Photo by Luigi Novi

Born in Poland in 1926, Joe Kubert( September 18, 1926 – August 12, 2012) has been a force in the world of graphic art for over 60 years. He has worked as a comic book  illustrator for DC and Marvel, as a publisher, and as a teacher over the course of his career. Joe’s work has appeared in classics like Superman, Tarzan, Thor, Batman, Flash, and Hawkman. He formed The Joe Kubert School of Cartoon and Graphic Art, Inc. along with his wife Muriel in 1976. Kubert has won numerous awards in his field. His sons Adam and Andy are also artists and their abilities have been recognized and acclaimed.  http://www.kubertschool.edu/

What where you like as a kid?

Like any other kid who grew up in Brooklyn’s East New York in the mid-’20s.

Do you think you career would have been possible if your parents had not been so encouraging?

I think I would have continued to draw if my parents didn’t encourage me. But I’m sure glad they did.

What was it like to get your first job in comics making $5.00 a page when you were so young? Your parents must have been very proud?

I was 13 or so when I sold my first work. The money was less of a thrill than the fact my drawings were going to be published. Yes, my parents were very proud.

What was it like to grow up in Brooklyn in those days? 

Drawing probably saved my life, because it kept me out of trouble.

Were you always a fan of comics yourself?

I always loved cartooning from the time I saw my first comic strip in the newspapers (before there were any comic books). And I loved comic books, and I still do.

As this is a magazine that caters to horror/sci fi/dark fiction, are you a fan of any of that?

I enjoy all genres, but horror and dark fiction are my favorites.

Were you a fan of the original horror monsters of film?

I remember Dracula, Frankenstein and King Kong as a kid (1939). They scared the hell out of me and I loved them.

What is the earliest scary memory you can recall?

Probably Frankenstein (with Karloff).

You formed the Kubert School of Art with your wife Muriel in 1976. What led you to do that?

I thought it was a good idea, so long as it didn’t impinge on my own work and career, and my wife, Muriel, was willing to run the business end of the business.

Do you feel it is a blessing to be able to pass what you have learned onto the artists of tomorrow?

I don’t think in those terms. The blessing is that I’m able to get up, sit at a drawing table and draw (which I love), and people pay me for it.

Andy and Adam are also artists. What was it like to see them follow in your footsteps?

I thought it was a miracle. I still do.

I think comics are a form of dark fiction. Why do you think the struggle between good vs. evil has always made such interesting comic tales?

I think the struggle between good and evil is the basis for 95% of all literature.

What one subject have you yet to cover that you would most like to?

I revisit many subjects, hoping to bring new perspectives.

What is the best advice anyone has ever given you? Who was it?

Harry A Chesler. “Keep at it, kid,” he told me.

What projects are you looking forward to bringing your fans next?

Several. Too soon to speak about them.

Anything you’d like to say to your fans?

Just to thank them for their interest.

(Authors note: This interview originally appeared elsewhere and as that site is now lost, I didn’t want this interview to go down the same. I am offering here in hopes that all of you will enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed doing it. Thank you kindly. ~Tina)

Celtic Woman

Frozen Echoes

Hawthorn blossoms
pearled the hedgerows
as birds rejoiced,
chiming the air
with heartbeat rhythms,
a leafy green spring
as baby buds peeped in.

I carried you,
felt you
but never got to hold you.

Another year has passed
and I am still lost
in the black cold of winter,
remembering the day
you left me.
It has been so long
and we never said goodbye.

My tears,
frozen in time.
Echoes of songs
that never were,
dreams that can never be.

Fog blankets the fields.
The sky expresses what I cannot.
I hear the parting clouds,
I speak to the sunrise
of my love for you,
your movement, your sound.
I would speak of anything
to bring you back,
but there is only frost
and winter dwells in my heart.

I see the spring,
but know
I will never feel your warmth.

Sugarloaf Mountain

The following are Haikus and artwork by Máire Morrissey-Cummins

Glitters of Sky

Apple Harvest

Máire Morrissey-Cummins ia Irish, married with adult children and since taking early retirement from the Financial Sector, has found the beauty of poetry and art and is enjoying life to the full. Máire has lived abroad for many years, in Holland and presently lives between Ireland and Germany. Morrissey-Cummins is well known in haiku circles and was recently named in the top 100 haiku writers in Europe.

“On the Common, Kite Flying” by Vickers Deville

Kite

I
never apologised
never explained
take me
or
leave me
I said
my head thrown back
arms outstretched
spotlight haze
haloing me
in
cigarette smoke
and bawdy
lecherous
laughter

many of them
took me

of course
they did

I
was
a
beautiful
sexual
charismatic
free
human
animal
and
I liberated them
momentarily
from their shit
joyless
lives.

I
sang
on the stage
of the
Kit Kat Club
Koepenicker Strasse
gave blowjobs
for cash
in the alley
behind it
don’t judge me
times were hard
men were hard
I did
what
I had
to do

until you’re
starving
you don’t know
what you’ll eat

I watched
small betrayals
become
big betrayals
fear
and
hatred
coalesced
in to
those
dark siblings
concensus
and
well known
fact

It’s the jews
they said
it’s the reds
they said
the foreigners
they said
the trade unionists
they said
the handicapped
they said
the gypsies
they said
the queers
they said

and I knew
I was fucked

They came for me
the morning after Kristallnacht
pasty
pale
aryans
grinning
like hyenas
hunting
through
the glittering glass
beat me bloody
pinned
a pink star
to my breast
sent me
to the camp
planned by architects
designed by engineers
built by tradesmen
staffed
by
ordinary
decent
people

I saw all that men are capable of
I watched horror become
A mundane
Daily thing
Coated grey
In human ash
Organised
Institutionalised
Condoned
Official
I
am a survivor
I
survived

The Americans freed me
my spirit barely attached
to what was left
of my body
but
I
was
still
human
and
I
did
not
die

I.Did.Not.Die

I
went to live
in the land
of the well fed
and nearly free
I never sang again
the music left me
and did not return
but
one evening
I wandered
into
seedy Soho
and watched
a beautiful
young man
sing
arms outstretched
head thrown back
haloed
in cigarette smoke
and spotlight haze
the basement room
thick
with beery
lecherous
laughter
I sat
in the darkness
at my solitary table
and sobbed
quietly
for life
and loss

Life
Goes
On

I lived
until
the day
I died
stretched flat
on the spring grass
my heart
dark blossoming
in my chest
as the light dimmed
I saw
silhouetted against the evening sky
a kite
ragged
beautiful
solitary
free.

Mick Corrigan has been writing for several years and has been published in a range of periodicals, magazines and on-line journals. He is in his fifties (at least he thinks they’re his fifties, they could be someone else’s), and lives in County Kildare, Ireland with Trish his lifer, Molly the talking wonder dog, Ben the ever so cool collie and Bandit the gin drinking dowager cat. He likes a well-made porkpie hat and regularly has ideas above his station.

“Wait”

He was
sitting there
alone, by the fire

draped in a
faded woolen rug,
smoking…

I put my backpack down,
joined him

the train was late
by 2 hours

We sat
by the fire

and waited…

Kanchan Chatterjee is a 44 year old male executive, working in the ministry of finance, government of India. Although he does not have any literary background, he loves poetry and writes as and when he feels the urge. Some of his works have been
published in various online and print journals e.g. Mad House, Decanto, Mad Swirl, Eclectic eel, Jellyfish whisperer, Bare Hands Poetry etc. He is one of the nominees of this year’s Pushcart Award.

The House in Straight Jacket

Some yellow tapes fence our houses.
You can perceive the same thing as a tragedy
or as a treasure.

Again the knives flew in the air today.
Agreed,
in future we should use words only on the vegetables.

Now I hold a compass on my salty palm.
The softness of four directions
baffle its pointer.

And I walk round and round the house,
stumble on the stones and dead squirrels.
How do you enter inside a building wearing a straight jacket?

A native of Kolkata, India, Kushal Poddar writes poetry, fiction and scripts for television mini-series and is published worldwide. He is the author of All Our Fictional Dreams and has been published in Poor Poet’s Pantry: Collaborative Poems. His forthcoming books are Surviving Cyber Life and Five Rivers.

Chorus After Chorus

There’s a reunion of the flesh, a handshake,
re-entry, a comfortable extension of eye contact
between two stations, both tuned into the same beat,
broadcasting solely to each other. Blindfold off,
headphones on; surrounded by sound,
marooned together in an old fashion, happy to repeat.

We don’t want this song to end, adding codas,
sitting down to craft new verses to a melody
easily hummed; taking a pact to forever
bell out the choruses. May every chorus surge
and resurge the blood as our calling
to revel in the days we own together.
for we can never own time, but we can possess
the echoes of energy spent passing time in union.

Colin Dardis resides in Northern Ireland, where he currently edits the poetry journal FourXFour, and is the host of Purely Poetry, a monthly open mic poetry night in the Crescent Arts Centre, Belfast. He is also a member of the performance group,Voica Versa. 

Previously, Colin has been a co-ordinator of open mic night Make Yourself Heard, editor of Speech Therapy zine, and has worked as a Poet In Motion for the New Belfast Community Arts Initiative. His poetry has been published extensively in
journals, anthologies and website throughout the UK, Ireland and the US. Check out Colin’s website at: http://lowlightsforlowlifes.weebly.com

On Self Medicating

It is Friday and Dylan is standing in front of the rows of caffeine pills displayed in the gray CVS down the busy street from his apartment, thinking of Sareh’s long, lithe legs, her smooth, throaty voice and dark, bobbed hair, which smells of juniper and almond shampoo – all of which are an hour and a half away at the university where her paintings got her into a master’s program, in the same little town where he lived with her for eight months, jobless, before moving here. Those eight unproductive months seemed the most miserable of his life – but, he tells himself, they were the best, because he will never again have a chance to do nothing but dote on Sareh all day, or cook her favorite foods for no particular reason, or pose ’til dawn so she can finish a painting for class – the most miserable months, that is, until he moved here, when he couldn’t sleep on the very first night without her breath and those sleepy, blinking eyes on the soft pillow beside his.

As he hears the automatic doors whirr open behind him, he realizes all his mind’s images of Sareh’s exotic hazel eyes are tied to thoughts of his insomnia – how he never sleeps on weeknights anymore except for the half-hours when he nods into a doze between six and seven in the morning, always just before his alarm goes off – and how Sareh hates it every Friday, as soon as Dylan sees her, when his shoulders relax – that almost painful stretch of muscle – and he gets drowsy, slipping off to sleep as soon as they sit down for a movie or a meal, or tumble into bed for some “I’ve been waiting all week” sex.

He is so tired now that his eyes are sore and trailing images of everything he sees; his arms have never felt so heavy, like lead is pumping through them rather than blood, weighing down on his back and pulling at the sides of his neck; and his knees go to jelly every five minutes or so, making him flex his calves and thighs to catch himself before the ugly, coarse blue carpet jumps up to cradle his cheek. But he knows he wouldn’t be able to sleep even if he did fall to the floor, despite his aching tiredness. Tonight, he tells himself, this weekend, I must stay awake. He must, he knows, or she will soon not want him around anymore, which will not allow him to sleep – he fears – at all, or maybe ever again.

Dylan looks over the small, neatly-placed boxes before him as an employee, a man about thirty-five with a scraggly rat-tail hanging down over his collar, shuffles behind him, dragging the smell of damp, dirty storerooms down the aisle. Dylan swallows back the flame of bile in his throat and reaches out for one of the boxes, the one with the brightest colors, the one his eyes refuse to ignore, despite the extreme side-effects and warnings posted on the front label. But when he looks down at his hand hovering by the NoDoze, it is trembling terribly and he can feel the strained effort his body is putting out just to send blood through his wavering veins, so he turns to the row of cash registers by the door before his fingers can clasp the thin, waxed cardboard. His foot refuses to move for a moment and Dylan stumbles before straightening back up, Sareh’s smile echoing in his mind, his shoulders beginning to loosen before he can even get out to the parking lot.

Austin Eichelberger  completed his MA in Fiction at Longwood University in May 2009. Since then, he has taught various English and writing writing courses at a university level. While these stories have yet to be published, he has been invited to read at several conferences, including the Southern Humanities Council Conference and the Robert and Susan H. May Conference, and his work has appeared in numerous online and print literary journals and anthologies, including the University of Chester’s Flash Magazine, Diverse Voices Quarterly, and Eclectic Flash, among others.

Moon and Sea

At end of
day I make my way

To the calm
and quiet shore

I stand and
stare at the moon so fair

Like a
thousand times before

All around
her light shines down
Bathing me
in silver tears

She and the
sea speak to me

Conspiring
to take my years

Her light
reflects those silver specks

I hear her
Siren’s call

And step
into the midnight blue

This will be
my final fall

Now the
stars can see my scars

As the water
rises higher

I still
stare at the moon so fair

Full of pure
love and desire

This black
of night will hold me tight

Nevermore to
welcome the sun

My fate is
sealed, my life will yield

To the
beauty that loved Endymion

The moon
told the sea where to lead me

The sea is
now my grave

Mourned by
mist and finally kissed

By the sweet
embrace of a wave

Originally from southern California, Jessica Fitzpatrick now lives and writes in Olympia, Washington. A lifelong lover of literature, she has drawn inspiration from many of the masters but also managed to discover her own voice. Jessica has
been writing for almost 20 years, and while she explores various themes, her pen tends to favor the dark, the mysterious, the imaginative.

The Voice of America

A voice comes from somewhere behind me, thin and wispy, calling me by the wrong name. When I turn around, the leaves are quivering with conflicting emotions. Anyone I tell says I need to get a better attitude – or go die. But who doesn’t have qualms when they stick a key in the door? It’s not true that there’s no penalty for trying. Sometimes I have to be rescued. Other times I remove the rope from around my neck myself.

Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of fivepoetry collections, most recently Cryptic Endearments from Knives Forks & Spoons Press. He has had numerous chapbooks, including Elephant Gun from
Dog on a Chain Press, Strange Roads from Puddles of Sky Press, and Death of Me from Pig Ear Press. His poetry has been nominated multiple times for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net anthology. He blogs at
http://apocalypsemambo.blogspot.com.

Tapping a Song Out with His Foot

He lives in a trailer
on a gravel road
with a number
for a name;
he drives a semi-,
hauls things city folks
simply take for granted

He don’t think much,
just knows things others don’t
know they need to know;
he slides hairy legs
into faded jeans; his woman
does loads of laundry
every Saturday

His top two buttons
are unbuttoned
before he comes home;
he sits in a Lazy Boy, drinks
American beer; he’s versatile;
he’d like to have his own theme
song, but life just won’t let him
so he just taps out a song
with his foot

Tim J. Brennan writes from southern MN. His poems can be found in Whispering Shade, Talking Stick, The Green Blade, and many other nice places. Brennan’s short plays have been produced widely, including performances in NYC, San Diego, and Bloomington, IL.