FULL MOON PRESS PRESENTS:

Featured Story:

Ashes of
Roses
By
RACHEL
BLACKBIRDSONG

Also in this issue:

The World on the Wall by clint hale
Honey, I’m Home by tl boehm
The Hound of Hells Lake by Tomás Ó
Cárthaigh
Malakh by Siobhan MacIntyre
AND MORE
 FULL MOON PRESS

Forever Nocturne Magazine

Volume 1, Issue 2

Herein are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product
of the authors’ imagination or were used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Non-fiction: news articles were thoroughly researched before being accepted for
submission, and links are given for more information.

All rights reserved © 2008 Full Moon Press

Edited by N. L. Gervasio
Co-Edited by Siobhan MacIntyre, TL Boehm, and Jessica F Hayes
Cover Design by Jessica F Hayes
Magazine Design by N.L. Gervasio and Siobhan MacIntyre

PHOTO CREDITS:
“The Praying Monk on Camelback Mountain” (page 4) ©N.L Gervasio
“Night Bud” (page 10 & front cover ) ©Sanja Gjenero
“Ruby Beach, Washington” (page 11) ©Sharon Gerlach
“Old Leaf” (page 15) ©Chris Carney
“Trees” (page 17) ©Karol Wiszniewski
“Pippa” (page 17) ©Laura Glover
“Jemez Mountains, New Mexico” (page 18) ©T.L. Boehm
“Cucumber” (page 19) ©Hagit
“Leaves in the Sunlight” (page 19) ©Andrea Kratzenberg
“A Tree Grows in Oklahoma” (page 21) ©Jesse F. Hayes
“Blackbeard’s Island Palm” (page 26) ©Roger Kirby
“Rope” (page 29) © Michal Zacharzewski
“Rope 1” (page 30) ©Dez Pain
“Lake Superior Frozen Over 2” (page 32) ©Patrick Moore

Published by Full Moon Press

PRINTING HISTORY
2008

This magazine, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form, without the prior
written permission of the publisher or individual author.

For information, address:

info@forevernocturne.com

ISBN:

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA

1st Edition

MATURE CONTENT: VIEWER DISCRETION ADVISED

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 2 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 FULL MOON PRESS ELECTRONIC PUBLISHING

Forever Nocturne Magazine Submissions

Forever Nocturne was founded in 2007 with the first

publication in March 2008 with the intention of
supporting aspiring writers. We are looking for
undiscovered talent as well as previously published
authors.

Send your submission to forevernocturne@hotmail.com.

Please be sure that “Submission for e-zine” is in the
Subject line. Do not send attachments, as they will be
deleted for security reasons. We ask that you place your
submission in the body of the email. Please PROOFREAD
your work before submission.

At this time, we cannot pay for the work we publish, as

we are a FREE e-zine. In the future we hope to offer
payment for your work and may move into other
publishing areas, such as novel-length works. You retain
all rights to your work and may publish elsewhere
immediately.

What are we looking for? New, innovative, eye-catching

original tales and poetry. We welcome all genres, and
chapter submissions as well.

Visit our profile at

http://www.writerscafe.org/writers/ForeverNocturne/
for Café-members contests.

Don’t be scared. We don’t bite—usually.

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 3 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 N.L. Gervasio – Editor
Something to live by:

Difficult: That which can be done immediately.

Impossible: That which takes a little longer.

I believe that anything can be achieved if you put your mind to it. Give up, and the world will
give you nothing. Hang in there, and whatever you want can be yours. Nothing is handed to
you on a silver platter... you have to earn your keep.

MY OBITUARY
ARIZONA AUTHOR FOUND DEAD IN ITALIAN CATACOMBS
The Arizona Republic, October 31, 2028—On
October 28, 2028, Nichelle L. Gervasio was found
dead in the catacombs of her Italian home, holding a
trowel and lying next to a recently bricked in wall.
When Italian Police broke down the wall, they
discovered the body of someone once related to Ms.
Gervasio whom she disowned 20 years ago. The
name of the victim has not been disclosed.
Kyle Fagan, husband, and their only daughter, Dr.
Aiana Fagan, a professor of Anthropology at Oxford
University, as well as her granddaughter, Luci,
survive Ms. Gervasio.
Ms. Gervasio was a fan of Edgar Allan Poe, and
wrote her college thesis on the bard. Ironically, The
Cask of Amontillado was one of the stories she used,
which narrates the dismal end of Fortunato in the
Montresor catacombs in search of the elusive
Amontillado. No one guessed Ms. Gervasio would
take the story literally.
“She lived her dream of writing,” said Dr. Aiana
Fagan. “She had a very active imagination and was a
wonderful storyteller. I still remember the stories told
to me at night that later graced the pages of several
children’s books. We’ve all had the wonderful
opportunity to get a peek inside my mother’s head,
which sometimes could be quite frightening since she
spread herself over several genres.”
In 2001, Ms. Gervasio met her second husband, Kyle
Fagan, founder of BKCustoms. Though they called
one another husband and wife, the couple never
married.
Mr. Fagan’s company specializes in custom auto-
body work and he has won several awards for his
innovations, as well as seen the pages of quite a few
custom auto magazines. Dr. Fagan’s husband, Caleb
McDermott, now runs BKCustoms.
Memorial services will be held November 5 from
9pm to 11pm at Messinger Mortuary in North
Scottsdale. There will be no burial. Ms. Gervasio
and her husband had long ago agreed to turn
themselves into gemstones. 

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 4 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 Full Moon Press
Presents …

forever nocturne VOLUME 1, ISSUE 2

Contents Featured Author: Rachel Blackbirdsong

Short Stories Rachel Blackbirdsong is an accomplished poet and freelance writer. She draws
Ashes of Roses 5 upon her Native- and African-American heritage for much of her work. Rachel
The World on the Wall 20 lives in the northeastern United States.
Marooned 25
Flies 27

Ashes of Roses
Strings 29
Honey, I’m Home 31

Serial Works
Malakh 23
by Rachel Blackbirdsong
Prose Poetry
Snowflake 22 She had such beautiful hair. He couldn't stop thinking about it. Silky and black, it
cascaded down her shoulders and between her breasts, teasing him to think of what other
Poetry Corner treasures she had yet to reveal to him.
Beware 12
Fall from Hell 13 Up and down.
Annihilation 13 Down and up.
Violins 14 Up and down.
Untitled 14
What the Night Brings 15 This had become his nightly pleasure. His ritual; watching her sit before the art deco
Destiny 15 vanity he'd recently purchased, as she brushed her hair.
The Hound of Hells 16
Lake Up and down.
Lost 17 Down and up.
Up and down.
Blog Central 19
After she finished, he always wished he'd taken the brush from her hand and stroked her
Editor’s Pages wondrous raven locks himself. But he'd always been so dazzled by the sight of her that
N.L. Gervasio 4 he'd never considered doing it until after she'd put the brush down, and begun examining
Siobhan MacIntyre 11 her features in the great oblong mirror that crept up more than the half the length of the
Jessica F. Hayes 21 wall.
T.L. Boehm 18
He'd given special instructions to the movers to make sure they'd take care of it when
they brought it in and reassembled it, with the rest of the vanity. The glass was original,
and he'd prided himself on being able to get it for quite a reasonable price. Of course
none of that mattered to him now when he saw how much she enjoyed sitting in front of
it. She had made it all her own. continued on page 6

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 5 FOREVER NOCTURNE

Ashes of Roses continued from page 5
It was as if it had always been hers.
As she sat looking into the mirror, he wondered what was
going on inside her. What things was she considering
besides herself?
Did she ever think of him?
She washed her face with rose water, something he'd
heard women used in earlier times to help purify their
complexions, and moisturize their skin.
No matter to him what it did, the smell of the petals in the
lukewarm water filled the room with a tender perfume
which made him forget everything except the beauty of
the woman before him.
At such moments he felt completely intoxicated. The
room swirled around him in a feverish mirage of color,
scent and sound. Her nightly visitations affected him like a
drug; one which he was happy to be addicted to.
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
She wore a pale pink gown, which was almost the same
color as her skin. "Ashes of Roses," was what he thought
it was called. It was some long-forgotten color which was
popular years ago, but had fallen out of fashion. The
material barely concealed the darkness of her nipples
which protruded from her perfectly formed breasts, or the
other darkness that was part shadowy dream, part
delicious reality which lay warm and wanton, just a few
steps away from him.
He wanted her more than any woman he had ever known,
and someday he was going to forget foolish fancy, give in
to his desire to touch the wonderful silkiness that cascaded
down her shoulders like an inky waterfall, and brush her
hair. Whatever came after that didn't matter, though he
hoped that she would grace him with a night of pleasure
that would keep him dreamy-eyed and smiling for days.
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
He was apprehensive about approaching her. There had
always been an unspoken agreement between them that
she was to be left alone when sitting at the vanity.
He could do whatever he liked elsewhere in the room, but
this space and this time were hers to occupy. Alone.
© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 6
She didn't mind him staring at her with a rapt intensity
which bordered on obsession, as long as he kept his
distance. Even those moments when he'd accidentally
knocked something over; she hadn't stopped to judge or
berate him, but continued as if he wasn't there.
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
This enticed him more, making him want to forget their
agreement so that he could break through the unseen
barrier which hung between them, and touch her. He bit
his lip as he considered the possibility. He didn't want to
upset her or worse, lose what was becoming to him the
most important part of his life. All day long as he worked
at the same job he'd had since he was young and full of
dreams, until now when those youthful dreams had died,
he thought of the moment when he'd sit on the edge of his
bed and wait for her to appear.
Though he knew she must have done something during
the day, he never considered it. To him she existed only at
night, when they could be alone together.
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
Sometimes it seemed as if he'd waited forever by the time
she sat down and picked up the sterling silver brush which
lay in wait for her delicate hand. Of course he knew he
hadn't. She always came at the same time each night, but
the anticipation of seeing her again made time move as if
it were stuck in quick sand.
Every night was the same as the night before. He'd sit on
the bed and cross his hands over his lap and wait for the
blessed moment when the light which shone underneath
the bathroom door went off. His heart pounded, and his
hands moistened, because he knew that soon the door
would open and she would come through it. Then she
would sit down on the padded stool that lay ready for her
to mount, and look at herself in the great mirror.
He had no idea what it was, but there had always been
something wonderful about watching women. He had
always enjoyed watching them, especially when he could
do it without them suspecting. Now that he had grown to
be the sort of person who faded into the wallpaper as soon
as he entered a room, it was easy. The world could pass
him by. Yet, that was what he relished. Now he could sit
and watch tables of women laughing carelessly. Brushing
continued on page 7
FOREVER NOCTURNE
Ashes of Roses continued from page 6
aside a strand of hair. Gossiping. Crossing and uncrossing
their legs. Licking their lips.
But sooner or later they'd see him. Feel his eyes. His
attention. His desire. Then he was forced to stop.
Of course it was different now. This woman didn't care
that he watched her. Didn't care whether he desired her or
not. Her lack of concern was one of the things which drew
him to her. It also made those rare moments when she'd
look over her porcelain shoulder at him, all the more
enticing.
The touch of her gaze sent electric shocks through his
body. The warmth of her emerald eyes made him alive in
a way he hadn't thought possible. It didn't matter that she
seemed to look through him. In fact that only excited him
more. Her eyes not only bored through his skin, muscle,
bone, blood and marrow. But beyond him. Past the walls
to the bare architecture and form of the room which they
shared.
He never questioned her about what it was she was
looking at. It didn't matter if she was thinking about
someone or someplace else. That she might be dreaming
of some former lover or some better time. The idea that
whatever it was occupied the same space as him, was
enough.
Someday perhaps, she might notice him. Just once. Then
perhaps she might not look any further than where he sat,
with his hands clasped and his eyes feverishly adoring
her.
She had a way about her like no other, and he knew he
would be content to watch her for the rest of his life.
But he wanted more.
His dreams could barely contain all the possibilities of
endless sunny days spent picnicking or holding hands as
they walked through some enchanted wood. He wanted to
share every beautiful place and every beautiful moment
he'd ever had in his life with her. These thoughts filled the
parts of his dreams that the image of her brushing her hair
didn't. Though he knew that what they shared was
probably all they would ever have, he couldn't help
himself. She'd made him greedy for more.
If watching her brush her hair sent brought him such
ecstasy, then what would it like to watch her put on her
stockings, or better yet, take them off?
© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 7
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
Dreamily licking his lips, he felt his manhood being
resurrected from the vampire coffin of his pajama
bottoms. He'd given up on love longer ago than he cared
to remember, and had settled for a life alone. It had come
too easily to him, and at too early an age. He'd let career
come first. Had made it his mistress and told himself that
it was all he needed. Happily he'd found out that he was
wrong, and that he wasn't too old to enjoy it.
It had all come so easily to him. All he had to do was
wait for her to come each night, and the dreams of love
he'd abandoned were not only reawakened, but reborn.
The brush glided through her black hair.
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
Then she'd flip it over, and brush it from the base of her
neck up, until every strand was smooth on both sides.
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
"Mmmmmm....," he unconsciously sighed, hoping she
would notice him. But as usual she continued preening
herself as if that was what she'd been born to do.
He stopped looking at her for a moment, putting his head
down and staring at the Oriental rug which had been there
almost longer than he'd been alive. This had once been his
parent's room. It had been their haven. The place where
secret things happen that you had to grow up to find out
about, but could sometimes hear wisps of through the
vents that breathed more than air throughout the house.
Now it was his. He hadn't looked at the rug in years. Long
ago it had become one of those things taken for granted as
always being there. As if it had been there since the
beginning of time. Now he tried to find something in its
weave to distract him from the growing frustration which
was growing inside him. If only she'd pay me some
attention. That's all I want. See me! Look at me! Notice
me! Is that too much to ask for? You will see me! You
will notice me! He nodded an affirmation to himself. Then
lifted his head.
continued on page 8
FOREVER NOCTURNE
Ashes of Roses continued from page 7
She remained as always, transfixed by the image of
herself in the mirror, and didn't see that he'd gotten up
from the bed and was approaching her.
The palms of his hands became clammy as he grew closer
to her. His legs, thick and heavy, weighed down by the
task at hand, moved unsteadily across the floor.
Foolishness! All I'm doing is walking from one side of the
room to another. How is it possible that I'm finding
something as simple as this to be such a strain? He
thought, as he drew ever closer to her.
The scent of the rose water became stronger, almost
heady. There was something almost unpleasant to its
sweetness now. Something which grew stronger and more
unbearable the closer he got.
She put her brush back in its place on the vanity table, and
began her regimen of examining every unseen flaw on her
face. She didn't see him standing behind her. Didn't feel
his hot breath as it grazed the top of her head. Didn't
notice that he was as close as he'd ever been in his life to
passing out. Nor did she notice when he bent over and
picked up the sterling silver brush from off its place, then
stood back, half afraid to begin, and half afraid not to,
brush her hair.
He stood above her for what felt like an eternity. Though
in fact, only a few seconds had transpired since he'd
gotten up from his place on the bed to where he now
stood, brush in hand, ready to touch the magnificence of
her ebony hair with his hungry, quivering hands.
He brought the brush up, and as if in a trance, set it lightly
upon her head, before sliding it down and through the
silken strands which had become more valuable to him
than anything else in the world.
He looked at her reflection, hoping to see her smiling. She
wasn't. But he continued, hoping that it would reassure her
that this was alright. True, he had broken one of their
mutually agreed upon rules, but he hoped that since he
was doing it in such a simple and gentle way, that she
would take pity on him, and his feeble attempts at
intimacy.
But being unsure of himself, and afraid that she would use
his impulsiveness as an excuse never to let him watch her
again, he dragged the brush too quickly through her hair,
and tangled it into a great black coil.
© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 8
He tried circling the brush in the opposite direction, but
only succeeded in wrapping even more of her hair into an
unholy snarl. She sat frozen before him. Still not seeing
him. Not noticing him.
Just the same he knew he'd better fix the situation or risk
losing everything that was important to him.
"Please be patient with me, my darling. I honestly meant
you no harm. Just give me a minute and everything willbe
as right as rain." He looked at the ceiling as if he could see
through it into heaven, and pleaded with his tired, beady
eyes for whatever kind of miracle it would take to not
only free the brush from her hair, but make her not punish
him for his foolishness.
"Please," he murmured partly to God, but mostly to her,
"have mercy."
But the great coil grew, now covering not only the brush,
but also overtaking his arm so that it looked like he was
being caught in a long, black web.
He began to panic, feeling that he was losing more than
his hand to the netting which ensnared it. He tried to pull
free.
Her head snapped back, but before he could apologize for
his roughness, he saw her gazing at him. There was
something cold and unfeeling in her expression.
Something far worse than anything he'd imagined. He
shivered.
"Please dearest, I promise...right as rain, right as
rain...you'll see," but nothing in her countenance changed.
Not even a blink.
The situation was quickly becoming unbearable for him,
while the irony of it stared back at him from her cold
green eyes. What he'd wanted, yearned for, hoped for, had
become the very thing that he wanted to be free of. Now
she noticed him, and he wished to God that he could turn
back time and return to the sweetness of being happily
ignored.
What was worse, he had no idea what to do. He was
trapped, and saw no way of freeing himself outside of
cutting the hair that enshrouded him. He pulled at the
brush again, at first more gently than he had the first time.
Nothing.
continued on page 9
FOREVER NOCTURNE
Ashes of Roses continued from page 8
He looked down to see the coldness of her eyes becoming
even colder, and he knew he had to quickly remedy the
situation or else risk her condemnation.
He felt looseness in the coil around his arm and began to
steadily untangle himself. He didn't bother to question
why what had once held him tightly now seemed to be
letting go. He was just grateful to be set free. Then,
somehow, he was inexplicably ensnared again.
For a moment, frustration made him forget everything and
he jerked his hand back with the same fierceness as a wild
animal caught in a trap. But he didn't have the courage to
gnaw off his hand to free himself. So he pulled back
again. This time so forcibly that his movements caused
her head to jerk back and forth in unison with his
endeavor.
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
Nor did he notice the tiny tear forming at the base of her
throat which grew bigger and bigger with every pull of his
arm.
She said nothing, but only continued staring at him. If she
could feel the skin on her throat tear it didn't register on
her face. Only the same unyielding look from her ever
darkening eyes.
A small trickle of blood streamed down between her
breasts as he continued to yank her head this way and that.
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
He didn't hear the sound her skin made as it continued to
rip, nor did he see the bloody hole growing larger at the
base of her neck. His only thoughts were of freedom as he
persisted in trying to release the maniacal hold of her hair,
which teased him by letting him get a good distance from
her, only to pull him back, to her and her upturned eyes.
Somehow he managed to pull himself away until the back
of his legs grazed the bed, where he wished he'd
remained. His heart pounded. Fear and heartbreak coursed
through him, making him feel as if he were being seared
from the inside and out, at the same time.
He didn't look at her, afraid of what he'd find staring at
© 2008 Full Moon Press
him. He knew he'd ruined everything. Grief, mixed with
the still heady scent of rose water, made him feel dizzy,
and he fell across the bed and onto the floor.
It took him a few moments to realize that he was no
longer standing. He looked up at the ceiling wondering
why God had played such a cruel joke on him before he
noticed that he was free. He almost squealed with joy, but
restrained himself, afraid of what sight would be waiting
him when he got up and looked in her direction.
Would she still be there? Or would she have left
him,never to return, and never to delight him as she had so
many times before? Would she forgive him for breaking
their unsaid rules and letting his desires overtake his
reason? Would she understand that he was just a foolish
old man in love with the sight, thought and idea of a
woman that he had no idea how he'd ever been blessed to
have in his home?
Or worse. Would she still be coldly devouring him with
her eyes?
He couldn't see her from where he lay, and was tempted to
forever remain on the floor rather than face the possibility
of never seeing her again. Then he heard a familiar sound.
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
She was still there!
And better yet, she was brushing her hair.
He tried to sit up too quickly and almost fell back down,
before he grabbed hold of the footboard and caught
himself. The sound of her brushing her hair made him feel
giddy.
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
When he was able to sit up, he inhaled deeply, noticing
for the first time that the scent of the rose water had
ebbed, and its fragrance had returned to being pleasant
and enticing. He closed his eyes drinking in this moment
of redemption. Images flooded through his mind of all the
things he wanted to do to show her just how much her
forgiveness had meant to him.
continued on page 10
Page 9 FOREVER NOCTURNE
Ashes of Roses continued from page 9

He would give her everything.
Even his soul.
Finally the need to see her overtook his apprehension. As
he slowly opened his eyes iridescent tears trickled out.
The first they'd released in ages. It felt like a pleasant
sting, but then again everything was pleasant at this
moment, because he hadn't lost her. He hadn't lost
everything.
His vision was blurry a bit at first, but he could make out
the shape of her as she sat before him. He sighed deeply
and contentedly then spoke, "My darling, please..." His
voice caught in his throat at what he saw staring back at
him. He would have screamed except that he couldn't
breathe. His face became an explosion of tremors as an
earthquake erupted beneath his skin.
Yes, she was still there as she had always been, and yes,
she was still brushing her hair, but there was one very
special difference in the woman before him. Her head and
neck no longer rested in their usual place, but were
clasped in her arms. Her hands worked steadily to release
the brush he'd tangled in her hair. The head jerked this
way and that as she continued to try to free the brush from
her clasping strands.
fool are you? Please don't tell me that you've never seen
that before?" Then she picked up her brush and began to
pull out all the hairs that doggedly remained upon it. After
cleaned them out, she once again began to brush her hair.
Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.
Somehow this calmed him. Happily everything was as it
had been before.
He never questioned her, nor asked for an explanation.
What had happened was as unexplainable to him, as why
she'd come in the first place. He'd learned not to ask for
more than what he'd been given. Watching her from his
place on the bed was enough. He knew that this was
where he belonged. Where he would always belong and
where he would always be.
It was his proper place
He was willing to give up everything for her.
Even his soul. 

Up and down.
Down and up.
Up and down.

Finally she got it loose. Then after returning the brush to

its proper place, she did the same with her head and neck.
They, like the brush were back in their proper places.
Except for the dried blood between her breasts, and the
reddened line at the base of her neck, there was no
evidence that anything wasn't as it had always been.

Everything was as right as rain.

The only thing askew about the whole scene was that he
still remained on the floor with his mouth gaping open

and nothing coming out of it.

He couldn't move. Fear and repulsion mixed in an unholy

brew in his stomach and the only thing that kept him from
opening the floodgates was that he realized that she was
looking at him.

This time however her gaze wasn't cold and terrible, but
more matter-of-fact as if she were saying, "what kind of

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 10 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 Siobhan MacIntyre – Editor
MMM…TASTES LIKE CHICKEN Since I am the (proud/frustrated/looney) owner of seven—
yes, seven—feline friends, many of them rescued from a
Who doesn’t wonder what people would life on the streets, what better demise could I experience
say about them when they die? than death by stray cat?
A writers group I belong to issued this Should this fate befall me, I pray someone take care of the
challenge around Halloween 2006. I kitties, because if they kill me, I’m sure my husband will be
thought long and hard before I wrote it. I wanted to be sure extracting his revenge in the form of a big ol’ plate of
it would be something believable. almond “chicken”.

My Obituary
LOCAL AUTHOR SIOBHAN MACINTYRE DEAD AT 70
(and we still can't pronounce her name)

SPOKANE, WA—In a freak accident Sunday afternoon
involving a stray cat, a ladder, and a teenager hot-rodding
down an alley, local horror author Siobhan MacIntyre was
fatally injured and pronounced dead at the scene by
paramedics.
MacIntyre, a devout cat lover, was attempting to rescue—
and possibly domesticate—a neighborhood stray from the
roof of her garage when the accident occurred. According
to bystanders, MacIntyre was perched on the very top
rung and had just managed to pick up the cat when a loud
backfire from a car spooked the animal. The cat then
proceeded to run over MacIntyre's head, down her back,
and down the ladder to safety. MacIntyre fell from the
ladder and landed on the ground ten feet below.
"I always knew cats were going to be the death of her,"
lamented MacIntyre's husband Gail. Thirty-five years ago,
MacIntyre fell down the basement stairs, fracturing her
tailbone and one bone in her forearm, after tripping over
her cat Abby, one of the many strays MacIntyre adopted.
Over the course of her life, it is estimated MacIntyre gave
refuge to over eighty stray cats, although she never had
more than eight at one time.
MacIntyre authored twenty-three paranormal romance
novels, along with numerous short stories, poems, and
newspaper articles. She was active in online communities
for writers and in her local church. MacIntyre was an
evangelical Christian and ministered in her church choir
for thirty-one years.

Witnesses said she appeared to be uninjured but possibly
dazed, as she then sprang to her feet and sprinted toward
the cat, calling "Here kitty kitty!", directly into the path of
an oncoming car. These injuries proved fatal. The driver,
whose identity is being withheld by authorities because he
is a minor, has been cited for negligent driving. He had
been hot-rodding down the alley at excessive speed all
afternoon.
MacIntyre is survived by her husband of 47 years, Gail;
daughters Kassandra and Valerie; son Joshua; and various
grandchildren.
Services will be held at First Church of the Open Bible in
Spokane, Washington, on December 1. In lieu of flowers,
the family has asked that donations be made to the local
animal shelter, S.C.R.A.P.S.—where the cat is. 

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 11 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 Beware
In the verdant forest dark and drear
“The pleasure lady, all is mine. Listen! I shall sing.”
With a voice as clear and lovely as song of larks,
did sweet Iago sing. Enthralled by his spellbinding song
I listen, awed, and soon my head does lightly rest
where the deadly nightshade grows
upon his perfect shoulder, and my raven hair he strokes
and the ivy weaves poisonous tendrils over the boughs,
with his delightful hands.
dark boughs of the towering trees,
I await my love, sweet Claudio, he with the fluttering hands
“Away my lady, we must go!” He whispers in my ear.
and the deep, loving eyes.
“For I am not a peasant boy, but a gentle prince!
Silence above all silence chokes the babbling brook,
And ah, but you are fair and light, so you must be my queen!”
the whistling wind, this eerie stillness broken
“Dear Claudio…” I whisper, gazing in Iago’s eyes,
by my trembling, tremoring heart.
those green, poisonous spheres that trap my glance.
O fear! What if he does not come,
“He is not here, but I am in his place.” Iago croons; his pale
ravaged by wolves or trapped by fairy-kind or hags?
fingers
Come quickly, love! I weep; I beat my breast
touch my blushing cheek and brush upon my lips.
in pained anticipation!
“Now would you be my queen? A single kiss will seal the
covenant.”
“Fair lady, why do you weep?”
Those eyes, that voice, those lips so soft and rare,
A voice above me whispers, soft but powerful,
so bewitched by that intoxicating song,
gentle and somehow mystical.
I cannot resist accepting his amorous kiss.
Pricking up my raven head, I answer shy and still afeared,
“I wait for my love Claudio, I wait, but he has not come,
“Now, frightened child, you are mine.” The voice above me
and I am frightened by the forest.
laughs with pride;
I have heard that fairies meet with ladies in the woods,
I glimpse a pair of wind-wrought wings unfolding from Iago’s
and tempt them with a kiss and the promise of wings
back,
to following the wicked beasts
as we climb into the air, drifting toward the fairy circle,
back to the fairy circle, where the captured ladies
the fairy prince cackles lightly in my ear:
dance and sing and are the slaves to the fairy prince and
“Your love would never come for you, fine lady so deceived!
king!”
I saw him in the verdant wood, stumbling among the foliage,
and as a peasant boy I came disguised and asked for what he
“Oh kind lady, do not fear!” The stranger smiles impishly,
looked.
“For I do not have wings to tempt you by.
He said he sought his love, who waited for him in the wood,
If fairies come, (and I know how they look) I shall protect you.
and since the fairy circle needs young ladies for to dance and
Smile, lady! Then, I’m sure, you shall be thrice as fair!”
sing
He is regal, tall but willowy, with hair as gold as ripened corn
as fools to coax laughter from me, the court and the fairy king,
and vast, enchanted eyes so green the forest pales in
I slew your lover Claudio and deftly hid my wings. He lies
comparison.
dead
He pats my head and dances whimsically upon a nearby
among the stones, entwined by the poisonous ivy.”
stump,
throwing up his long, thin legs and pirouetting rapidly.
In the verdant forest dark and drear
“Forget your troubles, dance with me!” He cries wantonly.
where the deadly nightshade grows
Soon we spin through the nearer trees,
and the ivy weaves poisonous tendrils over the boughs,
laughing gaily, and I clap my hands in ecstasy.
dark boughs of the towering trees,
lies my love, sweet Claudio, he with the still, icy hands
A coy smile spreads across his lips, and thus he speaks
and the closed, darkened eyes.
again:
And I, far away, dance and sing for the fairy king,
“I am Iago, just a simple peasant boy
and weep and mourn without end.
who lives within the woods. Shall I entertain you more

by Emily Rose
as we wait for your love, Claudio?”
“Yes, Iago! Oh, I thank you for your kindness.”

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 12 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 Advertisement

Fall From Hell Annihilation

-When all life ceases to be and death bestows his presence
Yes, oh yes amongst the ruin and rubble of what once was, when there is
nothing left to be gained and all is already lost to the
You can ignore me insatiable fires of destruction and genocide, there is nothing
left to be faced, but annihilation.-
Deny me
Because you live while I do not The graveyard cracks as flesh is revived.
In the briefest of moments The solemn miasma hangs by its side.
The awakened emerge from the resting they've earned.
When you die There's no man or beast that can safely discern
The power they witness before their eyes.
You will know the truth Struck blind by the face of the god they despise.

Cower in fear as the undead rise.

In your pain This day is my rapture, bleeding your lies.

My passion will alight Sacrificed blood is the payment that hides

The shadow of truth, behind your disguise.

In your muted horror Baptized in blood, the blood of the lamb,

Slaughtered with purpose, rightfully damned.
My cries will be heard
This army of anguish sent to destroy
In your binding All that you covet. This deadly envoy,
My gestures will be felt As pure as an angel, yet tainted by hate,

In breaking you Is sent with a mission. Annihilate.

Run from this hate filled deity.

My obsession will be complete
Run from imminent tragedy.
Witness destruction of this earth.
Annihilation from its birth.

by Mr. Jodie Let the blood of the martyrs spill upon these grounds.

bby
y MMoorrggaann AAsshhiirree
© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 13 FOREVER NOCTURNE
 Waiting for Our Violins to Play untitled
They are frayed and weather worn aa m
myysstteerryy
but we cannot die without them w
wiitthhoouutt aa kkeeyy
so we pull them over our bodies
ttoo uunnlloocckk yyoouurr iinnssiiddee
and drink them down to our bellies
to keep them close ddoooorr ttoo yyoouurr m
miinndd

tthhee w
whheeeellss ooff ttiim
mee
We have come undone in the most
poetic and epic of ways kkeeeepp ttuurrnniinngg

and so we wait for our violins to play aanndd II kkeeeepp cchhuurrnniinngg

dramatically, just for us oouutt tthhee ssaam
mee nnoonnsseennssiiccaall bbuullllsshhiitt

ddrriippppiinngg ffrroom
mmmyy ttoonngguuee,, m
myy hheeaarrtt,, m
myy ppeenn
Again and again
we clog and clean out our wombs lliiee aaw
waakkee ffoorr aaw
whhiillee &
&
and we dig the flesh from our bones rreem
meem
mbbeerr m
mee

Bloated with our tendencies and disorders

we keep waiting for our violins to play bbyy C
Chhrriisstteell G
Grraaddyy

dramatically, just for us

to make our struggles known

We cannot choke on our frustrations

without emphasis
so we will go on waiting for the music
weeping beneath our reasons
until it comes
A.A. Zambrana
© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 14 FOREVER NOCTURNE
What the Night Brings
Spinning liquid threads
Furtive verses through my head
This is what the night brings
Silken whispered vision
Damnable decisions
This is what the night brings
She sneaks in through my window
Sunless spirit fills my room
Cryptic images disturbing
Gossamer graveclothes for my tomb
Silent songs unmeant for singing
This is what the night brings
Skitters in on feline feet
Prowling my intimate thought
Scares to life the dangerous things
That hell and my bad seed hath
wrought
Death follows me on flitting wings
This is what the night brings
And you wonder why
Can't close my eyes
Against this lesser light that stings
I'm mortified
By the hell inside
The shadow that the night brings
by TL Boehm
© 2008 Full Moon Press
Destiny
In the half world between dusk and dawn
She waits
Calling in low tones of wind
Through a half closed window
She taps at my door
With hands like long dead branches
Against the eaves
Dry knuckles clicking a muffled pulse
I see her around corners
Skirts rustling like leaves blown down a
sidewalk
The scent of wet earth enshrouds her
And hangs clammy in her wake
Her image flickers in my mirror
A drifting wraith of smoke in a windless
sky
Depthless indigo eyes stare sightless through
mine
Lips set as a chisel mark on her tombstone
face
She offers a new shroud
In exchange for the warmth I can’t yet give
My soul
by TL Boehm
Page 15 FOREVER NOCTURNE
 The Hound of Hells Lake
Loch Hourne, where the ghost dogs are said to be...
Barking from its rocky shore
At sailors passing by
Sometimes at the death of day
Sometimes under a noontime sky
The black dog and her starving pups
Haunt this area the locals tell
That’s known to all as Loch Hourn
Otherwise the Lake of Hell
This remote Scottish area
Would make a great landscape
Was said for a thousand years to be
Home for the creature that can change shape
That it desired itself to do
It would form for those to see
That it would lure to their death
It was called the Kelpie!
And among its shadowy waters
That sometimes are covered by dense clouds and fogs.
There lies a landmass in the middle
Knows as the Isle of the Wild Dogs.
And on dark and stormy nights
Its not just the wind... the locals know
But the dark howling of the dogs who died
Some ninety years ago!
A son to hunt rabbits went
Donald Cameron and his pet
That was due to have puppies son
To hunt together out they set.
After sometime the dog got lost
As Cameron cursed his luck
His dog in a cave he found
That had collapsed – the dog was now stuck!
Though he tried, to save he failed
And so back home he went
For till his faithful dog was freed
He would not rest content
But storms were blowing stronger that day
And held for many more
And the Cameron boys were thwarted
Each time the storm cast them back to mainland shore.
The Great War was now raging
And young Cameron got the call
And the morning he left he was his dog
Had freed itself from the rockfall
And it stood on its shoreline
Looking at its master and friend
© 2008 Full Moon Press
by Tomás Ó Cártaigh
Who by cruelty and mankind
His country to war him did send
And when to war the boy had gone
His brothers tried some more
The stormy waters for to cross
And reach the islands shore
The dog had her pups since then
Though food was in scarce supply
And temper and trust she had not for them
And to attack she was not shy.
On a spring evening in 1915
As her half grown pups around her played
She sat upon a shoreline rock
And quite a sight she made
As the sun sank behind the ocean
Telling end of day to beast, to man and fowl
Her head she threw back to the sky
And let an eerie high pitched howl,…
All that long night she could be heard
Crying to the black black sky
Next morning on the shore was found
Her corpse… for she did die!
Some time later the word came
That on that very day
Her master died at war in Europe
Round the time she began to bay.
Her pups ruled the island as their own
Attacked those who on it did land
Including an unfortunate yachtsman
Who nearly lost his like, not only his hand!
The men folk from the village
To organize themselves set out
And after some days were happy
That the wild pack was wiped out.
Some said that still a dog was seen
By the shoreline, crying to the sky
Across the loch from where it came
In distant days gone by…
In April 1930, a shepherd there slept
With flock and dog for the night
And, to the baying of a pack, he rose to check
But nothing of them was in sight.
continued on page 17
Page 16 FOREVER NOCTURNE
 The Hound of Hells Lake continued from page 16 LOST
The flock were grazing peaceful
Normal all did appear
Only the whimpering terror of his own dog
Gave substance to his fear
In time the island was sold
By major Lewis O’ Conner it was bought
His son Kevin went to the isle to see
Though locals told him that not he aught.

Shortly after he landed

It is told by other men
Came barking loud and a cry for help
Kevin was never seen again.
The Major’s men through the island wildly searched
But nothing found at all A walk through a shrouded wood of despair
Of man or dog, that was ever there
Each step hauntingly echoing through the dark
No matter where they looked or did call.
Twigs and leaves crack under your feet
As the search boats back to the mainland went
One constable claimed to see As you wander aimlessly in the black
A Labrador black upon a rock
Looking out at them on the sea. Unsure of what’s ahead, too scared of what’s behind
So rapidly back they returned
A twinkle of a star through the forest canopy
And tracker dogs from the mainland they brought
The mysterious creature had disappeared. Would soothe you, but there are none
They found not what they sought.
Enveloped in the pitch, desperate to know how
There are people to this very day
Who to the isle won’t go To set your course, to feel the relief of the sunrise
For they of the tragedy
But tomorrow never comes and your forest tomb
And of the stories know.
Should you dear reader be so bold Starts to feel like home, coldly comfortable
As your way there to make
Steer clear of the Isle of the Wild Dogs Gripping you in its deepest, darkest hold
On Loch Hourne, in English: Hells Lake!
Who came before? What happened to them?

Their whispers of anguish and sorrow scream in your head

Calling out desperately to be seen, to know contact

To feel the warmth of another heart

To join the ranks of the light

To see the end of the madness

To be free.

by Len Erickson

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 17 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 T.L. Boehm – Editor
Enter slightly rankled, sufficiently wrinkled,
aging, bipedal female of questionable
disposition. Female clears throat, looks around -
breathes deeply in the silence.
Suddenly silence explodes in a staccato fire of
guttural horks and hacks as female hawks up left
lung and part of pancreas. Muttering several
oaths intent on world destruction and the
obliteration of all phlegm causing agents, female
checks clock. Yes, there is just enough time to
stuff innards in (‘cuz we can't go to work with
'outards' now can we?) and perhaps even pen an
inane sentence or two for one's much maligned
blog site.
Welcome to Monday, that abomination of days.
I vaguely remember almost a month ago, there
was a bright promise of morning solace for this
rankly wrinkly chica...delayed to the point of
hopelessness...now it is here and I have
absolutely NO CLUE what to write.
Remembering also in her crispy little brain-pan
that mantra "I do not believe in writers' block."
Our corpulent girl stares at the wavering screen.
Slaps tiny moth on corner. Glares at nasty little
'intermittently winking Internet light’ (note to
self: copy/paste copy/paste) This my singular
truth when all else is veiled in politeness and
lies. Writers write. About anything. About Peace. 
plaque. About dog hair. About
© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 18
that bleach resistant residue on your favorite
totally white tee. The issue is worth. Is it really
worth the band width or the paper, or the ink? If I
have time, and I don't write...it is ALWAYS a
worth issue - not a lack of subject matter.
So here I am with my morning companions,
coffee and a ball of mucus lodged in the back of
my throat. Perched on the edge of my chair as
muted blues and grays shift hue in my window. I
sent a polite request for further information to a
JVP (joint venture publisher) Even if it is not a
viable option for me, I may be able to pass along
some information to someone else.
So I consider my inability to shake a droplet of
creative goo from the hole in my brain pan
funnel. The precious moments tick inevitably
closer to that time when I must turn off the cool
blue monitor and scrounge the depths of the
refrigerator for some leftover lunch offering of
brain and cheese. A teen male, overcooked pasta
and an old green Tupperware strainer. The
resultant macaroni mess clumped in one brain-
shaped blob in the bowl awaiting a melty dollop
of Velveeta. It was almost palatable although not
so much that I want to pack it for lunch. There's
only so much a girl can tolerate on a Monday.
FOREVER NOCTURNE
blog central by TL Boehm

A selfish day of hedonistic Tammy-like pleasures. Some 70's soul, 80's wave…mall hair...a
neon earring (just one) a black mini and jail-striped Tee. A chili dog and some Anejo 1800 -
a pedicure. I've never had a pedicure...I could use one. My hubby is threatening to leave
me due to pain and suffering - multiple lacerations from the dragon scales on the bottom of
my feet. Did you know that hot Arkansas tar is not conducive to petal soft heels? Yup.

So what about a day of complete R & R. When I was a kid, mud was free and I would
never have put a vegetable on my eyes on purpose. Only logical place for a cucumber
slice is on the end of my fork - slathered in ranch... Yeah! Ranch – it’s not just for breakfast
anymore.

When I was single and still capable of infinite fantasies, I'd get up early on Saturday, spend
about two hours scrubbing my li’l hovel clean - and by about 8 me and the dog would be
sittin’ on the porch watching the world go by. A bone for her, a brew for me, and the
endless summer sky draped over us like fine blue silk...rustling green taffeta leaves and
the thread of birdsong wrapping round us...its been so long since I just sat and
contemplated the possibilities. Now I go from crisis to emergency. From deadline to
responsibility. And the position of the sun in the sky is only a reminder of the
unfinished…the undone...the time that won't stop for me.

I got up this morning smiling at the idea of a day with minimal obligations. Perhaps some
levity with my family...and there he sits in his nappy bathrobe, eating Cheerios (I hate
Cheerios BTW), listening to some random new-age crap that is slightly off-tempo with the
pounding headache forming at the base of my skull. The kitchen - while clean - smells
obnoxious. Like a convention of wet cats...I'd have to pay for a "spa day" of mud and
cucumbers. BTW - I hate mud and cucumbers.

So the day will consist of chicken soup for the sore-

throated hubby, perhaps some grocery shopping -
deodorant is a necessity in this house...and I am
guessing I will have to pretend I am domestic long
enough to cook something he won't eat because his
throat is sore and he wants chicken soup. But for a few
more moments I am going to savor the whisper of lilac
scent wafting in...to move with the dust as it sparkles in
the soft sunlight shifting through the curtains...some
things are still beautiful. Maybe I just need a spa
moment...Peace 

©Full Moon Press Page 19 FOREVER NOCTURNE

The World on the Wall
There once was a young girl, about the age of ten, who loved
sunny days. She always sat outside upon her swing, under the
only tree in her yard, and watched the sky as it would hang,
ever faithful, overhead. Her house was quaint, painted in
yellows and blues with a touch of white upon the shutters,
and looked as if it had been etched upon the ground rather
than having been built like normal houses are. But this only
made it appear more pleasing to the eye.
No matter what day you happened to walk by and glance at
her she would always be sitting there upon her swing, staring
out upon her peaceful world. Never swinging, just sitting
silently. Never pushing herself off the ground with her feet for
a closer glimpse at the beautiful blue sky or the vibrant,
golden sun; she only sat stilly. It’s not that she preferred to
always be still, surely any young girl outside in the
summertime would love to be playing and laughing and
smiling; but sitting upon the swing under the lone tree in her
small yard was all that she knew.
The sky was always blue where the young girl lived, and it
always held her favorite sun in the same place. The weather
was always perfect; it would never rain or snow, the wind
would never blow, and it would never be too cold or too hot;
she never had to wear heavy winter clothes or a raincoat while
she was outside on her swing.
She was not alone there, though, for she had parents and they
were always around; but they never did any of the things
normal parents do. They never worked or cleaned the house,
they never told the little girl to get ready for bed or to brush
her teeth, they never ate or slept or laughed or cried and they
never spoke. In fact, they never did anything besides stand
there in the yard with their daughter as she sat upon her
swing under the lone tree in the yard. They stood perfectly still
with bright smiles on their faces and their arms wrapped
lovingly around their daughter, a perfect moment captured
forever and always.
Things had always been this way, and would have always
remained this way, had the young girl not asked herself a
single, simple question: “Where is everyone?”
Her own voice echoed through her thoughts but failed to fall
out between her lips, for she found that she could not speak.
And still, nothing had changed. Her parents remained in place,
arms around their daughter, smiles upon their faces, making
no sound. Their eyes never blinked and their lips never moved.
The golden sun stayed in the blue sky and the wind continued
to not blow and the girl continued to not swing. The door of
© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 20
by Clint Hale
the house did not open and the windows remained closed and
the fields stretching as far as she could see showed no sign of
anyone else, making their way to greet her to tell her the
answers to all that she questioned.
She had never thought about it before but now realized that
she had never seen anyone other than her mother and father.
Another curious thought popped into her head at that
moment: she had never thought at all! She just always sat,
staring at the sun in the sky, never hearing a whisper from
anyone and not a sound from anything. She then questioned
why it had always been this way, and if there was any other
way of being. She did not know, but she thought that surely
there must be more than this.
With her new-found curiosity the young girl attempted to
stand from her ever-faithful swing and search for someplace
new. But, as hard as she tried to raise herself from her seat,
she could not move. Her body sat, as if glued to the swing, and
refused to follow any command she gave it. If her face could
have changed expressions it surely would have showed her
horror, for this surely frightened the girl and caused many
more thoughts to fill her head; although these thoughts were
scarier and most unwelcome and didn't make her feel at all
like how she wanted to feel. She wanted to close her eyes, she
didn’t want to see this place anymore.
What was it that kept her here, spending all her days outside
in the sun with her mother and father while she sat on her
swing? Why couldn’t she leave this place and find somewhere
new? Perhaps there were others out there as well, just like
her, who wanted to find someone to talk to, others who felt
lonely like she did. A sad thought then filled her and, if she
were able to cry, a tear would have certainly fallen from her
cheek, for it was the saddest of all thoughts she had thought
this day.
“What if there is no one else?”
And all the while as the young girl sat upon her swing under
the tree, which sat under the great blue sky with the sun,
encased in gold, held in its arms, she would never know that,
but inches away, there lay a world of others who walked by,
day after day. They would glance at her life as if it were one of
their dreams. They would say such beautiful things as she sat
on her swing and gazed at the sky. They would envy her and
marvel at her beautiful world, a place they would claim they
would much rather be; a picture in their dreams. They would
stare intently at the world on the wall; a life living behind
glass. 
FOREVER NOCTURNE
 Jessica F. Hayes – Editor
Jesse F Hayes is a recent transplant from Tempe, AZ to
Tulsa, OK. There she enjoys trees, sweater weather, and
rain. She frequents coffee shops, where she can be seen
laughing at inappropriate subject matter with friends or
scribbling away on bits of paper. In her spare time she
enjoys cardiovascular activities at the local YMCA,
conditioning her liver for a lifelong writing career, listening
to music, and playing various musical instruments. She
suffers from a debilitating addiction of John Hughes
movies, Jane Austen and Peanut M&M’s. Jesse writes a
variety of genres, ranging from children’s fantasy to
contemporary literature to paranormal romance.

My Obituary
CLOSED CASKET SERVICE FOR RENOWNED “IN SHADOWS” AUTHOR
TULSA-OK—Jessica Faelynn Hayes-McAvoy-Cook-
Radcliffe-Bale-Rowling was born on October 26, 1985 in
Mesa, Arizona. She died on Tuesday (her least favorite
day of the week), April 4, 2079, at the age of 93 and a
half. She is survived by two younger brothers, her third
ex-husband, and her 7 children, 8 step-children, and their
spouses. She had 31 grandchildren, 52 great-
grandchildren, 9 great-great-grandchildren, and 1 triplely-
great-grandchild.
Some of Jessica’s accomplishments (other than her fruitful
loin) include her award winning In Shadows series and
movie adaptations, for which she wrote the screenplays.
Under pseudonyms, she wrote the Newbury Award winning
Princess Charlie series, and the Socially Retarded books,
which later became an ABC television show. Before her
mother’s death in 2042, the two wrote 7 books in their Kelly
Girls mystery series, of which three movies were made,
staring Scarlett Johansson and Shiloh Jolie-Pitt.

A confessed Anglophile, she married her first husband in
2010, after he stared in the leading role of the first screen
adaptation of her acclaimed vampiric series, In Shadows.
They had one child together before divorcing in 2013. In
2014 she met her second husband, and they welcomed a
child later that year. They were married in 2015 and
produced one more child before divorcing in 2018, after
her husband discovered Jessica was having a torrid affair
with adjectives. In 2020 she married her third husband,
and had her last four natural children. Yet another divorce
followed in 2033, and another marriage in 2039. She and
her good friend JK Rowling were widowed in the same
year, when their fourth and second husbands, respectively,
passed away in 2047. Jesse, as she was called by friends,
turned heads in 2052 when she and JK Rowling became
the first homosexual couple to marry on the Moon. She
was widowed one last time in 2061.
Last Tuesday, Jessica set about her daily business working
on her final book, the last installment of the Kelly Girls
series. At approximately 3:30pm an escaped Ferruginous
Rough-leg swooped through her open window, mistook her
newest hairstyle for a coyote pup, and clawed her eyes out
in the tussle. While she was trying to find her way to the
phone, authorities assume, she took a fall down her
basement stairs, where she was consumed by an animal
hatched from a frog’s egg. The remains of a hen were also
found in the basement. At press time, the police were
unaware of the egg’s contents, and the whereabouts of the
creature within.
Closed casket services will be held Saturday, April 8 and
2:00pm at Hillside Memorial. Donations are being accepted
for Demelza House. 

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 21 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 snowflake by Siobhan MacIntyre

Where have you gone? I see you on street corners every day, but when I catch up, I find it isn’t
you.

It isn’t you.

Sometimes I follow him, the man I’ve mistaken for you. I watch him from around corners, in the
drugstore, in the marketplace. He buys cheap booze and name-brand cigarettes and I know then
he isn’t you.

He sets his face in passive sorrow; he is grieving, but damned—damned—if he will let it show
overmuch. He gives stilted smiles to passersby, to shop-girls, to the gas station attendant. They
smile back but they don’t know he doesn’t really see them.

His sorrow is a scented vapor, left behind for me to track him like a bloodhound. I can find him
anywhere, following his fragrance. He frequents quiet lounges and fast-food restaurants, and
that’s how I know he isn’t you.

Why have you left me? I stalk a stranger who wears a face like yours, stamped with wretchedness.
His despair keeps me anchored to him, so I can’t find you.

Frosty morning; there are snowflake patterns on the windowpane. He takes an unknown road
today, and I go because his desolation is a beacon, and I am unable to resist this familiar stranger.

He stops along the banks of a haunted place, and there he sits, his head in his hands. His soul cries
out, words of anguish fall from his mouth. He uses your voice—like black satin sheets, it was—but
it’s a tinny echo on his tongue, and it’s obvious he isn’t you.

He can’t be you.

“Why have you left me?” he weeps. “Why can’t I find you?” And when he cries my name, I know.

I know he is you.

Love has gone, and my heart is frozen in wintry isolation: a solitary snowflake. Within reach but
unreachable, mine but never to touch or to hold, you rise and walk from the cemetery.

And now I see.

It is my name on the stone.

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 22 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 malakh
“Lost in your thoughts and not paying attention to where
you’re going,” drawled a voice nearby.
I jumped, belatedly looking up. I had been walking to my
car on auto-pilot after leaving the deli, not paying attention to
my surroundings—a recipe for disaster. But I don’t worry
very much about being attacked; all I need to do is call out a
name to receive invincible help. I hoped I would never have
to use that name, however.
He lounged against my car door, ankles crossed,
negligently examining his fingernails. I wasn’t fooled; I knew
his eyes never left my face. And I knew what he was,
although he looked human enough.
“No,” I said, shaking my head. “Whatever you want, I
can’t help you. I’m not getting involved with your kind
again.”
“Once involved, always involved.” His eyes half-closed
and he sniffed the air. “I smell him on you, Suzanne, faint but
unmistakable.”
“It’s been three years,” I snapped, crossing my arms over
my chest even though such an action was futile. There was no
hiding anything from his kind.
“You know why I’m here. Your heart mourns more than
just his love; it mourns what you know he’s become. Will you
hear me out?”
He stepped away from the car, and quicker than a thought
pulled the lapel of my silk blouse open, exposing the upper
slope of my right breast above its lacy covering. His finger
pressed the jagged scar that rose from the edge of my
Victoria’s Secret bra.
“You bear his mark; you have an obligation.”
“It’s not him.” I didn’t say it with conviction, but in
denial. The truth was I didn’t want it to be him. I couldn’t
wrap my mind around the possibility that my former lover had
turned to serial murder.
He backed away from me and held out his hands, palms
up—a gesture of subservience. “Ten minutes of your time,
that’s all I ask.”
“Who sent you?”
“I take orders from none but the highest.”
I stared down at his hands, their lineless palms like smooth,
sun-blushed marble. My mind in turmoil, I took a step away
from him.
“I’ll speak with you, but I won’t…” I motioned to his
hands. “…do that yet.”
His hands dropped to his sides, and he stared at me quite
without expression. “Shall we?”
I didn’t move. “I don’t know your name.”
©2008 Full Moon Press Page 23
by Siobhan MacIntyre
Now he seemed hesitant. To his species, giving one’s name to a
human was giving power along with it. A name is a potent thing;
with it you can call powers beyond your wildest imaginings, and
you can define a being to your whim.
“He taught you the ancient tongue?”
“Yes. Enough of it to serve this purpose.”
He named himself in the most ancient of human languages, the
one his kind claimed Adam and Eve spoke. Using the primeval
tongue was a tricky thing; your mind translated it into modern
speech instantly and you were unable to recall the actual words
spoken. You would always remember it in your own dialect, and it
would always present itself in images. His was joyful
soaring…sun and moon…day and night…sincerity and
arrogance…
“Surely not,” I said with a trace of amusement.
“It’s what your mind translated. I’m bound to you by that
name now.” His tone seemed resigned.
“Icarus it is. Did you fly too close to the sun, then?”
As I watched him, his eyes changed from ice blue to golden,
copper brown. Always the drama, I thought with impatience.
“Not exactly. I’ve worked against the darkness so long that
the sun seems far away now. Shall we take this to a café? You
look like you could use a cup of coffee, and I wouldn’t mind a hot
chocolate.”
I arched a brow at him, satisfied to see his species’ version of a
blush. His kind don’t need sustenance, but they are fond of certain
human food and a drink. “Certainly.”
We found an all-night diner nearby, and didn’t speak again
until coffee and cocoa had been served. I took an experimental sip
and made a face; coffee at an all-night greasy spoon is always a
dicey proposition. But it wasn’t too awful, and it was something
for my hands to do: lift, sip, lower. Lift, sip, lower. Lift…
“There have been eight victims,” Icarus said at length. “Or
maybe I should say there have been eight victims found. I’d be a
fool to think there aren’t more.”
Why is that?” I shifted uncomfortably in my chair. I didn’t
continued on page 24
FOREVER NOCTURNE
 Malakh, continued from page 23
want to talk about him; he’d broken my heart, left me
mourning for his unique brand of love, abandoned me to
mediocrity after knowing otherworldly sensuality. Could
anyone possibly blame me for indulging in a slice of bitter pie?
I thought not.
“His arrogance is legendary, but so is his cleverness. And
he would find it quite clever to hide the scope of his sins.”
My fingers clenched around my coffee cup. “I can’t help
you hunt him. He was my lover.”
His golden eyes dropped to my breast again, giving me the
sensation that he could see through my blouse. Perhaps he
could, although I’d never known x-ray vision to be one of his
species’ abilities.
“When one goes out of control, it is the obligation of
one’s…mate to bring justice,” he replied, the forcefulness of
his voice betraying the deep emotions under his calm, cool
exterior.
“He was my lover,” I repeated numbly. “I loved him. He
broke my heart. Sometimes I still…I still can’t breathe, it
hurts so much. How can you ask me to do this?”
Icarus met my gaze, something like sympathy darkening
his eyes. As he stared, his form shifted, and for a sliver of a
second I saw his true shape. How could one not fall in love
with these beings when one was fortunate—or unfortunate—
enough to cross paths with them?
“What did you name him?”
“No. I can’t tell you that; you can find him through the
name I gave him because I still have feelings for him. I’m
smarter than that, Icarus.”
“Suzanne,” he said patiently. “Eight victims, probably
more. Brutally murdered, torn limb from limb and partially
eaten. You may have heard on the news that the coroner found
saliva in the wounds of several of the victims. What you will
never hear on the television is that the saliva evidence they
collected has no DNA.”
“That doesn’t mean the perpetrator is of your species.”
“Think,” he said harshly, and rapped his finger painfully
against my temple. “Do you know of any other species that
could have done it and left behind saliva with no DNA?”
“Vampires? Werewolves?”
“Both will have DNA, albeit modified, because both are
hybrid species, created from magic. Only humans or hybrids
have DNA. Suzanne, you know this.”
“There are more things under the sun than I will ever
know about,” I replied stubbornly, avoiding his eyes.
He thrust his hands across the table, palms up, sending my
coffee cup skidding over the edge of the table and into my lap.
Thankfully the coffee was only lukewarm. I stared at his blank
palms; no life line, love line, or health line.
“Suzanne, please,” he whispered with desperation.
I felt the irresistible pull his kind has on mine, the desire
that runs so deep it’s part of time and the elements, something
so base it defies explanation or definition. I raised my hands
and held them, trembling, just above his. He didn’t move; it
had to be my choice, this bond, and it could not be given
lightly because once I touched my palms to his, we would be
bonded for eternity.
“What did you name him, Suzanne?”
“Raum.”
His mouth fell open in shock and his hands jerked as
though he meant to withdraw his bond. I smacked my hands
©2008 Full Moon Press Page 24
Siobhan MacIntyre
down on his, glaring at him defiantly. Heat seared where our
skin touched, and then I felt a burning welt raise on my left
breast. Surprised, my eyes flew to his.
“What are you doing?” I whispered, horrified. “You
marked my heart!” I didn’t understand why he did it—or how
he did it.
“I’m sorry, Suzanne. It’s the only way to protect you.”
“But…to be able to do that, you have to…”
“You named him Raum, the Great Earl of Hell, the
commander of thirty legions of demons. The invoker of love.
Is it any wonder you’ve not been able to move on?”
I tried to stand up, but Icarus held my hands in an iron
grip. “You had no right! You just bonded me as your wife,
you son of a bitch! I can never have—oh my God!” My voice
trailed off as I realized just what he had done. No white picket
fence and two-point-five children and a husband—a human
husband—who went to work at eight and came home at five
every day. No, not for me—me, whose path just had to cross
not one but two of these wonderful, terrible creatures.
“We can discuss the finer points of what I’ve done later.
For now, I think we’ve outstayed our welcome, and we have
many things to discuss about…Raum.”
“Icarus—”
“Yes, about that—for the sake of fewer explanations, let’s
just shorten it to Russ, shall we?”
He released my hands and scooted out of the booth,
heading toward our waitress, who was staring at us in shock
and horror. My guess was that when Icarus—Russ—had that
unguarded moment and let his true form show. she had seen.
She backed away from him as he approached, but she had
nowhere to go; the counter was directly behind her and the
stools were fixed to the floor. Trapped between them, she
could only watch as he came closer.
“I will not hurt you,” he told her calmly. “But I can’t
allow you to remember that we were here.” He touched her
forehead with his first and middle fingers. “Forget the last
hour. And sleep for two minutes.”
Her eyes closed immediately. Russ took our ticket from
her apron pocket, went to the register and opened it, and
stuffed a five into a bill slot. A long pin held a stack of tickets,
and he stabbed ours onto the top.
“That should take care of our tab and tip. She’ll reconcile
it up later, but she won’t remember serving us. Let’s go—we
only have about thirty seconds.”
But that was time enough for us to vacate the café. Once
on the street, I stopped.
“Ic—Russ. What do we do now?”
“We hunt Raum.”
I fidgeted uncomfortably. That wasn’t what I meant. “I
mean about…well…you know.”
He held my gaze for a long moment. “There’s time
enough to figure that out later. Let’s go.”
Russ strode off into the night, leaving me to follow or not.
It didn’t matter what I chose; he could find me anywhere, and
now that he had marked me with a marriage bond, he could
find me with even greater ease.
I trotted after him, having to run partway to catch up with
his longer strides. And as I fell into step with him, his hand
swung back and caught mine, and he twined our fingers
together.
And that was how I married an angel. 
FOREVER NOCTURNE
marooned
by T.L. Boehm
I’d spent the bulk of my conscious life consumed by
the gnaw of this inescapable moment. So obsessed I
was, I had played out the graphic scenarios in high
definition detail worthy of a CSI script, complete
with full color and visceral sound effects. A
miscalculation on a slick, predawn commute, caused
her vehicle to flip end over end across the median as
her son’s scrambled eggs coated the windshield like
sticky confetti. A sudden burning sensation in her
hand as she reached into the recesses of the pantry,
caused her to recoil. She saw the bulbous black
hindquarters of the spider scurrying away from her
throbbing digits as the widow’s toxins coursed
through her body. But never in my wildest moments
of neurosis or psychosis or rabid, sweat soaked
sleeplessness did I ever entertain the raw terror
unfolding before me. Hurtling earthward at 600
miles an hour, I grasped frantically for something,
anything to remind me of the meaning of my life but
all that coursed through my adrenalin soaked brain
was a few lines from a forgettable Alanis Morrisette
number: “As the plane crashed down he
thought…well isn’t this nice?”
Plucked from the deck of a sinking cruise ship only
to succumb when the rescue helicopter propeller
clipped the disabled luxury liner’s pitching deck, a
woman’s body was found floating in the flotsam….
Seconds later I opened my eyes, expecting to see
either God with His hands on his Mighty hips, or the
complete chaos of the charred plane scattered across
the impact field. When neither vision met my gaze, I
rubbed my eyes and looked again. As far as I could
see, calm turquoise water stretched toward a
lavender horizon. Beneath my quivering body, warm
beach sand gently shifted as I struggled to my feet.
Whirling around, my back to the xpanse of ocean, I
stared in disbelief at the vista before me. Tropical
trees, heavy with fruit, beckoned from the edge of
the pristine beach. The verdant orchards gave way to
lush, rolling hills, threaded with cascading falls and
streams. The air was fragrant with the scent of
flowers.
© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 25
Above my head, brightly colored birds circled and
glided while chirping avian melodies. I looked down
the beach again. Spotting a dark object a few yards
away, I determined myself to regain control of my
wobbly gait, and started down the beach to examine
the object.
Walking the shoreline proved more difficult than I
initially expected and after only a few yards, I
foundmyself winded and weary. Exhausted, I flopped
down beside the object. It was ancient, decaying, and
smelled like a basement. The clasp, its lock long
since rusted away from exposure to the saline
atmosphere, fell apart at my first touch. For a
moment, I paused. Perhaps closed boxes should
remain closed. Or perhaps something wonderful, as
wonderful as this secluded shoreline, waited for me
within the rotting case. I flung the lid open and
peered into the container. It was empty. Disappointed
and bone tired, I shut the lid and leaned against the
edge of the trunk.
When I opened my eyes again, the sun had released
her throne of azure sky and left behind a night
studded with myriad twinkling stars. A crescent
moon rode the gently cresting surf that lapped at my
exposed toes.
“Well, you’re finally awake. Thank God. Your
snoring was waking the dead.”
“Excuse me?” I sat bolt upright as I addressed the
darkness. “Who said that?” My eyes scoured the
beach and tree line for the source of the voice, but I
saw no one. I felt as though I were the only person on
the planet.
“I said it, you bonehead. Who else would talk to
you?”
“Not funny! Show yourself.” I struggled to my feet.
Picking up a jutting timber from the side of the box, I
brandished it like a club.
continued on page 26
FOREVER NOCTURNE
marooned continued from Page 25

“Ok, Tammy. Put the stick down. You might

hurt yourself. Woman picks up moldy stick.
She gets a splinter that festers and her entire
hand rots off. Her body was found yesterday
along the shore of a deserted island.”

“Stop it! I said you weren’t funny. Now step

out here where I can see you.”

“Well,” the voice suddenly sounded very

near, as though it was welling up from the
ground around me. Or maybe it was rumbling
up from within me. “I would, but you never
carry a mirror.”

“Please! You’re scaring me to death!”

“Of course I am. I always have. And I always

will. Come on. You didn’t think you could
travel without ME, did you? By the way, the
box was a great metaphor, don’t you think?”

“You were in the box.” I sank to my knees as

the realization enveloped me like a shroud.

“Suffice it to say, you had me boxed, for a
moment, but you can only go so long without
me. So what shall it be today? Woman found
today on a small island. Further test results
indicate she stepped on a poisonous cone
shell. No, wait. Preliminary tests indicate that
the woman found today died shortly after
being struck by a large piece of overripe fruit
that fell on her head while she was foraging
in the jungle. Oh yes, on a deserted island.”
“Shut up! Please, get out of my head.” I
started to sob as I rocked back and forth on
that lonely stretch of beach sand.
After years of rushing and worrying, it could
have been paradise for me. But, I conceded to
my inner neurosis. I let the fear of death out
of the box. I can still hear her as she torments
me. After surviving a horrific plane crash, the
victim’s body was found today. She
apparently succumbed when a rogue wave
pummeled the small deserted island where
she originally came ashore. A woman’s body
was found on a deserted island today, a
puffer fish lodged in her throat…. The partial
remains of an unidentified woman were found
today on a newly discovered island that is
populated by a small band of cannibals. It
appears they only eat brains….

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 26 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 flies
by Rachel Blackbirdsong

The pain was all encompassing: the But there was something began convulsing with pain and nausea.
bright agony of daylight, every smell,
both pleasant and not, the horrible else, a low, continuous Minutes became hours as the clock
tapping of endless pairs of shoes
drone like the voices of a stubbornly refused to move according to
echoing the floor around her. She was the commands given it. She was having
under attack. Whatever peace she had thousand, miniature seizures by the time the nurse came with
known was gone. Her pain had become the needle.
an entity, a breathing, living thing. Buddhist monks.
Yes! Give it to me! Do it now! Oh God,
Her old life had been lost in a series of hospitalizations, I love you! Then the warmth of the medicine as it sped
surgeries, and misdiagnoses. Her new one as she was steadily through her veins. So sensitive to every tick of her body she
learning would only be escapable through death. could feel even that. Thank you. Thank you. God bless you.

Tears formed but didn’t fall from her eyes. She twisted her lip,
biting it until it bled, hoping that a new feeling might give her
some respite from the others.
She licked the warm, redness from her mouth, and for a
second pretended that he, someone, anyone was there.
Looking at her. Seeing that she was still sensual and alive.
Then the walls of her room became focused and clear through
the blur of painkillers, desire and want.
She squeezed her nipple and smiled. Something of her past
remained. That wonderful tingle of lust was still hers.
I have to do it today before I lose this, too, she thought. I have
to find a way to get up from this bed.
She didn’t want to be found there. The sheets were disgusting.
They were plastic, meant to save the mattress for future use.
But the nurse hadn’t put them on correctly, which meant that
nothing lay between her patient and the plastic, or the soup of
blood, poison and sweat which puddled its surface. Now
bedsores grew and spread resembling a map of the ancient
world as country after country is conquered and joined with
the whole in an ongoing march of destruction.
After my shot, I’ll have a little more energy. Maybe I’ll be
able to get up. This thought almost proved too much as she
If I had a knife I could rip the path it’s taking through my arm,
she thought smiling, proud of herself for having a special
knowledge of such things. I could rip it all the way up to my
brain. I wonder what they’d do when they saw me. Probably
just think it was suicide. They’d never believe that little old
me, who’d learned my medical skill from the wrong side of
the bed, was able to do something like that.
Her senses dulled, and she closed her eyes. But the pain was
still there, having only been slightly muffled by the
medication. The fingers of her left hand trembled, another
little gift from the ongoing war of these two enemies. She lay
between them helpless, a bystander waiting for one of them to
finally win and be done with it.
She tried to bring her head off the pillow, but didn’t have the
strength, and fell back on hospital-issue number-whatever-it-
was, exhausted and disgusted with herself.
Something jarred her from her despair. A new sensation to be
catalogued with the other agonies and defeats which had been
the steady diet her body had given her.
Her body arched and fell amid the IV bottles, monitors and
bags containing her various bodily fluids. She looked
orgasmic, yet horrified.
Gasping and panting as pain and ecstasy intermingled and
spiraled themselves around, upon and deeply inside, her lips
quivered equally with unutterable terror and indescribable
bliss.

From the corner of her eye a shadow roused her. It was black
and oozing over her skin. It would have resembled tar, if tar
was able to breathe.
Continued on page 27

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 27 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 Flies, continued from page 27

But there was something else, a low, continuous drone like the
voices of a thousand, miniature Buddhist monks.
fading
She fell asleep and dreamed that she had climbed out of It hurts to breathe.
herself and was finally able to see the undulating, black thing I can feel the ice in my blood
that pleasured and pained her.
As I gaze up at the pale moon
The strange sound was still there. The monks were proving to And think about the one I love,
be as implacable as her pain, as she flew down to get Waiting for my end
a closer look at the black mass.
When I will be relieved of my pain.
Flies, millions of them, were crawling upon and inside of her, It's almost unbearable, this pain,
invading every secret place. Her nostrils were so full of them And every time I try to breathe,
that she was certain her other self would suffocate before the
shock of their presence and their feasting bore through the
I feel like I'm closer to my end
gelatinous pudding of medication and mire that was her brain. As I watch the pool of my blood
And cry for the one I love,
She wanted to scream, but couldn’t, as her mouth, forced open
by the great surge, vomited them out as others flew in. No
Gazing up at the ever-beautiful moon.
longer a place of words or sighs, the flies had I tear my gaze from the glow of the moon,
Biting my lip to distract myself from the pain
given her mouth a new use, doorway to her throat, esophagus,
stomach contents and beyond. This army intended to win.
And to get my mind off my dearest love.
I try so hard to breathe
Flying within inches of her body, the sight of them feasting Only to choke on the blood
and laying eggs in her wounds overwhelmed her. She
collapsed onto herself disappearing into an
That tells me I'm close to the end.
unconscious netherworld. I'm praying that it will come soon, my end.
I can feel the light of the moon,
She was worn out. The doctors had all come at once, asking Warming my blood
her question after question about what had happened.
And taking away all of the pain.
“I don’t know,” was all she could say. She had no idea and It's becoming harder and harder to breathe
didn’t care. The pain was gone and so were the sores. And I want to save the last for my love.
Somehow she’d been borne back into her previous self without
even a scar. I never thought I would believe in love,
Just as I never thought that any of this would end.
“Look, I don’t know what you want me to say,” she said I find it pointless to try to breathe
scanning the faces of the people before her. “I’m all right now.
I’m okay. I made it.” Though I continue as I gaze back up at the blue moon
And try to ignore the pain.
Then everything went black and she knew it had all been a lie. I move my hand through the pool of blood.
So she closed her eyes and submitted herself to the pain. It had
won and continued to do so, even after the moment when the It's very sticky, my blood,
coroner began to open her chest with his scalpel.  And I think about the thoughts of my love
As I can feel the pain
Coming to it's very end.
I think of her smile, beautiful as the moon
And I finally cannot breathe
You could advertise here!! Breathe one last time as the blood runs cold.
Moon, oh beautiful moon, give my regards to my love.
Contact Full Moon Press for pricing and End my misery and finally take away the pain.
details.

~by Alexandra Elizabeth

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 28 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 Strings
The lamp posts of the empty street surrounded him in
shades of dull, flickering light. The air spoke in hushed
tones that held no echoes, save that of his uneven steps;
their sounds forcing themselves loudly into his ears.
Shadows played upon the ground and caught his footing at
every stride, grasping their claws tightly around him,
pulling and twisting with begrudging elasticity. The
buildings encasing the street leaned heavily to either side
and appeared to shift their weight, moving from left to
right while seeming to not move at all. Windows and
doors hung upon the buildings at odd angles. From the
windows he could see twisted and empty faces staring
bleakly upon the lifeless street. They held their vacant
gaze upon his solitary figure as they tilted their heads
sharply from upright positions to strangely askew angles.
Shifting his sight back to the path before him, ignoring the
crooked faces staring his way, he continued his long walk
home.
As his steps grew steadier, his attention turned to the dark
alleys and side roads that positioned themselves to his
immediate right. He peered into each of the voids
wondering what, if anything, lurked within. The lightless
paths ominously reached their arms towards him,
suffocating his sight and whispering the words of men
who had lingered too long. Overhead, the stars seemed to
have abandoned the sky. He knew they had refused to
cradle him as they once had, renouncing their desire to
shine beauty into vacant eyes. The bright clusters of
unknown dreams ceased to glimmer and cover the world
below in a blanket of stars. Strangely, it was only he who
took notice of these desolations.
But the world had not always looked this way to him. Not
long ago he saw with innocent eyes that caught the sun
within their gaze as he pondered the difference between
living and dreaming. There was once a time he'd sit for
hours watching the sky believing, somehow, that it was
staring back at him; that it held him gently in its sight as
he calmly drifted to sleep. At one time he had imagined
the stars above him to be millions of tiny mirrors
reflecting their light downward, beckoning him to follow
their trails long after night had passed. But those feelings
and thoughts were now lost, leaving his mind vacant of
the concept of beauty. As the stars lost their shine, fading
© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 29
by Clint Hale
into an oblivion he could never dream, he, too, had he lost
his. To his eyes even the moon appeared dull, absent of
the life it once held, as if it had forgotten how to shine.
The sky was now but a void, obscuring willingly and
collapsing into itself. The lonely watcher below mourned
its passing, unable to accept its death, and unbound
himself from the memories that had alone brought him
rest.
As the tired man continued his walk, threads tightened
their grip on him. These threads dug deep into his arms,
into his shoulders. They held him tensely, surely, yet
without care. They led from his body to high above the
slanted buildings whose windows stood crooked and
shone dimly with numbed faces that now peered aloft,
wistfully content with their meaning. From there the
strings soon disappeared into the meaningless void above.
With each step they tugged and pulled him slightly
upwards, causing him to stumble and again regain his
footing. The strings were thick with a hollow center that
connected themselves to the veins and organs within his
body. They sent strange fluids to the vital areas within
him, liquid life from the void above, but he never
understood why. He had always questioned where the
strings ultimately led and what purpose they served but,
futilely, he had come to know nothing about such things.
This was simply the way life was; for everyone had
strings of their own, and one understood their purpose no
more than another.
A light rain turned the mans face downward, reminding
him of the scuffling sound of his feet. His eyes glistened
as he passed under streetlights, their flickers mocking his
detachment. Rain began to curve down the lines in his
face, merging with the tears that fell from his tired eyes.
Both fluids carelessly descended to his feet, flowing
through the echoes of his endless steps. His long overcoat
was caught by a breeze that wasn't there, it revealed a
small shine within a pocket stitched on the inside. He
closed his arms around each edge of the coat and waited
until the wind passed. He then quickly gripped the inside
pocket to find that its contents had not been lost. He grew
more assured in his intent, hastening his walk and
continued on page 30
FOREVER NOCTURNE
Strings continued from page 29

picturing his destination firmly in mind.
He finally came to a corner and sharply followed its lead.
His apartment came into view, causing his lips to curve
into a slight smile. After crossing the discolored street he
fumbled at the handle to the complex. It opened with a
creak and he stepped inside, finding comfort in the warm
air issuing forth from the empty room ahead. The strings,
as always, were still digging deep into his limbs. He never
understood how but they always followed him, even
through the buildings he entered. They never gave up their
hold on him, they never ceased their thrall.
The door closed against its frame and he slowly walked
through the main hall of the complex. He stepped across
the dimly lit room until his feet met winding stairs that
creaked and popped under his weight. The echoes
sounded through the main hall; he imagined they might
even be heard by the faces outside.
moon overhead and the street lights that cluttered the
streets below. He smiled at its edge as he turned it over in
gleaming motions. He was fascinated by its simple
meaning and how great a thing it would accomplish.
Raising his arm he touched the blade to a single, lonely
string. His dead heart beat faster, blood moving erratically
through his veins. A grin formed upon his lips and his
cheeks rose high upon his face. He felt the need to know
what is was like to feel nothing at all.
He cut the string. Blood drained from its open end,
shading the ground in murky crimson. Another cut. More
fluid splashed where his feet were anchored to the
rooftop. He cut another. Then another. Quickly, he cut his
life away. He severed the umbilicals that had held stiffly
to his arms, to his shoulders. The blade only ceased to
have purpose when all threads were detached and he
found himself falling to his knees. Again he knew his
purpose, again his tears mixed with the fallen rain.

He walked for a long time, climbing that seemingly As he saw his life form puddles beneath him, he looked
endless staircase. He entertained the thought of it, for one final time upon the sky and stars that promised
possibly, having no end, and walking indifferently into peace; a figment of memories that painted visions of
oblivion. Familiar numbers came into view, they hung dreams. And as his body grew weaker, and his vision
drearily upon a badly painted door. This is where he blurred, he fell quietly from that ledge, becoming part of
usually ended his walk, resting his tired body upon the the void that hung silently overhead
bed behind the threshold. He decided he would no longer
find himself within that dying room. In his own silent He felt the wind gently tracing the lines of his face. He felt
way, he said goodbye to the walls that had plagued his the figures below avert their gaze and drift deeper into
sight for so long. He stumbled along until the stairs their slanted lives. He felt himself free of the strings that
refused to reach any further. He stood before the door to had kept him bound to this world. And finally he felt
the roof. himself smile, for he was now drowning gently in
euphoria. 
After his ascent he found that the rain continued to fall,
covering him in tears. He paced slowly to the edge of the
building, looking out at the grand stage below. Pale faces
behind windows locked their gaze on him as he stood
upon the ledge. He imagined them with blinking eyes and
open mouths, some faces shouting and others with slanted
smiles like the buildings they occupied. Whether they
could see him or not didn't matter, this view was for him
alone and could only be seen by the lonely dreamer.
Whether he was the outsider, or they were, had stopped
mattering to him. They all played their parts willingly,
something he would do no more. He wanted to sever
himself from life, for he missed the stars and their shine.
He wanted to see their beautiful faces again. He wanted to
sleep, drift away into the dreamily painted ocean of black
sky above him. And more than anything, he wanted to
meet the one who had given him his strings.

The man removed a small blade from the inside pocket of

his overcoat. It shined in his gaze, brighter than the dull

© 2008 Full Moon Press Page 30 FOREVER NOCTURNE

 honey, i’m home
The ice on the lake groaned and buckled, sending
shockwaves toward the shore. Miranda shivered
as numbing wavelets snapped at her already
soaked feet. Across the bay, lights came on in
Washburn through dark green smudges of trees.
It’s getting dark. I have to get home. She walked
the few yards to the highway, stepping over
clumps of tar-blackened snow. Behind her, the ice
creaked again. She pushed her gloved hands deep
into the pockets of her gray fur coat. The fur
rested heavy and clammy against her chilled body
in the evening air.
“I’m glad Ashland is such a small town. I’d hate
to have to walk very far in this cold. Especially
after dark like this,” she said out loud. She was
surprised at the rasp of her voice as it bounced
back at her from the waterfront buildings. A
breeze ruffled the fur of her collar. Miranda
caught the scent of rotting fish.
“Yummy. Good old Lake Superior air. If it isn’t
fish, it’s skunk, or run-off from the paper mill.”
She stopped on the corner of the highway and 11th
Street to admire the pewter mugs and copper
plates in the window of Roxanne’s Gift Shop.
The white trim stood out crisply against the gun
metal blue of the converted Finlander-style house.
Someday I’d like to open up a little gift shop like
Roxanne’s, when Mandy is a little older. When
Paul builds his business. When the sun brings
warmth again, instead of simply bouncing off Lake
Superior ice.
Miranda turned down 11th, again catching the odor
of fish. She walked quickly, keeping her eye on
her home at the end of the block.
“Mandy’s left her trike on the sidewalk again!
How many times do I have to tell her to put it
away at night?”
Miranda’s wet shoes squelched on the concrete
drive way.
“Wow, we must have company. Nice car. No salt.
©2008 Full Moon Press Page 31
b
byy TTLL BBo
oeehhm
m
Dealer plates. Who buys a car in the dead of
winter?” She opened the door quietly and stepped
in to the brightly lit hall. To her left, she saw her
husband Paul hunched over a pile of papers he had
sprawled all over the kitchen table. His thick red
hair brushed the collar of his dark blue suit. She
could not see his eyes through the rims of his
glasses, but she knew they were squinted in
concentration.
“So what is my dear spouse doing while we have
visitors?” She started up the stairway to the right.
The light was on in her bathroom at the top of the
stairs.
If Mandy’s in to my makeup again – she hurried up
the steps, almost bumping in to her five-year-old
daughter at the top.
“Mandy!”
“Mom-mommy?” The little girl’s eyes grew huge as
she stood rigid in front of her mother.
“What’s wrong? You know Mommy.”
“Daddy!” Mandy screamed as she ran downstairs
past her mother. Her red slide shoes flapped against
her stocking feet like warning flags in a riptide
breeze.
“Daddy! Daddy!” The little girl started sobbing,
throwing her arms around her father’s legs as he
stood at the bottom of the stairs.
“Whatsa matter, Baby Girl?” Paul pulled his
daughter away from his knee and knelt down to
look at her.
“Daddy, Daddy, its Mommy. I saw her. Mommy,
Mommy.” Mandy clutched the bottom of her
sweater in one fist and pointed at the stairs.
“Now slow down and tell Daddy what you saw.”
continued on page 32
FOREVER NOCTURNE
 honey, i’m home continued from page 31

“It was mommy. I saw her. I was in your room. I
didn’t break anything, I just went in for a minute
and I saw her.” Mandy pulled up her sock and
took a deep breath. “I saw her, I really did. I’m
not lying either, honest, Daddy. I did.”
“Amanda, I’m going to explain this to you one
more time, so listen carefully. Are you listening?”
“Yeah.”
“All right. Now your Mommy passed away.”
shriveled lips receded, revealing the molars on both
sides of her jaw which now hung tenuously by
shredded ligaments of tissue. Her mouth hung
open in mock surprise. She lifted her hand to the
two claw-shaped holes that marked where her nose
should have been. The smell of rotted flesh almost
gagged her. She brought her other hand to her
matted dripping brown hair. The remains of a trout
gaped at her from the side of her head. She
frantically slapped at it at it, and then screamed
when a clump of hair and scalp slipped from her
skull, hitting the floor with a soft plop.

“But Daddy.” “Oh, God. It can’t be. No, no!”

“Your Mommy accidentally drove in to the lake Miranda stumbled down the stairs past her startled
last fall. Now we’ve been through this before.” husband and daughter. She heard Paul gasp as she
ran shrieking into the freezing Wisconsin night. 
“But they didn’t find her in the car.”

“That’s because she went to Heaven.”

“But, but maybe she stayed in the lake and now

the ice is going away and she came out.”

“Amanda!”

“But I saw her. And she was all wet and yucky-
looking. And she smelled like Grandma’s fish
tank.”

Miranda stood at the top of the stairs listening to

them talk.

Dead? An accident? Yucky-looking? She put her

hands to her face, but could not feel her skin
through her gloves. She clawed the left glove off.
Her wedding rings fell to the floor with a hollow
ping. Bits of blackened flesh clung to the bands.
Miranda saw the bones of her left hand as she bent
to pick up her rings.

“My God!” she screamed as she staggered

backward into her bedroom. She turned to her
mirror recoiled at the creature who stared back at
her. Black sockets where blue eyes should have
been met her horrified gaze.

Her once-smooth porcelain skin was sallow and

blotched with blue and grayish green. Her

©2008 Full Moon Press Page 32 FOREVER NOCTURNE

FOREVER NOCTURNE
 Thank you for joining us for the 2nd edition of
Forever Nocturne E-zine. We hope you have
enjoyed this issue.

We strive to bring you quality works of poetry,

fiction, and nonfiction. If you have any
suggestions for improvements or any comments in
general, please feel free to address them to
comments@forevernocturne.com

Please visit our Submissions Guidelines (page 3)

for information on submitting to Forever Nocturne
E-zine, or e-mail info@forevernocturne.com for
more information.

Until our next edition…arrivaderci, hasta la vista,

ánágodziih doleel, salaam, allez ciao, Auf
Wiedersehen, viszlát, dzan devlesa, and see you
later.

Best Wishes,

N.L. Gervasio, Siobhan MacIntyre,

Jessica F. Hayes, & TL Boehm
Your Humble Editors

©FULL MOON PRESS Page 33 FOREVER NOCTURNE