

My social graces were lackingAs well as an appetite for BugsI hauled out a flask, my own supplyOf Cactus Juice — the only plant to growWild in a hostile climate: my singleForm of sustenance. Gesturing for an emptyVessel, I poured and gulped in three swallowsThen slammed the dented metal cup downAccompanied by a thin coin. Paying to feelLess alone, I turned to escape an unhealthyAtmosphere. The vibe increased, magnetic

The corner hummed in my ears. “What the heck.I’ll bite.” A curious stride. Drawn closer —Squinting at obscurity, I started to distinguishShapes from gloom and realized I had entered theCarapace of a giant insect. “Holy Mothra!”It was closer to a Cockroach I guessedMost species on the planet either perished or

Evolved. Few remained, with limited diversityExcept mutations. The Apocalypse

Wasn’t an epic bomb or virus

The civilized world’s collapse aroseFrom neglect, mindless and deliberate. FromGreed. Somehow this Roach Motel put humansIn a trance. Manipulated us to see what weWanted, expected, catering to hungersRendering us docile. The thing engulfed —Absorbed — fed upon people. A disgustingRevelation. It had no corners, just a deepInsatiable gut. My motto Do No Harm seemedInconvenient, for I couldn’t hurl a chairThrough a window that wasn’t there. MaybeI could stir up indigestion, an upset stomachOr cause a stampede! Persuading the others inThat belly of the beast to believeWhere they were required powers of persuasionI didn’t have. Instead I yelled “Fire!”A guaranteed crowd-mover. And trailed theCharge to an exit. They had to create one —Bursting, rampaging free, a panicked mob!

I left the Bug Cantina eating my dust . . .

And would strive to be more observant.

81 linesBewildering Stories, Issue 871, September 7, 2020http://www.bewilderingstories.com/issue871/social_graces.html

* * *

The Sacrifice

Digits of dread, cold as the chill of a graveFingerwalk the bones of my back in ghoulish stridesUp and down the column of a crooked spineWending like a road through the night. Woe is me,Plodding such a route, silent as a charnel resting-place —A pasture of tombs; a network of catacombs, the bodiesBuried deep to slumber undisturbed. Lucky stiffs.I envy their repose, their peace.

Cloaked in exquisite solitude I roam, unable to napOr catch a wink. Solemn as a wraith, a specterless spirit.

Hunched in reverie without words, my phantom thoughtsDark and elusive. Troubles submerged, unseen but sensed,Like a fanged bloodfiend in the mirror, for that isSurely the worst and the most free, to be glimpsed not —Even by one’s self. I’ve read the tales, the folklore.I comprehend their pain and misery.

Yet I am more alone, and spend my days wishingI were blind, to not view these scars, the mounds ofBrute force, an ogre’s shadow! Wishing not to be aware.On fleeting respites I carve a trail of un-speculation throughShadow and street. Then return to my fate, and none theWiser. Me or the masses. For my calling is no clearerTo the eye of the ignorant. No more obvious than scratchesUnder a coffin’s lid.

How comforting that could seem at my lowest point.A bed without disruption, minus the echoes from end to endOf these infernal waking minutes. The drudgery of daysWretched beyond measure, crossing any limit of sanity,While the late and early hours flit away in a moth’s aerialFairydance — too swift, too intangible. A mere blink,And then I am risen from the Keeper’s hut aboveThe beldam’s abyss.

Someone has to bear it, the weight and monotony . . .The blistering ache and dire lamentous torment of my tasks.In complete oblivion, anonymous, thankless, friendlessI labor . . . to fulfill an oath, a purpose that few in realityWould believe or appreciate. It must be carried out, so thatEveryone like you will have a chance to lead a happier life.Isn’t that how the story goes? How it’s supposed to end?I perform this sacrifice . . .

There is a larger good, I need to believe that.It is all I’ve got left to remember you. Eight years agoI made a vow, accepted the destiny of fathers and sons in ourBloodline. I was a daughter. No man-child remained of age.And I did not inherit size or strength, but had to be adapted —Flesh rebuilt from daintier, warped from beauty into beast,Transformed like a monster by gruesome procedures andParts. Ripped from the arms of my young . . .

Who I may nevermore visit, hold, or speak with.I miss you both. And fear for you. The patchwork creatureOf bulk and brawn a kind lass became has no resemblance,

No claim to such foolish daydreams. Wistful reflections.A faraway existence. Only this. My duty and ordeal.You were too small. If I might talk to you again, sweet children;If I could share a last Bedtime Story, I would explain thatOnce upon a time . . .

There were four Great Witches. Lazy. Selfish.Rancorous old women. A family of very huge, very hungrySisters. And sometimes families cannot get along. TheseSiblings fought over everything! To protect the world,They had to be kept apart . . . These hags are vital for theyControl the Seasons and Elements. Without them,A fragile balance could be destroyed. Their mother —Nature — the Planet — would be in chaos.

I and male cousins toil as Witchkeepers. The CavewitchLocked in a mountain. The Woodwitch confined to a toweringTreehouse. The Pondwitch inhabiting a cage submerged,The mudpool her kettle. Each stirs a cauldron, maintains a Spell.The Wellwitch I tend, chained at the base of a dry stone pit.At Dawn I must drag her out of bed, lug the enormous croneTo her pot, then collect sackfuls of ingredients. Fat Pumpkins.Thick Toadstools. Fresh-picked Banewort and Witchgrass.

Devil’s Hand. Goat’s Rue. Bee Orchids. Witch Hazel.Snapdragon Seed Pods. The Root of Mandrake. Flame andVoodoo Lilies. The shed Skin of Poisonous Spiders and Serpents.The Spit of Wildcats. Stray Owl Feathers and Bear Fur.Whiskers fallen from Vampire Bats. A broken Bigfoot Toenail.Laughing Hyena Tears. Lost Milkteeth from below the pillowsOf ornery sleeping Tots. A demanding list of foraged items toFeed the Witch and fuel her Potion.

Vapors of enchantment ascend the steep rounded shaft,Wafting, blending, merging with magick from her siblingsTo form a purple layer of gases, embracing, shieldingEarth. Colorless to mortal gazes, undetected. Keeping youSafe. Tomorrow I repeat the routine, climbing to the floor.Moving the Witch. Scaling the Well. Gathering the List.Hauling it to the cauldron. This time I will have slipped inside,Instead of lingering at the window.

I may look like a beast; my heart is the same thatAlways loved you. When you read this note, my darlings,Picture me as I was. Tell your father to take you far.I will not endure forever. This burden grinds one down,

And I do not want it to be yours. The world might notBe as secure, as stable in the future. You will need toWatch out for each other. Do not be afraid to live.Do not despair over me.

I must stay alert or am haunted by grim concerns.I cannot allow myself to think: What if I refused?What if I tricked the Witch to do my bidding, rather thanPermit these changes? What if I were the mother youKnew and could run off with you . . . It’s too late now,My dears. A surgeon and your grandma contrived thisRuin. I thought there was no choice. When I think,I see the truth — that I was deceived.

104 linesWomen In Horror Interview, February 2020 https://colleenanderson.wordpress.com/2020/02/21/women-in-horror-lori-lopez

* * *

The Infernal Caller

Miz Heckate according to the card shegave me, a door-to-door Saleswoman, claimedto be from a long line of Peddlers. Generations,back to Ancient Times. I watched with a faceful ofdoubt, distrusting anyone who knocked these days.She set up a vintage case — of Curious Wares(it said so on the outside) — shoving the clutter offmy coffee table. There were muffled pounds I foundalarming. “I brought you what you were never awareyou can’t live without.” She winked. Her visagecrumpled oddly, puckered like a rotten piece of fruit.I sensed an eeriness about her, then reminded myselfit isn’t polite to stare, yet couldn’t help it. Her skinhad a ghastly hue, a lurid pallor, as if deprivedof sun or ill. She was a definite kook.

A little moribund really. An infernal caller . . .

With an attitude I generally felt uncharming:the irritating, tooth-clenching, tightfisted effectof seeing straight through a pretense, a clever disguise.Was it too late to reconsider? Would it be rudeif I herded her out the door? Too late,she was opening the case. Is that a tentacle?

I blinked. Nothing there. Must be somethingin my eye. One of those swimmers. Common civilitykicked in. Hosting-instinct. I made excuses. It couldn’thurt to have a look. It was actually kind ofconvenient. And quaint. Old-fashioned. I had beendisturbed how fast my environment was changing —people devolving into privacy-mongers, less social;Shopping Malls abandoned, stores automated.Flying robots delivered packages!

The world was becoming unrecognizable.

Almost unlivable. I waited for the strange ladyto produce a sample. Instead she hoisted what may onlybe described as one of a kind — a fey unfriendly bush-head.A giant cootie. The sight made my jaw go slack.Monster cusps grinned between bulging lips the shade ofWitch Finger Grapes. “A Crumb-Cleaner!” she fondlycalled her creep. “It gobbles everything in sight,and doesn’t require a battery or plug. Your home will bespotless!” Dire suspicions grew like mold on bread,for it wasn’t what I expected. Far from a new Vacuum,this was no handy-dandy modern household miracle,no overpriced time-saver. This was a depravity,a paranormity, and it was loose in my living-room!I wanted to protest, wanted to escape, wanted tostop being so excessively polite!

I couldn’t. It was as simple as that. Too late.

I did shriek when Miz Heckate released the terror —and believe I passed out, posture rigid, eyes covered.Anticipating bites. Ravenous grunts and growling drewmy gaze. Popping alert, I glimpsed pandemoniumas potted plants, knickknacks, a bowl of fruit disappeared.My favorite chair, an oil painting, a mantel clock.The beast was nothing but a furry cavernous maw,with the personality of a Trash-Compacter.I wish I could say Mouthzilla was the worst partof a deplorable day. The madwoman unveiledher next daunting surprise. Orbs wide, I discerneda transparent blob. She hurled it to stick on the wallnear my noggin. Bam. Sucking and snorting,contorting, it turned to a bulbous countenance . . .I saw myself in the horrid aspect.

I didn’t seem well. I resembled my demise.

“A Looking-Glass that mimics and looks back!”The vendor of devilry bared a wry smirk. Queasily,I wondered if I needed to feed it. I was afraid to ask.A crude mask crossly mugged below my shockedexpression. Attempting to ignore the mirror, I peeredwith dread at an unwelcome guest — afraid she hadmore to pull out of that coffer of evil concoctions,that Pandora’s Mother’s Box (if Pandora had a mother).“Which company are you with?” A timorous inquiry.A distraction, before darting to the kitchen fora frying pan. Lingering foolishly, awaiting the reply.Leaning toward her, impatient, slightly unhinged.She fished in the case. Rummaging. For what???Nervousness caused me to sweat, till I lookedlike I could use an umbrella.

She offered me one. Bright red. I refused.

An umbrella? What good would it do? Pretty feebleas a defense. Wait. “Does it have any special features?Like a sword inside? Or a Rocket Launcher?”Flashing an iniquitous smile, she opened the meager thing.A sample of all You-Know-What broke loose, leaping,springing, ejecting. Literally. I had a house full of the mostabysmal abominations from the nether reaches!I was a mouse, a bespectacled number-cruncher whocowered beneath the covers at night, afraid of the dark.Who didn’t view scary movies, read horror stories.Didn’t even read frightful poems, or open the door onHalloween, and now this! Too late to banish her, bootthe entire maddeningly furious, horrendously fiendish,irately foul, obnoxiously fell, grotesquely formidablepack of freaks and felons . . .

Out the door — to the curb — down the street!

Huffing, anxious, deficient in valor, faint-hearted,Lily-livered, a Shrinking Violet, gandering the chaos withspeculative panic, I fought inner demons to a coward’sconclusion: escaping my Hell House, abandoning ship the bestoption. Gloom a palpable shroud, fire and brimstone a theme;I coughed on sulfurous fumes, abject. Through the hazemy mirror-image leered. The Saleslady cackled.The room tilted and whirled, a Merry-Go-Round of

ear-ringing unmirthful amusement. I surfed myliving-room floor until the wheeling-tipping Vertigohalted. Then made a dash, akin to plowing a Football Field:dodging bruisers, bumping, swerving, fleeing for theEnd Zone. My front door was sealed; I clung to the knobhyperventilating. A bell chimed. A shadow lurkedon the other side wearing a hat . . .

Was that colorful Stained Glass stained before?

A buzzer went off. Someone knocked. The pressureplunged me in a lousy mood. I couldn’t bear another visit!Normally I wouldn’t answer. Today I was doing theunconventional, the unexpected, and wrenched the doorwide, stronger than I knew — gaping at an Exorcist. I could tell from the priestly attire under an overcoat.He clutched a bag, the type loaded like a gun withsacred weapons such as a Crucifix, vial of Holy Water,string of Rosary Beads; a Saint’s withered toe.“I’ve got this,” he dramatically intoned. I prayed he did.Removing a flat purple stole to drape round his neck,clad in a bleak robe, the Padre inquired if I was cursed.I shrugged. Probably. “Where is the Infestation?”Vaguely I gestured, frowning. Wasn’t it obvious? I beganto question his authenticity.

The guy presented a contract that seemed official.

I was told to sign a dotted line. Squinting at pages,I couldn’t find one. The blanks were solid. He providedan alternative, to lay my hand on The Bible and swear I hadfaith. He did appear professional but, it was going a bit far.Where was the Liability Clause? He scowled eye to eye.“What’s the problem? You’re not a Non-Believer are you?”Technically Agnostic — I couldn’t make up my mind aboutanything. Hesitation caused an awkward silence. The scratchings,tappings, bangs, screams, howls, whispers and whimpers abruptlyceased. The Father grilled, “Are you confessing you have nocreed? You lack conviction?” Put that way it sounded bad.A shameful nod. The Exorcist tipped his hat and took his leave.I missed him. Casting a disappointed grimace and glower,extracting a snazzy heavy-duty device, a cutting-edgegadget, Miz Heckate vacuumed up . . .

Demons, creatures, mayhem, vapors, the mirror . . .

Swallowed by an enormous hose. Mouthzilla stillbounced and rolled and roamed elusive, the last to besiphoned into the case. Locks were snapped shut.The deathly-wan Hellseller lifted her vile repository.A final snarl as she swiveled at the exit: “This was clearlythe wrong address!” She leveled a venomous glare andmarched out. I was glad to see her go. Waggling digits infarewell, I expelled a sigh and slammed the door,then leaned on it. The wildest party ever had been thrownat my house! Slowly, gratefully, I started gathering debris.I would need new furniture. And rugs. Many coats offresh paint. Disinfectant. Repairs. Maybe I should move.A jolt of fear. No! They could show up again!This was the safest place on Earth. Nonetheless,I fastened four bolts.

Then barricaded the entrance with a pile of wreckage.

And a hastily-hammered cross.

211 lines(WIHM 11) Final Girls With 2020 Vision, February 2020http://elainepascale.com/wihm-ii-final-girls-with-2020-vision/day-23-lori-r-lopez-the-infernal-caller

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Infectious

Please hold this poem at arm’s length,if your arms are six feet that is,for it may be infectiousand should be handled with carebecause you never know what mightbe going around, even if nota Pandemic or Apocalyptic Virusto transform Society, Civilization, peoplein general — the vast majority or minority of uswho haven’t already been too warpedto tell the difference — into an unrecognizablecondition, whether temporary or as they sayfor good — which isn’t necessarily greatunless you like that sort of thing, whereasI personally am not so crazyabout Change.

What I am trying to get across isn’tan actual warning that you should run awaythis very instant because it woulddefeat the entire purpose of writing a poem,which is to be read, whether softlyor silently or loudly at the top of your lungs . . .possibly at the bottom if you’reinclined to draw deeper breaths thanthe rest of us, while I tend toinhale and exhale shallower thanthe average bear (not that I’m a bear; it’sa figure of speech), as if I am half-aliveor less, like a mutant oxygen-deprivedsemi-corpse-state, but that’s besidethe point . . . which isn’t quite as clearto me now.

Pinching myself to determine whetherI am human, or alive, or whatever —it isn’t the most scientific of tests to begin withkeep in mind — I know what you must bethinking, that I have the infection,that it could be contagious and reading thispoem will spread it to you, if only byvirtue of thought (yes, a notion or suggestioncan be infectious like a grin or a mood),yet I beg not to leap or spring to suchconclusions, for it is fouler by farthe spurning of literature than to catch a bug(virtually, virally) or mental illness(in your head) since we all have some formor other of those, at least part of the time(in my case I have many and have namedeach one, for I consider them family).

I will attempt once more to transmit —correction, convey to sound lessdisease-carrying — the meaning of myverse that I first sought to sharein a non-physical sense, maintaining a safedistance, heeding guidelines imposed byhealth experts (more arbitrarily, inconsistentlyby governments), purely throughthe hypnotic power of poetic lines withouta need for direct contact, for sharp hypodermicsto be involved, as the written word is a much

pleasanter pill to swallow . . . an oft-proven curefor sicknesses of heart, mind, soul . . .and I, under extraordinary circumstancesor not, just wanted to wish you well in thebest or worst of days.

Whichever it is — you be the judge —and wash your hands after reading thiswhatever you decide, for it’s usually a prettygood policy, even if you aren’t a Germaphobe likeme — not that this poem is crawling withCooties, but it might be, you never know —why take a chance? — and I guess that was allI had to say really, so it’s okay to ignorethe remainder as it will primarily be a ramblingpiece of unnecessary closure running on and onwith another sentence, another statement,a clear case of nonsense and who needs that I ask(along with “Are we done yet?”), as if we’re notterribly busy to be reading lengthy poems anymoreanyway (it seems to be a consensus, not a contagion),in which case you should probably stop —two stanzas ago.

Too late!

81 linesImpspired Magazine, Issue 8, December 1, 2020, September 29, 2020https://impspired.com/2020/12/01/lori-r-lopez-2/

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The Whistle Stop

Before everything went to Hell,some believed in Guns. Some of themstill do. I put my faith in Whistles —stockpiling a broad assortment,accumulating an array of noisemakers.I called it a collection instead ofan arsenal, yet it served the same purpose.Who could menace you to the tuneof a Calliope, a note from a Fifeor Piccolo? What villain possessedthe heart, or lack of one, to bash a facetooting a merry melody through a hollow

tube? It worked in theory, though I neverfound it necessary to put my planto the test, until the aforementionedApocalypse.

I dreamed it up as a little kid, back in the daywhen Train after Train of polished Politiciansmight show up to compete like stray dogs overa vote, shaking fists full of empty promises.Born in a town that squatted squarelyon their route of Middle AmericanWhistle-Stops . . . an impulse, a whim creptinto my brain to be as loud and raucous,as grating. Blow as much hot air as they did,but through a Whistle! It might drown theirdrivel, whet their appetites for quiet anddrive them away. The scheme had provenpointless once riding the Rails was replaced bybranded deluxe Coaches on paved highways;emblazoned Buses that could go anywheredirectly.

Gas was cheap, and the pungent punditsstarted skipping my town. Which led toa general slipping of loyalties, concerns, values,appearances. I aimed my bleats and blats atcommon hoodlums; bullies; the stagnant,now in abundance. And disaffected youths,never in short supply, to wake them up!Armed to the teeth with each mannerof Whistle: Penny, Pea, Police. Bobby,Bosun, Band. Drill-Sergeant, Dog, Distress.Sport, Scout, Slide. Cuckoo, Crow, Canary.Pigeon, Predator, Panpipes. Nickel, Brass, Tin.Wood, Bamboo, Cane. Varying degrees ofPlastic. Expelling, expending my breath onbleeps and trumpet blasts. Did it do any good?Actually . . .

I can’t say that it did. Looking back,I had grown a tad older and wiser. By thetime Society collapsed, I all but abandonedmy fanciful notions on Whistles savingthe world. But then a curious thing occurred.It turned out, Zombies do have a distinctaversion to shrill noises — high pitches;

frequent loud tones. Yet are, simultaneously,attracted by the sounds — drawn in scurrilousshuffling hordes toward such audible becksand beacons that might be food, akin toringing a Dinner Bell. They couldn’t resist.I discovered this fact while pinned in a cornerby an undead graveyard-shift Waitress afterThe Turning. I whistled like a Teapot introuble . . .

I chirped and warbled, blared my brains out.A single Zombie became an infestation.Swarming, bumping, snarling. Listening too.When I ceased blowing my horn, they stoppedarriving. Deem it instinct or habit, sensing mydoom whether by one or a hundred, I playedthat Emergency Whistle with heightened steam . . .A multitude of Biters grimaced and groped attheir heads, clawed their ears. An audience ofcorpses reeled in disgust, and the lethal ragtagmob retreated! My unexpected survivaldefied logic. Peering in wonder at an instrumentboth of peril and of rescue, I vowed to use themiracle, my contradictory conclusion for a greatergood — rather than merely to salvage my ownskin.

Many a close scrape would be had with grossblighters in my wake, staggering, lurching,stumbling toward a Pied Piper’s siren call.Chased by an increasing herd, a vicious cycleof shriek and wail as I lured the oafs butrepelled them with my subsequent breath.Striving to control the tweets and lead a crowdof unburied human remains in my footstepsas if I were John, Paul, George or Ringo.It would be my legacy, my contribution . . .Enticing Zombies to a trap. Saving lives.Passing out piffles and twiffles to everyoneI met. We took back our town. Then boardedBuses and Trains and traveled city by city toprotect against an endless legion of expiredcannibals.

Monsters. Sometimes family or friends.Guiding, guarding, moving on. There was

always another town. Like candidates on themost ferocious campaign trail. Word spreadfar too slow. This dire infection communicatedfaster. Until a Dog Whistle caused the biggestuproar. And not in the form of innuendo,a hidden message. Not political. AccidentallyI chose a rejected silent tube — carried by erroras a back-up. I had dropped my Boat Fluteand wildly fished for a replacement. Discerningno refrain, no cosmic deliverance out of theburnished stem; in panic I realized the mistakeand puckered dryly, my lips unable to makea peep without a pipe. Feeling lost, needingluck . . .

I beheld, wide of orb, the useless Whistlehad produced a brain-splitting current of starkagony — wrenching throes and spasms —the cretins dropping onto knees or writhingupon pavement. Shuddering, screeching beforea throng of hideous gourds exploded in gruesomeTechnicolor. Emboldened, we identified theexact level that would harm only Zombies,then transmitted a shocking inaudible signal viaradio crystals, channels, airwaves, acrossland and sea, connecting every possible method,through wires and batteries, beams and hightowers, antenna to antenna. It wasn’t a cure.We couldn’t return to the Past, reset to Normal.Pandora’s Jar had spilled an ugly undeniabletruth . . .

Zombies were the Future, not machines,corporations, dystopian societies. They wereus. Our next stage in Evolution. BeyondDeath. Bodies would still decay — ere theyfestered, lingered, lumbered, undying. A warpedversion of Eternal Life. What Mankind had soughtfor countless generations. Oddly gaining sharpersenses: Vision, Smell, Hearing. Even asintelligence, health, vitality waned. To halt itwe had one resort, just one defense, The Whistle Stop.Where it failed to reach, a regular Whistle wasfavored over bullets, blades or clubs that sprayedblood, promoted violence. Doctors quit battlingthe Pandemic, resources spent. My brainchild

was the final hope — Humanity’s best and laststand.

144 linesImpspired Magazine, Issue 8, December 1, 2020, September 29, 2020https://impspired.com/2020/12/01/lori-r-lopez-2/

* * *

Pandemic Protest: May and June 2020

In spite of perils and escalations —rampant Cases; Patients dying —numbers spiking in most Nations,we hear the crazy voices lying.“Reopen!” their manic bid,“and live like no tomorrow!Keep the worst statistics hid.Suppress all breath of sorrow!”

For the greediest to win,gates of cities fling aside;people charge outdoors againlike a maskless fevered tide . . .Abandoning their sense,freeing caution to the breeze,as we gape in cold suspenseat the spreading of disease.

Then, as if by wicked planthere repeats a well-worn banewith the killing of a Black Manby a White Guy’s bold disdain.Yet it isn’t one, the names abound,slain by Cops and ruthless Killers;on streets or tree branch foundthe brutal crimes of fear-instillers.

Grim parallels to horrors past,an unrelenting stream of years.Cries for Justice, Reform at lastduring weeks of Protest and tears.The present firestorm unduly litat the heart of a viral scourge,endangering some of the hardest hit;provoking a bond to forge . . .

Marching as the Human Race,united more than everto fight Oppression’s harmful traceas perhaps the world has never.Declaring in a single voiceBlack Lives Matter.Making a courageous choiceto join instead of scatter.

So obvious and true a notion . . .how did it come to this?Basic as the tides and ocean,this wave has been remiss.There is no other side to takefor the color of our skin.What difference does it makewhich body we live in?

I hope for light, I hope for healththroughout the planet at this hour.I wish for all of us the wealthto survive with people-poweragainst the height of epidemic.We are stronger as a whole,and much kinder than systemic,without a lethal rising toll.

It is time to stop and think.Time for all to quit denying,raise the blinds and see the truth,too many have been dying!Houston, we’ve got a problem —and it’s right back here on Earthtill Society accepts thateach life, each heart has worth.

Even now a glimpse of beauty —a chance to better understand.Respect is a common duty,to give without demand . . .This is History’s path unfoldingtoward a Future none have known.Generations we were moldingmay repeat what they’ve been shown.Generations we are holding

will inherit how we’ve grown.

74 linesOddball Magazine, June 29, 2020(excerpt from “Denying The Obvious”)https://oddballmagazine.com/poem-by-lori-r-lopez

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