The Dark Arts

If I look different, taller or fitter, it may be because a kind of prisoner swap has taken place. Somehow I’ve wriggled out from under the extreme judgments of a cold, tyrannical god. I’m still me but not the same. My failures suddenly seem less painful, viewable in retrospect as a series of valiant gestures against the authority of received narratives. Indigenous names for places have been restored, our pale winter bodies renourished. And so we lie down together, she and I, consumers of dreams, while angels dabble in the dark arts and the sniper kneels at the corner window.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is author of the poetry book, The Dark, available from Sacred Parasite, which will also publish his book, Akimbo, in 2025.

Burn Book

The colors bled into the paper as the flames curdled the corners. Names, dates, crimes, it all melted into ash before their eyes, disappearing into oblivion. They all vowed never to speak, even in a whisper, what was written within its binding. Their sins no longer existed.

Most religions have a bible or a creed that is a resolute anchor of all that is sacred. For those lucky souls who inscribed their names into the burn book, their holiness was birthed out of that which was not recorded. Their spirits flew forever free, their futures untied to fate or destiny.

Portmanteau

My parents named me Heaven, a combination of their names, Heather and Kevin. They said it meant I was the most special parts of both of them.

They got divorced when I was twelve, and split everything between them, including me. They never understood the irony.

One time a guy tried to pick me up in a bar by asking if my name was Heaven. When I told him yes, he was too surprised to tell me I was the answer to his prayers.

Lucky for him. His name was Mel, and that would have made for one lousy portmanteau.

The Vestal

In ancient Rome, the Vestal Virgins held a sacred place. As long as each Vestal remained chaste, the walls of Rome would never be penetrated. But...

"Did you hear? One of the Vestal Virgins is pregnant."

"What?"

"Pregnant. The belly's showing."

"How in the world?"

"Everyone thought it was Marius or Septimus that did it."

"Did either confess?"

"No, not even after torture. They put other names to her. Claudius, Tullius…"

"I can see one of those guys being involved."

"But the Vestal denied it."

"Huh?"

"She said it must be some kind of immaculate conception."

"What? That excuse again?"

From Guest Contributor David Sydney

Love Hurts

Sometimes I think I must have imagined that night. It was like one of those direct-to-video action movies with Bruce Willis or Nicolas Cage – blah blah, pow pow, and over in something under 90 minutes. We tugged at each other’s clothes, moaned each other’s names, rubbed, sucked, writhed. I was bleeding so severely afterward, my bottom lip split open, my eyebrow practically torn off, that I almost passed out. Instead, the world persisted in behaving recklessly, ringing the doorbell and then running off. I knew without knowing how I knew that all things were the same thing to the dark.From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's newest poetry collection, Heart-Shape Hole, which also includes examples of his handmade collages, is available from Laughing Ronin Press.

Payback

On their Golden Anniversary, he started calling her by different names and nicknames on a random basis – Stewie and Stewbabe, Audrey, Boobala, Doc, Squig, and so on – knowing he’d never forget her real name, but figuring that when he finally reached the peak of Mt. Alzheimer he’d be able to cover it up a little longer, give her less to worry about.

One morning, she asked him, “Did you sleep well, ummm…” hesitating as if trying to recall his name.

“Yes I did,” he replied, frowning at her smile.

After that, he knew he’d never play the alias game again.From Guest Contributor Ron. Lavalette

Ron.’s debut chapbook, Fallen Away (Finishing Line Press) is now available at all standard outlets. Many of his published works can be found at EGGS OVER TOKYO

Sightseeing In The Subway

There are names scratched onto the walls of New York City subway cars. Monday it was Mark. Tuesday, Dylan. Wednesday, Fatima. Thursday, Kat, and Friday, Lucy. The poorly carved letters, engraved with care, resemble the jagged handwriting of a preschooler; It's something inexplicably human. Though the scratches will fade, and the steel of the cars will corrode, I like to think otherwise; the remnants of these people will linger long after time forgets who they are. Every name I spot, a wave of tranquility washes over me as I stand in a mess of busy people in a busy city.

From Guest Contributor Eshal Yazdani

The Indestructible Presence

I am no stranger. I have existed as long as humans have been on this earth, perhaps even longer. I have had many names through the ages. It doesn’t matter what I have been called, the outcome is usually the same. Whether you are human or animal, I will make you sick. You may not die but you will suffer.

Margaret learned that I am real, even though I cannot be seen with the human eye. My brother, Ebola, made her ill in Nigeria. My sister, Hanta, did the same to a handyman in Colorado. I am the ubiquitous virus.

From Guest Contributor Janice Siderius

Hubert And Sylvia

When Hubert met Sylvia in first grade, he didn't like her. She called him names like Fatso and Freako and Huber-Boober. Hubert in turn called her Silly Sylvia or Chubby or just Stupid. But he couldn't get away from her, since everyone was in alphabetical order, and Hubert Hindeldorf, belonged right behind Sylvia Hickson.

Sometimes Sylvia would put her head back so that her long hair was resting on his textbook. Sometimes she would drop her pencil and then poke him in the leg while she retrieved it.

By eighth grade they knew each other quite well. Eventually, they married.

From Guest Contributor Anita G. Gorman

Homer

Marjorie and her husband Herbert thought that names were important. When their first child was born, they named him Homer in hopes that some day he would be a major-league baseball player. Herbert used to laugh at the concept even while he predicted that Homer would be inspired by his suggestive name.

When Homer was three, Herbert bought him a baseball bat. Then it was Little League and high-school baseball and finally the college baseball team. Marjorie and Herbert were ecstatic; their dream was coming true.

In the end Homer majored in Classics and wrote an epic poem in Greek.

From Guest Contributor Anita G. Gorman