Dissociation By Maggie D. Fedorov The totality of the absence of sound would shame the dead; whom in their inability to stifle their very existence despite having stared long into the eyes and heart of death, yet have failed to accomplish that for which an empty vessel has but one purpose: nothingness. And so the shame of the dead at their own failure to cease existing consumed them, though at no detriment to the volatile cessation of being which looked out at the unassuming world peering expectantly, albeit blindly, in on it. The very palpability of such a void continued unfalteringly on its merry way about the usual task of maintaining the sanctity of such a desolation; leaving in its wake a very definite absence of any and all being. Succubi By Mark J. Mitchell He never got his witch — the potent night that cracked open under her icy touch. Or silence, wrapping him soft as a cut reed shroud. All his short time was spent in light too ordinary. He’d constructed small shrines against her coming. Didn’t lock doors just because she might appear. But patient dust covered it all. Years dripped by like old sleet melting midwinter slow. He stayed contrite, humble, a book of spells on his oak desk. Each morning brought coffee, clients to meet, traffic. The cold goddess he dreamed escaped his life. Now death tugged his broken breath, next to candles — out. Bells — dumb. His witch came late. 33 S. PUTNIK
34 Publizr Home