Banner art by Jason Barnett

Tuesday, September 25, 2018


by Hart Crane

                                                                                       illustration by Jason Barnett

The host, he says that all is well,  
And the fire-wood glow is bright;
The food has a warm and tempting smell,—
But on the window licks the night. 

Pile on the logs. . . . Give me your hands,
Friends! No,—it is not fright. . . . 
But hold me . . . somewhere I heard demands. . . . 
And on the window licks the night. 

Midnight in the Ebon Rose Bower
by KA Opperman
on the FREEZINE of
Fantasy and Science

Monday, September 24, 2018

Medusa Finds Love

by Sheikha A

                                                          art  by Suvojit Banerjee


His jaw can avert stonethere is a hint
of lust in her eyes. When she coughs
a laugh from her hissing secrets, he knows
she's trapped. The fire of her boundaries
combust under the command of his split personas;
cold, cruel and unusual: her eyes devour his.
And when their lips meet, their mouths are
a fury of justifications; of submit and serve,
only she knows the need of his tongue,
bitter-nails etching the back of leathery
resistance. He is like a man-trick in a jungle
of berries, and her legs once crossed
in seduction. They were the colour of sun-
blush, cherry-meadows, ripening clay, like
the taste of fresh spring water, until a drop
of a curse inked her cup, and her echoes
curled pines in the breeze. But his chest is
the salt of hills in the rain, thighs smell
of the unseen deep of the ocean; his arms,
a habit of possession
she parselbirth
he with rippling climber's calves
she baroque-tragedy
he siren-lurer.

Click Below To Read Another Dark Poetic 
Entry in the Dream & Reality issue of 
Fantasy and Science 

Friday, September 21, 2018

The Fungal Nymph

by KA Opperman

             art above and below by Jason Barnett

She leaves a trail of toadstools where she walks,
And wears for crown a mushroom diadem;
And tiny toadstools from her lashes stem;
And there is something strange about her locks—
The way those living raven tresses twine
Around my flesh as with some fell design.

Although she has such lovely violet eyes,
Dark kykeon pours through her purple kiss;
And though her limbs' embrace is all my bliss,  
They are not pale like other nymphs I prize—
They are a fungous gray, and half as warm,
Her slender fingers vaguely strange in form. 

And yet her sweet, seductive whispers lull    
Me into trance.... She pants forth perfumed spores,
Of which I deeply breathe through mouth and pores;
Her parasitic fingertips my skull
Invade with every loving, slow caress—
Just why they linger there I dare not guess.

Her amanita-mottled bosom bears
Me off to shadowed lands of mushroom-dreams,
As slumbering I lie there, fungal gleams
Of moonlight spurring what the sun impairs—
The thousand toadstools fruiting from my flesh,
Oblivious, as man and mushroom mesh.

Click Below to read 

Medusa Finds Love
by Sheikha A

on the FREEZINE of
Fantasy and Science

Thursday, September 20, 2018


by Phoenix 

                                                                           art  by Jason Barnett 

I met the wanderer on a quiet street,
his words drenched in suffering,
every syllable full of a tortured
longing for something. I couldn’t figure out
what until our discussion took a turn.

“I hear you’re looking for adventure,”
the wanderer said.

I couldn’t see much of the figure; he
wore a hood that shadowed even his
basilisk eyes, just a fragment of the darkness that
haunted him.

He moved with elegant slickness
matching his sibilance,
yet his frame wouldn’t budge,
even with the force of an infernal battalion.

I nodded, and he said, “It’s better to dream.
You don’t want to know about the ugliness
I’ve seen, in everything.”

“But you’ve seen things,” I said. “You’ve
done things that I can’t help but covet.”

“I’d rather wonder. You don’t want to
know about the burden I carry, derived from
the heaviness, the infinite possibilities, hanging
on my shoulders. Sure, I met Apollo
and Hades, saw the black and white in every
side of the story, felt the effect
of poetry and flames that
casted shadows of obsidian. I shook
hands and sealed deals with the Devil
while playing checkers with God. I saw the world
pass out of sight in the blink of an eye,
fought wars on distant planets.
But it’s the weight of all of it that I can’t escape,
like trying to shrug off existence.”

“I’d trade everything I had for even a
fraction of what you’ve experienced.
Your soul seems splintered, but
I don’t understand why.”

“It’s the grandness of everything that
swallows you. We become so meaningless,
just flecks of skin, mere puzzle pieces
in a frantic conundrum.”

The wanderer put out his cigarette,
which smoldered like a star going out.
I tried to understand how this soul
could feel so extinguished, after all
he’d done and seen.

I saw silver on his tongue as he spoke.

“Imagination and dreams merge and
let you become the very essence of its core.
When you eventually go out there,
you will shrink with the days that pass.
You will realize even stars are just
specks of dust in the universe,
supernovae just ripples in black water,
planets just pebbles skipped upon the surface.
The imagination pushes past horizons,
destroying limitations with ease,
throwing the fragments and rubble
into a black hole of meaninglessness—
your own subjectivity becomes the focus,
never belittling your purpose.
Wonder while you still can. Wonder while you
still have purpose and conviction, before
existence takes it away and forces you to meander.”

I wasn’t sure what to say.
Roaming aimlessly was my god.
My face was a puzzle of a thousand
confused expressions.

It just didn’t make sense.

“Even the vastness of existence has
limitations,” the wanderer said.
“Nothing is vaster than

He removed his hood,
and for a split second, I saw myself
looking out at me. Then it passed,
and I realized I hadn’t seen him remove his
hood at all.

We parted, and I knew that I wasn’t going to
give up my dream. I barely noticed
my innocence casting shadows behind me,
fragments I could never again claim as my own.

Click Below to read
on the FREEZINE of
Fantasy and Science

Wednesday, September 19, 2018

The Creeping Glass

by Shaun Lawton

                                                               art by Drew Roulette

Evening's primal tide pulls us
to her darkened girth;
the Sun's heat rise severs
our umbilici of birth.

The shade of night falls, a filter
slivered into vertical pupils 

opening silent unseen gates 
through which a bestiary steps 

Into this, our world; 
after the curtains of dusk 
are drawn shut, the theater 
of sleep projects fractured visions

Within our skulled cathedrals;
while outdoors, over the great
wall of the wild, the darker
side of thy lacine thrives

Where the children are trained
to march under the Sun all their lives
and to run from the stories of wolves
that are lies cried out by the elders

Weakening in power who've been
given three tries at building
their enamel tower now black
on the landscape of dreams

Scaring the ravens away
with a crucifix looming
as its shadow leans out
before the Sun goes down

While the majority of men
awaken from their nightmare

and its compounded gravity 
to walk in the dulled blaze 

Of their Star, each one a beast 
with a mask of complacency 
a mime deprived of character 
a king stripped of scepter

Just jesters tricked back
into forgetting to remember
they're just members of the cast
hypnotized into performing

The dream that is played
in the temples of wilderness
for the rows of hooded monks;
reptiles watching themselves.

Return Tomorrow
to read the poem
on the FREEZINE of
Fantasy and Science

Tuesday, September 18, 2018


by Sheikha A.

                                                                 art by Drew Roulette

The deceased old woman's voice is a faint dip
in the vale of undead, cursing me of daughter-
less regions on plateaus of ripe wombs.
Not long before, my great aunt whose
life no longer crossed hemispheres of
the living, stood adorning the red gilded
garb of a first bride. My presence was
acknowledged by stoic retinas telling me,
somehow, the waist-hunched woman
at her door was the next to enter the parlour
of eternity, where they exchanged arms
for wings at altars of convention. I woke
from the dream, conceit smug in tresses
of my scalp still bearing black sheens
of curtains, long draped on my sensuous
back dipping to the size of hips not having
gone past pelvic-plunders. It is not a night
of Valium-dust. And there is a cluster
pulling out like arcs from a quiver of bones.
I have seen three women drag queens
out of their hats; the one with the wings
pierces a decree through the distance
of the air, travelling light years between
seven globes. Her eyes look at me across
seven sensibilities. I look again at the old
woman at her door; sensuous-curved
back tipping forward like the sky's arc.

Return Tomorrow for
on the FREEZINE of
Fantasy and Science

Monday, September 17, 2018

Wordless Whisperer

by John Shirley

                                                                       art by Drew Roulette


The rock star feels unreleased
taut in his neon cage;
the one who whispers without words
suggests another stage:
the thrill of hanging, the thrill of dangling
at the very edge of death
so very close, so very near;
near to your final breath.
He’s sucked into the inky pool,
before the noose is loosed;
then his life just drains away
O another strangled fool!

The comedian decides
he shouldn’t take another shot
another speedball raging,
the lightning fairly caught
the whisper without words
insists on one more hit;
just one more,  not so much
man, you’ll be so lit!
And when his lungs
fill up with blood
he sees the omega sign:
As the end comes with a thud…
he hears the last punchline.

And the gambler, he throws the dice
a half-million on one toss;
He knows now that he should quit:
losing big’s too big a cost.
But then the whisper comes,
a hiss right from the air
and suddenly he takes the leap,
and bets it all right there.
He loses all, yes everything,
and drifts up to his room
should he use the gun inside his bag
or sweep with a new broom?
The wordless whisper hisses,
suggests without a sound
hisses softly in his ear:
True hope cannot be found.
And people in the parking lot
counting money they’ll lay down,
scarcely notice that final shot
that quick and lonesome sound.

The whisperer needs no words
to hiss your life apart;
he can’t be seen, he’s never heard,
but he’s with you from the start;
heed him if you must, my friend
you’ll hear him in your heart:
laughing, clearly laughing…
joyful in his art.

     Click Below to read
     by Sheikha A

Friday, September 14, 2018

Time To Be Clear

by Bonnie Prince Billy

It's time to be clear...
got news of his passing and got stuck singing here.
I want to peel the wallpaper & swing from chandelier...
something to show that I know it's time to be clear.

I can handle what's given. I can make mystry mine
and sing it with feeling, with rhythm & rhyme,
and make you all marvel that this is your time
and holler, “It's time to be clear. 

Stop all the moaning & bemoaning of fate;
God isn't listening, or else it's too late.
This is your song & your song it is great.
We're singing, “It's time to be clear.

Time to be clear and leave our old worlds
& build new stories here. Lover o lover
please buy me a beer and bring
all your enemies here/near.

In Loving Memory of
 Gregory Alden Davis
Fredrick Milo Hayes II
Johnny Strike 

Click Image Below
to read the next poem:
Wordless Whisperer
by John Shirley
featuring art by Drew Roulette on
Fantasy and Science

Thursday, September 13, 2018

The Geniture Mill

by Shaun Lawton

                                                                                    Image courtesy of Jean-Pierre Luminet

   Millions of nascency factories scatter

  throughout our universe

 we call them stars

Their huge nests resemble

 gigantic spinning hives

  from whose centers

   seeds are spat out

  These germs take root

 at random distances

from the astral womb nexus

 Stellar machines

  deliver their planets

   one cosmic jewel at a time

  In our radiant quadrant

 it took a boundless period

for all eight stones to be borne

 to their respective orbits

  At varying distances

   temperatures and conditions

  generate distinct aspects

The tetrad of inner planets

 reflect the New Testament

  in the living gospel of our star

   The four gas giants remain

  testament to their ancient

 flaring halos

Click Below to read
Time To Be Clear
by Bonnie "Prince" Billy
on the FREEZINE of
Fantasy and Science

Archive of Stories
and Authors

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar's

Adam Bolivar is an expatriate Bostonian
who has lived in New Orleans and Berkeley,
and currently resides in Portland, Oregon
with his beloved wife and fluffy gray cat
Dahlia. Adam wears round, antique glasses
and has a fondness for hats. His greatest
inspirations include H.P. Lovecraft,
Jack tales and coffee. He has been
a Romantic poet for as long as any-
one can remember, specializing in
the composition of spectral balladry,
utilizing to great effect a traditional
poetic form that taps into the haunted
undercurrents of folklore seldom found
in other forms of writing.
His poetry has appeared on the pages
of such publications as SPECTRAL
CTHULHU, and a poem of his,
"The Rime of the Eldritch Mariner,"
won the Rhysling Award for long-form
poetry. His collection of weird balladry
and Jack tales, THE LAY OF OLD HEX,
was published by Hippocampus Press in 2017.

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff's

David Agranoff is the author of the
following books: Ring of Fire (Eraserhead
Press, 2018), Flesh Trade (co-written
w/Edward Morris; published by Create-
Space, 2017), Punk Rock Ghost Story
(Deadite Press, 2016), Amazing Punk
Stories (Eraserhead Press, 2016),
Boot Boys of the Wolf Reich (Eraserhead
Press, 2014), Hunting the Moon Tribe
(Eraserhead Press, 2011), The Vegan
Revolution...with Zombies (Eraserhead
Press, 2010), and Screams from a Dying
World (Afterbirth Books, 2009).
David is a hardcore vegan and tireless
environmentalist. His contributions to
the punk horror scene and the planet in
general have already established him
as a bright new writer and activist to
watch out for. The Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction welcomes him and
his defiant vision open-heartedly.

David is a busy man, usually at work
on several different novels or projects
at once. He is sure to leave his mark on
a world teetering over the edge of
ecological imbalance.

Sanford Meschkow's

Sanford Meschkow is a retired former
NYer who married a Philly suburban
Main Line girl. Sanford has been pub-
lished in a 1970s issue of AMAZING.
We welcome him here on the FREE-
ZINE of Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking's

Brian "Flesheater" Stoneking currently
resides in the high desert of Phoenix,
Arizona where he enjoys campy horror
movies within the comfort of an Insane
Asylum. Search for his science fiction
stories at The Intestinal Fortitude in
the Flesheater's World section.
The Memory Sector is his first
appearance in the Freezine of
Fantasy and Science Fiction.

Owen R. Powell's

Little is known of the mysterious
Owen R. Powell (oftentimes referred
to as Orp online). That is because he
usually keeps moving. The story
Noetic Vacations marks his first
appearance in the Freezine.

Edward Morris's

Edward Morris is a 2011 nominee for
the Pushcart Prize in literature, has
also been nominated for the 2009
Rhysling Award and the 2005 British
Science Fiction Association Award.
His short stories have been published
over a hundred and twenty times in
four languages, most recently at
PerhihelionSF, the Red Penny Papers'
SUPERPOW! anthology, and The
Magazine of Bizarro Fiction. He lives
and works in Portland as a writer,
editor, spoken word MC and bouncer,
and is also a regular guest author at
the H.P. Lovecraft Film Festival.

Gene Stewart
(writing as Art Wester)

Gene Stewart's

Gene Stewart is a writer and artist.
He currently lives in the Midwest
American Wilderness where he is
researching tales of mystical realism,
writing ficta mystica, and exploring
the dark by casting a little light into
the shadows. Follow this link to his
website where there are many samples
of his writing and much else; come

Daniel José Older's

Daniel José Older's

Daniel José Older's spiritually driven,
urban storytelling takes root at the
crossroads of myth and history.
With sardonic, uplifting and often
hilarious prose, Older draws from
his work as an overnight 911 paramedic,
a teaching artist & an antiracist/antisexist
organizer to weave fast-moving, emotionally
engaging plots that speak whispers and
shouts about power and privilege in
modern day New York City. His work
has appeared in the Freezine of Fantasy
and Science Fiction, The ShadowCast
Audio Anthology, The Tide Pool, and
the collection Sunshine/Noir, and is
featured in Sheree Renee Thomas'
Black Pot Mojo Reading Series in Harlem.
When he's not writing, teaching or
riding around in an ambulance,
Daniel can be found performing with
his Brooklyn-based soul quartet
Ghost Star. His blog about the
ridiculous and disturbing world
of EMS can be found here.

Paul Stuart's

Paul Stuart is the author of numerous
biographical blurbs written in the third
person. His previously published fiction
appears in The Vault of Punk Horror and
His non-fiction financial pieces can be found
in a shiny, west-coast magazine that features
pictures of expensive homes, as well as images
of women in casual poses and their accessories.
Consider writing him at,
if you'd like some thing from his garage. In fall
2010, look for Grade 12 Trigonometry and
Pre-Calculus -With Zombies.

Rain Grave's

Rain Graves is an award winning
author of horror, science fiction and
poetry. She is best known for the 2002
Poetry Collection, The Gossamer Eye
(along with Mark McLaughlin and
David Niall Wilson). Her most
recent book, Barfodder: Poetry
Written in Dark Bars and Questionable
Cafes, has been hailed by Publisher's
Weekly as "Bukowski meets Lovecraft..."
in January of 2009. She lives and
writes in San Francisco, performing
spoken word at events around the
country. 877-DRK-POEM -

Icy Sedgwick's

Icy Sedgwick is part writer and part
trainee supervillain. She lives in the UK
but dreams of the Old West. Her current
works include a ghost story about a Cavalier
and a Western tale of retribution. Find her
ebooks, free weekly fiction and other
shenanigans at Icy’s Cabinet of Curiosities.

Blag Dahlia's
armed to the teeth

BLAG DAHLIA is a Rock Legend.
Singer, Songwriter, producer &
founder of the notorious DWARVES.
He has written two novels, ‘NINA’ and

G. Alden Davis's

G. Alden Davis wrote his first short story
in high school, and received a creative
writing scholarship for the effort. Soon
afterward he discovered that words were
not enough, and left for art school. He was
awarded the Emeritus Fellowship along
with his BFA from Memphis College of Art
in '94, and entered the videogame industry
as a team leader and 3D artist. He has over
25 published games to his credit. Mr. Davis
is a Burningman participant of 14 years,
and he swings a mean sword in the SCA.

Shae Sveniker's

Shae is a poet/artist/student and former
resident of the Salt Pit, UT, currently living
in Simi Valley, CA. His short stories are on
Blogger and his poetry is hosted on Livejournal.

Nigel Strange's

Nigel Strange lives with his wife and
daughter, cats, and tiny dog-like thing
in their home in California where he
occasionally experiments recreationally
with lucidity. PLASTIC CHILDREN
is his first publication.

J.R. Torina's

J.R. Torina was DJ for Sonic Slaughter-
house ('90-'97), runs Sutekh Productions
(an industrial-ambient music label) and
Slaughterhouse Records (metal record
label), and was proprietor of The Abyss
(a metal-gothic-industrial c.d. shop in
SLC, now closed). He is the dark force
behind Scapegoat (an ambient-tribal-
noise-experimental unit). THE HOUSE
IN THE PORT is his first publication.

K.B. Updike, Jr's

K.B. Updike, Jr. is a young virgin
Virginia writer. KB's life work,
published 100% for free:
(We are not certain if K.B. Updike, Jr.
has lost his Virginian virginity yet.)