Full Table of Contents

Features

• Quarks & Strings • Marge Simon
• President's Message • Deborah P Kolodji
• Treasurer's Report
• Stealth SF • Denise Dumars
• 2008 SFPA Contest Report
• Into the Woods • Jennifer Crow
• Reviews from the Small Press • Anthony Bernstein, Edward Cox, John Garrison, David C. Kopaska-Merkel

Poetry

• (two untitled haiku) • Karen L. Newman
• Unearthed • Marcie Lynn Tentchoff
• Like Ants • James Gianforti
• Opening Scenes from a Universal Horror Film • John Tumlin
• Black • M. Frost
• Bled Too • Dana Stamps II
• We • Amy R. Handler
• Cruel Gravity • Geoffrey A. Landis
• Omega Men • Robert Borski
• Untitled • G. Sutton Breiding
• Vampire Tea • Nancy Ellis Taylor
• Last Man Standing • Tyree Campbell
• Zone • Wade German
• (three haiku) • Robert Borski
• (three haiku) • Kurt MacPhearson
• A Shiver Runs Through It • Carolyn Clink
• Charlotte in Waiting • Ann K. Schwader
• (five haiku) • Oino Saki
• (untitled haiku) • Tyree Campbell
• Two Scifaiku • Kurt MacPhearson
• Sweeney Among the Straight Razors • JoSelle Vanderhooft
• Embedded • P.S. Cottier
• nightmare no. 9 • Mike Allen

Editor's Choice Poems

Charlotte In Waiting, by Ann K. Schwader

"l'ange de l'assassinat" (the angel of assassination)
—Alphonse de Lamartine, Histoire des Girondins

Marat bleeds out in rivulets of rage
revealed at last; their primal color bright,
indelible, & damning on the page
as accusations spewed into that night
his scrawling fed so well. Now ink alone
is not enough to satiate its dark
starvation any longer: spirits flown
from everywhere the Terror found its mark
have clotted in the corners, craving breath
& blood instead. His final list of names
condemns the serving-maid who brought his death,
the founder of this feast still unashamed.

Alone among the ghosts he made, she waits
four days to feed them. Join them. All of this
is on the canvas somewhere like a kiss
she left behind, a footnote to her fate
encoded in the humblest of things
white-hilted blade, white quill. White pure as wings.

—after Jacques-Louis David, The Death of Marat

---

Sweeney Among the Straight Razors, by JoSelle Vanderhooft

after T.S. Eliot

Switchblade Sweeney sweeps his floors—
grey curls and stubbly foam, stray molars'
snaggle roots, their pitted tops decayed
down to the stringing pulp. He hums

balladeer; Scarborough Fair, Greensleeves,
lampblack hair bound back to scrub and scour,
lips summer-chapped, eyes sleepless-rubbed, but clear.
The nightingales are singing in the eaves

and from the shop below, the swirl of starch
the onion sting and clink of ale, the chop
chop chop of carrot, shell of peas.
The unmistakable waft of oregano.

On palm and knee he pigeon-picks each hair,
each fleck of flesh, each shred of cuticle,
a writhing leech replaced in her glass bowl.
So much work to be done with surgeon's care

he near forgets the bigger mess—the man
ash-cheeked, exsanguinate, distressed
upon the chair. His fingers cramped to claws
even in death. The blood spreads everywhere.

Straight-edged Sweeney sighs like bakehouse smoke
and dips his rag into the lavabo.
The water drizzles gristle—like the pulp
that Mrs. Lovett folds into her pies.

Hair, teeth and surgery; the little things
school one in patience and respect. The way
the razor pares the flesh, the fallow bones
blasted from age and bodily neglect;

musculature of thorax, thigh and back;
mucous-machinery of myelin;
gut avenues beneath the stomach trap;
ghost lungs that in their silence lie

like lovers in dread of discovery.
The steel-jawed barber wonders, what is man
(steadily as he carves), but sallow skin
gilding all this gross anatomy

as truth is buttered up in flattery
and crust covers Mrs. Lovett's pies?
How easy, then, it is to slice the meat,
drop it down the shaft, fetch broom and sweep?

His work almost complete, serrated Sweeney
Magpie-picks the leavings for the gruel.
The day is done, and cruel things still are cruel.
The day is done, and smoke churns from the chimney.

From bone to skin, men are monstrosities.
The nightingales sing in the laurel trees.