Misery – Sarah Doughty

Sometimes all I want is for you to hold me. Let me feel your strength. Let me smell you, feel your arms around me and know you’re real.

I want to tell you how much you mean to me.

But, instead, I’m frozen in silence. And it’s only in those moments when I think you won’t really look at me, and see how much I’m feeling — how much I’m hurting — or hear me if I say something, that any sounds escape my lips.

The words you do hear are often apologies. Beneath the hundreds upon hundreds of I’m sorrys, what I really want to say is that I wish it could be better for you.

Because you don’t deserve to share my misery.

You shouldn’t have to be my savior.


Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right here! To learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her website, stalk her on Goodreads, or both.

Must The Misfit Be A Masochist – Mick Hugh

You told me to buy presentable clothes and I did, a whole new outfit from Target. Neat slacks and spiffy shirt, even found shoes to match. And now here I am dressed like a fish trying to understand what it means to breathe air. We’re toddlers on a see-saw, you and I, for the first time trying to find stability. But this gala is full of coroners. My first big affair for a serious career, and my editor escorts me to a corner booth to meet the district managers who pay us both. I laughed at the right jokes but I kept my mouth shut, and they never once saw the tattoos ‘round my gums. The molars I had pulled from eating rocks as a drop-out. Clean-shaven clean-cut and dressed like the guest of a judge who doesn’t recognize my face from four years before, I could maybe fit in if my conscience didn’t heave. The walls are turning purple. Faces start to swirl with open jaws of twisting laughter, vortices of features. The chandeliers are bleeding light. The hotel porters are cackling rapists out in the foyer looking for a fix and I don’t know what I’m into but I’m out in the rain. I am the news man who screamed out the window and tossed himself to pursue his echoes. There is a limo parked in the curbside puddles, seven porters to open the limo door. Out steps the Big Man himself, CEO of Gannet. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.” My editor masturbating through his pocket. I am pouring vodka into champagne so no one will notice the changes bringing back the alcoholic. Unemployment gets me paid about half as much but if I don’t need a car or to keep my appearance, well, that’s money well saved and spent at the bar. No – I should give you a call to keep my head grounded but our conversation cannot be heard by these howling de Sades. Their suits are worth more than the hearse they’ll wheel me out on. I am cackling at the bar. Am I the Marquis in the mirror? Behind me spins the eloquent calculations of Murdoch’s publications, wives and the mistresses of breaking war stories and the talking heads from GE that just won’t quit. I am performing Coyote Ugly on the bar, finally shouting all the things that should be said. I haven’t had a care in the world since Makers’ Mark let me forget the debts I owe and the kids we support and I may be the Marquis in the mirror but god damn these cruel fools, our see-saw will stay stable if we place a god damn trailer on it.


[Mick Hugh is the genius behind the neon fog, and is a #1 bad ass.]

let’s be strangers in new orleans – samantha lucero

next-day sore, fabled romance memories we’ll never have again hang themselves over the morgue of my shoulders. they sling there on the murderess hews of my collarbones like a noose. over the rubble of me like a shapeless dress, they cling. my sadness is a one-size fits all.

there’s a bad mystery of stitched up, prayer-words smothered & held hostage underneath the humid crucifix game of your nails. maybe we could be in love. your calloused hand, my beating throat. memories are ghosts that can physically embrace me; embrace us.

like  dirt-sweat in a ghost-tour day of that hot mouth street in New Orleans, where the grinning specter-folks wanna stay like pasted gaslight posts in booze-colored hurricane beads. where there’s oiled-up candles in the balmy night lining decatur & quivering tarot cards in a sweaty palm telling me i’m meant for greatness. hail the votives for a virgin or a saint-chief, & watch palpitations at every pop-up table. my black boots on powdered sugar all over the concrete long after sleep should’ve gently tapped, hold the the dust of cemetery reflections & the 24/7 menu of the cafe du monde.

meet me for smoke, insomnia, primordial love.

you don’t need the blonde smiling photograph of her burned onto the back of your eyelids when things go wrong for us.

i don’t need the memory of him sewn to my back like a corset scar, like an unhealed secret.

we can make our own memories now. let’s erase them.

let’s erase it all & grow old

in the sweet, warm arms of new orleans where desperate, spilling souls belong. 


[Samantha Lucero is an unseelie that has a nursery of shadows at sixredseeds.]

indie support saturdays – tony & nicole i. nesca

Canadian Author Throws Literary Rulebook Out of Window, Releasing “Rebellious” Book of Short Stories that Captures Life’s Boundless Tapestry.

(Please note: all written content of this post is by
PR.com, and Tony Nesca, of Screamin’ Skull Press.)

The whopping sixteenth book by Tony Nesca, ‘Junkyard Lucy’ is a bold and intense collection of stories that free-flow to cover everything from sex and death to rebellious youths, music and love. It’s all part of Nesca’s mandate to wage war on literary mediocrity, stand out from the crowd and compel readers to cut to the core of what it really means to be human.


EXCERPT FROM JUNKYARD LUCY, “THE BOY, THE GIRL, THE FLOWERPOT IN THE SKYWAY.”:

It wasn’t so much the people he worked with that he hated, it was people in general – he went through all the proper motions, all the expected pleasantries, but still it came out all wrong. Nor did people like him. He didn’t bring out hatred in them, just a sort of disinterest, a boredom of types. Which he returned in abundance. He liked girls, liked their legs, their clothes, their minds, but could not muster the courage, the desire to actually interact with them. Still, they were more interesting than the boys. He often wondered how different they would feel if they actually knew him, if they saw how sensitive he was, if they saw that he was more like them.

And what if they knew that he wrote poetry at night, beautiful, haunting street poems that any editor would kill to publish, but that he kept hidden as a punishment for the stupidity of the world.

Yet, there was one girl, yes, there was one.


WORD MUSIC
By Tony Nesca

deadly silence got me low-down-hungry
thinking about that hot-dog stand on the dismal corner
beside the old beggar hand extended
16 year old virgin in hot-pants looking mad-bad-dangerous
crimson fireball streaking across the sky
middle-aged hooker front tooth missing
she beckoning my weary ass one I love absent in world-gone-hungry
Dixieland trio singing happy songs amidst angry
downtown laughter low-down drug-mood feeding me
blue music pornography rattling my brains
wrap your lips around my broken heart happy
whiskey bottle-shards hitting the off-keys feel that
fucked-up saxophone tickling your ribs
atom-bomb-luvly feed me sin-soaked dead flowers on my grave
warm kisses moonlight smiles
her distant touch,
her long-dead-musings,
her love-gone-missing,
her hips arching in the afternoon lust-dance,
and your blue velvet beauty grinding away from me
in the gutter-love sunlight…


(Read the press release for Tony Nesca’s book “Junkyard Lucy” and more information about Screamin’ Skull press, Nicole I. Nesca, and Tony Nesca below!)

Continue reading “indie support saturdays – tony & nicole i. nesca”

indie support saturdays – fundead publications is seeking poetry submissions about SALEM

(Please note: The written content/imagery of this post belongs to FunDead Publications.)

FunDead Publications is now accepting poetry submissions about Salem,MA, or poems SET IN Salem, MA.  Submissions for this collection close April 30th, 2017.  While we enjoy many forms of poetry, we are specifically looking for classic styles, especially poems that tell a story, history, lore, or folk tale revolving around our home city of Salem.  We welcome poems about witch culture in Salem, but we’d also love story poems about the spice trade, pirates, or literary history.  We’d also love poems about the cemeteries, or or other spooky locations in Salem.   Remember, we are a horror publisher, so the darker the better!  Think: The Highwayman by Alfred Noyes, The Lady of Shalott by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, ANY POEM by Edgar Allen Poe, Rain on a Grave by Thomas Hardy, A Reminiscence by Anne Brontë. While poetry does not have to rhyme, we do enjoy when it does, but it is not a requirement for this anthology.

Instructions: Send your submission by midnight on 4/30/17 to DearFunDead@gmail.com for consideration with “Salem Poetry Submission” as the subject line, but please read our guidelines below!

Content Requirements:  Poems must revolve around the subject of Salem, MA, be set IN Salem, MA, or discuss Salem, MA.  All forms of poetry, traditional or free verse will be considered for print, though we are partial to traditional styles.  We’d like to try to keep pieces below 2200 words each, so please keep this in mind as you write.  We will allow up to TWO submissions per person for this anthology. Unfortunately, we are unable to accept reprints at this time.

Required Information:  Please include your first and last name, phone number, e-mail address, and mailing address on your submission.  When sending us your poem, please include information about yourself and your writing/publishing history in the body of the e-mail, as well as any other relevant information.

Payment:  Accepted submissions will be awarded payment in the way of $5 upon printing. It may not be much, but we are a small and humble press just getting our start and it’s all we can offer at this time apart from our excellent social media promotion and beyond. If your submission is accepted, you will also receive a printed copy of the anthology!

Response Time: Please be aware that it may be six to eight weeks before you receive a response from FunDead Publications, and because we are so tiny, sometimes we get a little behind.  As the poetry anthologies do not have a set release date and a slower and lower submission level, you may not hear back until we have set the official release date (which will be announced by April at the latest).

Diversity Statement: We at FunDead Publications believe diversity is what makes fiction wonderful and unique and we welcome submissions from writers of every race, religion, nationality, gender, and sexual orientation.

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