Illustration by Chinasa-Nnenna

Sun Drunk

teeming leaves in a cup of someone who loved me. 
loose and fluttering 
— preferred it that way 

brimming with entropy,
you drink down the scarlet tide
and take the rose warm swell since  
you saw no ally among us, 
leaking into burdened water.
i hold fast to a blade once loyal, my boasting bedfellow 

aching with an unconscionable knowing,
it burns in my grip, 
	i am not its master. 
i turn towards the ghost of you
and see we beg like twisted mirrors, 

careful confiture, drowning your hands
i hear you in the dead of night
(out damn spot!)
bursting drupelet, kill me well.

i know what comes for me 
a fate well-met at dawn,
this noxious nightshade chants farewell.
i close my eyes.  

you stand before a massacre
and tell me it smells of spring.
the taste rips right, and i see crumbling clouds 
where people should be. 

i wake with blood in my mouth.
	“you bite your tongue in your sleep”
this is what you tell me. 

i am sour and bubbling, 
crushed leaves sail through me 
like dancing rocks in a stream. 

you left me in the sun too long.

dried me out and pressed me down, 
watched the last of me seep from my open eyes.
i have seen what is to come,
the bottom of her cup left for me 

i have seen the ladybug’s hide
black spots in a red sea 
a toothpick to pluck out my wings
nestled deep in the grooves of your mouth
these crushed leaves, a brutal brew

warning, they tell me 
grow not 
sullen fruit, fallen leaf 
only wait,

for you are soon to be
		sun drunk

and 

dead. 

wicked women

morning hope holds a frozen form, 
my tears have calcified
the stroke of summer’s supple hand awakens 
a once-shivering sleeper held riverside ice  
one more step, once more taken further 
onto the vilification of that tired killer 
under burning suns, magma will ooze 
from the blade of the executioner 

next, i lay my head on that marble block 
let the scythe descend upon my stretching neck 
stretching, stretching i spy faces in the crowd, stones in their hands 
weighted suspicions balance eagerly, they think me a harpy 
they prepare for a broken blade, for the killing hand to be struck down 

through lightning, or the working hand of hades, 
i call upon nothing, i mouthe no incantations 
my twitching fingers ache to snap,
to move through air, 
topple mountains and trees, 
turn eager stones against their keepers 
i do nothing as i crave this, 
after long nights spent in windowless chambers
hearing exclamations for exsanguination 
i crave this 

i wanted the pyre
i wanted the thaw, 
an undeniable, unbecoming desire to consume me, 
to consume the watchers too 

let us burn together, 
let them have their delirious delight
through my delectable demise 

i am their savage sister and they give me no choice 
since 

they wanted a picture, 
a souvenir, 
a commemoration of a wicked woman, 
a wild wench, 
they want a lock of hair, 
a single rib, 
my fingernails and tongue, 
i welcome them to it, 

let them keep me in their homes, 
on their mantles, 
on their dining tables 
let me stretch my shadows in the depths of their abode

let me darken their doors, 
i will fade the blood marked there. 
He will come for their sons. 

they will keep me above their wells 
and i will whisper to neptune. 
he will come for their daughters.

finally, when their homes overflow sanguine
i will leave them with their gaping loss
let their tears calcify too 
let them feel that hollow ennui 
and soon, when they whisper the wind will shake 
when they scream, the world will move 
as their hands whip through air, thunder will boom 

only then, will they see we are all wild women 
we are all senseless scourge 
we are all harbingers of horror 
we are all wicked 
and all wicked women die too soon 

i will wait for them 
for my new savage sisters 
my nefarious novices 

come, there are still words we must say 
to the sky, 
to the sea, 
to the wind

come! there is malevolence to make
come! there is sorrow to sow 

Feast!

i sleep in a violet vase 
clear walls for the watcher through the curtains 

i eat solid cubes 
edges scratch my throat, bloodhungry vulture 

i scream a silver sorry 
and bored blossoms rush forth, petaldeath pelts

disinfectant on the window pane 
can they see me now 
my skin is peeled, i’m fiercely burned   
wars won on a pyre

choice parts of me soon to splint
so tender, markedly sweet, 
translucent-tree, leafmeat
sweet-sorrowed, nascent nymph
unholy veal 

passive disc watches me
futile fingers scratch rose rims,
falling flowers dance diametered 
forking fingertips,
bracing breastbone,
thorning thigh, 
red sea opens, sourstaff split

none can be wasted
spilling without just cause
all watchers turn to glare
while i waftwise waltz in the room

pupils dilate dawn, saliva drips down 
mourning mouths charter chanting chins
my meat spreads south, compass disassembly 

i wonder who will have my magnet heart, 
who will have my arrow-blade brain 
i find myself sliced and speared 

bred for the hunt he tells me
     it’s a service, 

                she had no wild in her.
                she hid no wild in her
                slippery slight slaunt.


bred for the hunt they whisper 
	it’s a delight,

               she had no wild in her.
               she hid no wild in her
               soaring sap sinews. 

bred for the hunt i murmur
	it’s a slaughter,

             she had no wild in her. 
             she hid no wild in her 
             simple soiled spite.

i nod my chin jerking, 
his breath already smells 
that forbidden fruit

i close my eyes, lower my fork,
i feel the fare fuss,
i tear a trembletithe
holding my breath,
a mile at a time
i bite 
and 
i bite 

i am sacred and true
i am withered and gross

i am flame and ash
i am wave and foam 

i am flesh 
i am home 

i am divine 
i am decay 

i am none 
i am done. 

Chinasa-Nnenna is an Igbo poet, essayist, and orator. They have a marked interest in themes of consumption, death, the “other”, ancestry, and the mystical. Chinasa describes herself as an orator and emissary of sweet spellwork. They post poems as well as essays on their Substack: https://ch1n4sa.substack.com/

If you would like to be part of The Chamber Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like more mainstream fiction and poetry with a rural setting and addressing rural themes, you may also want to check out Rural Fiction Magazine. 

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THE RECLUSE

Solemn and alone, he steps from the grey confines
of his tiny flat in the city
descends the stairwell with a burglar’s grace
casts his glance each way
then traces a path through the foggy night.

The moon hangs overhead like a tarnished pendant
the buildings, gaunt and tall
rise up like tombstones in the night
and a faint breeze passes through sleepy streets
like a sigh.

Pausing in the black throat of an alley
he watches the shuffle of whores wrapped in wool
as they lead drunk clients
through the maze of shadows and filtered yellow light—
they will be warm tonight.

And then he is alone again
with loneliness, his friend
and the shadows that crawl upon the walkways
and the yellow mist that wetly creeps along
gathering in folds about his feet.

AFTER A LONG WALK

Under the umbra of a grand rock elm
He sat in a nook along the river’s sweep
The breeze whispered tales he’d heard a thousand times
Soothed him, as he slipped into an amber sleep.

In his dream a boy not too unlike himself
When he was young and fishing in this stream
Played a clever hook against the current’s pull
And caught a rainbow glittering in the dream.

He followed barefoot down the grassy slope
Through pearly mist, around a hidden bend
And came upon a steep and stony fall
Far from home—a place where rainbows end.

He wondered if his dream was something more
So rubbed his eyes to softly set it free
Blew it gently with his waning breath
And watched it sweep as far as he could see
As far as he could see.

Both “The Recluse” and “After a Long Walk” first appeared in the Horror Zine (Spring 2022).

Tom lives in the foothills near the Palomar Observatory (Hale Telescope) with his wonderful wife, Michelle, and three critters. His work has appeared in Wyldblood Press, The Horror Zine, Sirens Call, Hiraeth Publishing, and HellBound Books (pending).

If you would like to be part of The Chamber Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like more mainstream fiction and poetry with a rural setting and addressing rural themes, you may also want to check out Rural Fiction Magazine. 

Please repost this to give it maximum distribution.

A Goddess
Ashen Dark
(Finite-forged
Of Death Entire)
Dances
Macabre
‘mid Ancient
Graves 
Grotesque
In Wretched
Sins Denied.
A Priestess
Profligate (Hewn of
entropy and doom)
Waltzes
Dolorous
To Music Ill
Of Deadland
Dream.
Dances
Frenetic
To Song Chaotic
In Hell’s Cotillion Black.
Twirls
Putrescent
With essences
Hadean
Billowing
From gaping maws
Of capacious Tombs--
Heaven shunned
Iniquitous
To Alchemic
Chambers
Celestial
In dust and bone
Of Necromancers
Libertine.
Wicked Scourge
Of Grace and Truth
In Dim Antiquities.
Warriors Etheric,
Wayward felled--
Debauched in Life.
Unrepentant in Death!
Soul-barter to Erebus!
Sinister Progeny
Of A Goddess
Dark
Enrapt 
In Waltz
Obscene…
As stars glare down
Narcotic
And spheres spin on
Inane.
As One Twilight World
Or another death rattles
Into Terminus…
Somewhere
Within the Myriads 
Of Multiplicities:
The Specimen
Queendoms
Of A Goddess
Negate.
Ruler Supreme
Of Dominions
Corpulent
In Manifest
Demise.
Fodder-Lands
Stretching
Sick and fallow
Under
A Manic Moon
Malign.
Wanton Estates
Of A Daemon
Magus
Adorned
Abhorrent
In Malignances
Apocalyptic with
Abandon and Decay.
A Deity Dread,
Fetid with Worms
Waltzes
The Cinders--
Bloated bleak,
Light and Wisdom blind
SHE Staggers
Staccato
‘mid
Miasmal Tombs
Of Mystic Knights
From Dims of Yore
(Keepers of The Light
Expelled from Eden).
Enchanted Shamans
Once Esteemed
And Rare
Seduced Demonic
To All Things
Vain and Vile.
To All Things
Bred in Animus
And Sin.
Brutal Zealots 
Of A Goddess
Occult.
A Black Hen
Of Horrors
August…
Prancing
Cock-Mock
Crazed and
Sardonic
Atop
The shattered
Stones of Olde.
Atop
The Eons-battered
Flesh and Blood
Abluted stones
Of Tombs Forgot--
Entangled viscous
In archaic moss
Glinted
Gangrenous
Under a
Manic Moon
Malign.
Under
A Death Phase
Moon…
Grinning
Full Beam
Primeval-White
Upon A Goddess
Pitch with Hate:
Royal Regaled
In funereal
Fineries of
Dread and Gloom.

A Goddess Dark
Finite-Forged
From Cumulus
Of Death Itself--
Waltzes the Cinders
To Ritual Song
Of Decompose
‘mid Ancient Graves
Interred Grotesque
In Wretched
Sins Denied.

Beckoning in Dance Macabre…

The Antediluvian and Wicked Dead--
The Unclean and Unrepentant:
High Shamans of the Blackest Arts,
Lured from the Light expelled from Eden.
Lost amid All Sacred Lies Platonian!
Condemned in perpetuity
To Waltz Demonic
In Hell’s Cotillion Black.
Cacophonous Black,
Chaotic and Dolorous
With the Music Ill
Of Deadland Dream.
De-Evolutional Dream
In the Nebulous-Night
Of Negate—Ad infinitum:
Chattel Grim To
A Goddess Dark,
     Under
     A Manic Moon,
     Hell-Conceived
     In Entropy and Doom.

Dean Schreck is retired and relocated New Yorker.  He has been writing since the age of fourteen.  His work has appeared in Space and Time, Weirdbook,  Magical Blend, Literary Hatchet, Eldritch Tales, New Myths, Penumbric, Littoral, Altered Reality, Owlflight and Trembling with Fear, among others.  Dean’s work in Comic Books includes—Bloodscent 1988, Now Comics Twilight Zone #7, and Two Tales for Marvel/EPIC Hellraiser Series.

carpe noctem

forget the disappointing daylight
and that job that destroys your soul
flip up your only window and
wait for the night to roll you
out onto the anonymity of city streets
where darkness and neon lights
offer you their midnight bargains
where you can move, breathe and run
freedom in the coolness that shadows bring
redemption by the crowd for all you've done
not a child of darkness but it's welcomed denizen

river saviours

come with me to the river's edge
among the armour stone and stunted trees
at nightfall when it's darkest there
listen to the long ships sailing
to oceans and to river ports
their props and horns a Symphony
to we strays that wait for saviours
on river edges promising salvation
without condition or comitment

astral

i call down darkness
to cover me in its understanding
with cold caresses cover me
sing me raven lullabyes
under clouds of black tresses
as blankets for my own
there to sleep, dreamless
the setting moon as witness
to the rising of my soul

sacrifice

in his full youth and alone
before  the grave that waited
he journeyed fields where bent light
revealed grace and peace of summer storms
became a voyeur to the spaces
inhabited by animals and man
touched their gods in their devotion
discovered new consciousness
and took delight in their sensualities
a purity and vulnerability in their seduction
of their ceremonies to appease the constellations
bodies painted with brightness
their souls in dancing frenzy
that touched the memory of time
and he in their fluidity could only stand
transfixed haunted in their surrender
unable by birth or nurture or dogma
to meld into the unfolding spectacle
of man and God and space itself
as the limitless sky caressed the processions
with the light of the appeased constellations
finally in surrender, enchanted
limbs in movement in mad laughter
into the world of ghosts and gods
in the fog of smoke and scents and gestures
he was touched by the exquisite
awakening into the necessary world
his journey into new origins beginning

Joseph A. Farina is a retired lawyer in Sarnia, Ontario, Canada. drawing from his profession and his Sicilian Canadian back round, he is an internationally award-winning poet. Several of his poems have been published in Quills Canadian Poetry Magazine, The Wild Word, The Chamber Magazine, Lothlorien Poetry Journal, Ascent, Subterranean Blue, and in The Tower Poetry Magazine, Inscribed, The Windsor Review, Boxcar Poetry Revue, and appears in many anthologies including Sweet Lemons: Writings with a Sicilian Accent, Canadian Italians at Table, Witness from Serengeti Press and Tamaracks: Canadian Poetry for the 21st Century. He has had poems published in the U.S. magazines Mobius, Pyramid Arts, Arabesques, Fiele-Festa, and Philadelphia Poets. He has had two books of poetry published—The Cancer Chronicles   and   The Ghosts of Water Street.

If you would like to be part of The Chamber Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like more mainstream fiction and poetry with a rural setting and addressing rural themes, you may also want to check out Rural Fiction Magazine. 

i find the courage 
and go to the place of my before 

breathe deep 
as i cross industrial wastelands
as smoky grit envelopes me 
blizzards spew trauma in my mouth and eyes 
and speeding desperados calling mean 
hurl toxic glares in my anxious path

i pass naked seekers 
gathered at dark tunnels 
gesturing me back in to game the play 
ignore lurking leering ghosts 
who spin at me with dancing need 

i flee from where i dwelt in trap 
but now leave near behind

he is sitting in an empty shrine 
outside a shut-down city
on his garbage-strewn way 
footpath couch beside him
smoking magic 
and sipping on a warm can of lust 
engrossed 
in watching a scrawny creature 
picking through an overflowing bin 

i sit next to him
i came back to see you i whisper 
he offers me a puff of green 
i shake my head in no
i need to ask you 
why you never tried to show me 
why it was left to me 
to escape the nowhere hole
to see if any strength to run remained
to discover that absent willpower 
i could never gather up
to know if i was more than me 
and the chaos i sucked in daily 
i want to know why you didn’t show me 
what and who it was 

he stands and paces 
bangs his hand 
on burning prayer graffiti walls 

stop avoiding true and tell me why 
i shout in pleading cry

he ends his racket 
and slumps to ground 

we watch the creature rip apart 
a wasted dream 
it’s dragged from the bin 
eyes glazed 
as greedy mouth gulps perished now
slimy blood of once 
spilling over all that never bloomed  

he looks into my face 
and i sense a sadness so real
i see someone i have never seen before 

i don’t know why i didn’t give you 
when and why you were 
he mutters
as the creature skulks away 
with fear remains 
dribbling messy trail 

i stand and look up 
to a smiling just realised sky 

and stepping gently away 
from where i never began
i say goodbye to my before 
and float away

as he fades screaming 
into nothing now remains

Stephen House has won awards as a poet, playwright, and actor. He’s received international literature residencies from The Australia Council and Asialink. His chapbooks “real and unreal” poetry and “The Ajoona Guest House” monologue are published by ICOE Press. His next book drops soon. He performs his acclaimed monologues widely. http://apt.org.au/author/?authorinfoid=58 

If you would like to be part of The Chamber Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like more mainstream fiction and poetry with a rural setting and addressing rural themes, you may also want to check out Rural Fiction Magazine. 

At Home

in that old house
that now shivers
next to the idling
wrecking ball
There they lived
the elderly couple
they befriended
nearly everyone
They never traveled
at least at home they'd
rest
all the time all day long
So we were the ones

the ones wrong
when after many days
some years ago
a squatter emerged
from the home
the home of that elderly couple
He needed to find food
nothing left in the freezer
How was that old couple
I remember a neighbour ask
Very quiet,
he said
so very peaceful
and not at all
like this sunny day but
dull, porcellaneous, gray

No trouble at all. They were
at rest
at rest when
I moved in

The Car

I love my broken heart
she said
I'll love it until the day I die
If you don't believe me
she said
Just remember he's
the one now
forever in bed
Because of my broken heart
she said
I can walk and sing
He was in that car that night
not alone, not alone
she said
If I could choose again
and again and again
the broken heart I'd take
she said
the broken body suits him
now he's all alone, alone
she said.

Mj Lemon is a west coast writer and teacher who has been writing poetry for several decades. He is based in Greater Vancouver, though spends as much time as possible hiking western Vancouver Island.  He also maintains a Poemhunter page that features selected works.

If you would like to be part of The Chamber Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like more mainstream fiction and poetry with a rural setting and addressing rural themes, you may also want to check out Rural Fiction Magazine. 

The silent land eludes me,
Hidden by a veil of smoke;
Created by my burning memories,
And the flames on my soul;
The visitor spoke of peace,
An eternal sense of calm;
But she lays beneath poison ivy,
Covered by funeral flowers’ dust;
I converse with the devil henceforth,
Play around on the grave with her;
Blaming her for the noise in my head,
But never burying her instead.

Akshita, is just another teenager trying to find her place in the world. Passionate about writing she calls her pieces the extensions of herself. Her work has been published in magazines like Masticadores India and Masticadores USA. She welcomes visits to her blog: Anthology of Akshita’s Thoughts.

If you would like to be part of The Chamber Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like more mainstream fiction and poetry with a rural setting and addressing rural themes, you may also want to check out Rural Fiction Magazine. 

slow

when I saw her
[lying face up] [breath shallow and slow]
I knew it was time. 
as I approached, one tear rolled down her temple and slowly around her ear.
I reached out to catch it 
with the tender pad of my finger
but when my skin touched hers
I thought I heard a whimper
(or maybe a moan)
fall out of her mouth. 

that made me angry

I don’t like when they do that
I thought she was different
	better
than the others
	all the ones before

though she couldn’t turn her head
her eyes found mine
and for a moment
my breath became very hard to catch

I had to turn away then, giving her only my back upon which to stare
opening the cupboards, I pulled down my supplies
[my tools]
jostling them a bit so she would know what I was doing, what was coming.
when I faced her again, tray in hand, 
her eyes were closed, wrinkles forming at the corners from her effort

she would not open them again

I leant down 
(softly)
	whispering -you were my favorite- 
(gently) 
	brushing my lips against her eyelids
(slowly)
	pressing the damp cloth over her mouth and nose

I laid two fingers against the delicate spot on her neck, my thumb resting under her chin.
I held the cloth, my fingers, [my own breath]
until I felt her heartbeats 
slow
       slow
	       stop

Suzanne is currently permitted to share residence with her 16-year-old cat. In between brushing and feeding Miss Poo, Suzanne enjoys trying new recipes, listening to audiobooks, writing, and drinking wine. Her works have appeared in 1807, Bartleby, and Children, Churches, & Daddies. 

If you would like to be part of The Chamber Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like more mainstream fiction and poetry with a rural setting and addressing rural themes, you may also want to check out Rural Fiction Magazine. While you’re here, why not drop by The Chamber’s bookshop?

“Q. Could intimacy with robots lead to greater social isolation? 
Short answer: Of course. But you knew that.” 
- Gina Smith, “Full Monty: Our Sexual Future with Robots, Detailed” 


touch me with your plastic lips  
and hands of cold rolled steel
then make me feel your molded hips
and gasp with breath unreal


your algorithms make me hot
I kiss your naked code
Just offer me your circuits taut
I’ll hack your pleasure mode


Spent within your toaster arms
an emptiness I feel
Though tempting are your hardwired charms
why can’t I make it real? 

David Newkirk is a retired attorney living in Kansas City, Missouri. His poetry has appeared in
The Chamber Magazine, and his fiction has appeared in Flash Fiction Magazine, Amazing
Stories, Literally Fiction, Fiction on the Web, and other places.

If you would like to be part of The Chamber Magazine family, follow this link to the submissions guidelines. If you like more mainstream fiction and poetry with a rural setting and addressing rural themes, you may also want to check out Rural Fiction Magazine. While you’re here, why not drop by The Chamber’s bookshop?