Random Thoughts

I scan the sky and wonder if

The stories can be true,

That aliens are coming here,

Encountered by a few.


My mind begins to ponder stuff,

Like vampires, ghouls and ghosts;

Do people really see those things,

Or are they idle boasts?


I think about the kiss we shared;

The way she held my hand.

I’m scared of getting hurt again,

But will she understand?


© Jack Horne, Plymouth - United Kingdom



Jack Horne is my dear friend and part of the editorial team of Whispers as the Activity Features editor, together with Karen O'Leary and me.  He enjoys reading and writing poetry. 




The angel of death

patiently awaits

for my last breath

patiently awaits

on his pale horse

to drag me down

into the mystery

of darkness

into the unseen world

of hellfire

whose fuel is 


the mouth of Satan

I fall into

jinn and firebirds and scythe

and the inhabitants of fire

attack my God-fearing soul

attack the prayers behind my eyes

attack the scriptures in my heart

behind this curtain of fire

my day of doom

a sign to the infidel

a sign to the hypocrite

oblivion cometh

in a blink of the eye

we are dust and bones

in this place

remote of God

I pray

my soul light will divide 

me from the sea of darkness

in this place

remote of God

I pray

the fire shall not touch me

and I will take the form of


O Merciful One

defend me 

on my last day

the angel of death

patiently awaits

for my last breath


© Stefan Bohdan, Orlando - United States



Stefan Bohdan lives in Orlando, Florida with his wife Margaret. He is retired from the 
architectural/engineering/construction world. He now spends his time writing poems 
and novels. His poems have been published in multiple books, anthologies, journals, 
Ezines and translated into Persian, Arabic, Urdu, Nepali, Estonian and old Japanese.







Death by Poetry

I write my poems with a special blue ringed octopus ink.
With a puffer fish tetrodotoxin poison for good measure mixed in.
These words of mine may leave you breathless feeling numb.
The shock to your immune system sadly has already begun.

That's why my poems can be so deceptively deadly.
You don't even realise what kind danger you are in.
Stop reading this poem, Now !
Before a lethal dose of my poetry gets under your skin.

As my poem gently snakes down this page.
It is just like a serpent hiding in plain sight
Like a black mamba striking out the shadows.
You will only know the danger when you feel my words bite.

There is always a hidden danger in the most innocent of things.
Even my full stops and punctuation marks are made from using scorpion stings.
I can write with such venom it can stop your heart.
When the poison kicks in, it will tear your world apart.

There is no known antidote and it is far too late anyway for a cure.
You will die with my words on your dying lips, but yearning for more.
Because I write such killer poetry of this there is no doubt.
My apologies I am sorry for killing you, I didn't mean to take you out.

I gave you all the time to stop reading and fair forewarning in advance.
If you're still reading this poem then I'm sorry to tell you, you've got no chance.
In the next few minutes you will start to suffer and feel a little queasy.
Dying for poetry is very noble, but a death like this is never going to be easy.

But don't worry when you die you will probably have the last laugh.
As I promise I will write you a poem in your Memory as a fitting epitaph.

PTG © copyright Paul Griffiths, a Birkenhead poet



When I have nothing to give, and they’re all standing in line, I dream about my hometown: the

consequence of having followed my wanderlust to a warmer place. When I have everything to

give and no one to give it to. Nothing is ever lost that lives in memory. I am a specter floating

over mountains, hollows, and rivers, all brown and grey and green, wandering the backwoods of

Western Pennsylvania. Our house is a ranch-style, cloaked in silvery, uncovered insulation. It

leans into a wooded hill. It’s because my heaven is slightly imperfect. The scent of smoke drifts

across the squat boughs of Douglas firs.

Every concrete porch in the neighborhood has a deer hanging upside-down, dripping blood from

the nose, soon to go to the processor to be made into meat for the winter. It’s because I can’t

afford to buy more bread yet. The ghosts of men long-buried moan in the mines.

A castle in the forest in a little girl’s dream is a treehouse held together with bent nails and

plywood. A spring flows right from the mountain, down the hill in rivulets to the creek, past the

massive willow tree. Violets bloom in a fairy-haunted dell. Seasons shift from cold to warm,

black, and white, to Van Gogh’s garish, autumnal glory.

All of Elizabeth comes out to a field on a sunny day in summer, to have a car show and a picnic-

feast. Jeremy washes a giant black truck. He and his brother grill ribs. Destiny brings chicken

alfredo. I talk and laugh and move from table to table, guzzling coffee in a Styrofoam cup. An

old man says chewing gum is a nasty habit. I avoid him.

What bizarre paradise did this dream drop me in, what weird Elysium-in- a-green- field version of

home was this? I remember less bright days and more being eleven, tasting the dark brew for the

first time.


© Chani Zwibel

 Chani Zwibel is a graduate of Agnes Scott College, was born and raised in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania, but now dwells in Marietta, Georgia, with her husband and their dog. She is an associate editor with Madness Muse Press. She enjoys writing poetry after nature walks and daydreaming.

 Recent Publications include:

 Setu April 2018, The Dope Fiend Daily April 16, 2018, Dissident Voice April 8, 2018, Oracle 20/20 April 1, 2018,Advaitam Speaks Literary- Vol. 2 Issue 1-2018 (February 25), Witches and Pagans: Natural Paganism Issue 35, February 2018, Madness Muse Press: Mermaid Mirror: An Anthology of Women Writers, February 2018, The Literary HatchetIssue 19, Jan 2018, Dissident Voice Dec 31, 2017, Ariel Chart Dec 5, 2017, Killjoy litmag #Catastrophe Dec 1, 2017






There were two of them.

Elderly sisters that lived alone.

Angry old spinsters it was said could

marshal the forces of darkness, the evil eye.

No one would look at them in the village.

Children were kept away and told each other

stories about how they knew this kid that

ended up as soup. Even the town leaders

left them alone. These two hexperts.

When animals went lame or the harvest failed,

everyone knew what had happened.

But no one said a word. Not even in private.

It was believed these two sisters were

everywhere. That they couldn’t die.

Two tiny hunchbacks in league with the devil.


Ryan Quinn Flanagan, Canada   



Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle through his garbage.  His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Word Riot, In Between Hangovers, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.