The old man looked at me and sighed.
He had winter on his breath and burning eyes.
“They told me they were all just gooks, but they lied.
I fought for my country, but my country passed me by.
Down in the jungle where only those who lose their souls survive.
1974 and a hot sun on the rise.
I killed, I killed, I killed, and my friends died.
I returned a different person from the one who said goodbye.
The one who kissed his mother and his girlfriend,
took his gun into the skies. …
Beneath the branches, shadows darken to me, children, you must harken. ’Tis not a night to wander, no for in the dark, the wild things know It’s the night of the Masquerade. The wolf prowled out this hot spring night and he prayed to the moon to give him light With a flick of his ears, a twitch of his tail he followed the haunted music’s trail to the place of the Masquerade. The creatures, great and small they came in masks and capes, no two the same and under the pale cool moon, they danced beneath a canopy of…
When my eyes are closed
I see in vivid color
a smiling child in a field
with daisies in her hands
a smile as big as summer on her face.
Her innocence could fit
in the palm of my hand.
My hand held the pill.
My hand, its creases roads leading nowhere.
I sent the pill down
like a guided missile to my womb.
So much blood.
Like a battlefield, or
the ghost of a battlefield
where the living dragged off
the remains of the dead,
answered their questions
closed their wondering eyes
beneath a red, inflamed sun.
The book follows the adventures of Cricket, a girl who has the power to see brightly colored “dust” which other people can’t see. On her 12th birthday, she learns that her mother (who died when she was born) shared this talent. She is given her mother’s journal and sets out to try and learn more about her strange abilities.
But when a creature from the mysterious world of Aeryland abducts her baby brother and leaves behind a terrible…
drank through my temper tantrums
and my F in Algebra, my football games
my first kiss.
My golden-haired mother, you
“Would Never Touch the Hard Stuff.”
You searched for peace of mind but did not find it.
You hid your poetry-filled journals from me-
but not your wine.
Your voice echoes in dreams.
I follow your ghost
through a trail of notebooks
smeared ink with tears
Trying to stay on the back of
the coal black stallion
you couldn’t ride.
I told you. I said “You have to stop. Please.” And you said, “No…
Sarah Lynn Terzo is a fiction writer and poet who has published short stories and poetry in various literary magazines. She graduated from Trenton State College