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Copyright © 2013 HAUNTED WATERS PRESS. All Rights Reserved. No portion of this periodical may be reproduced or used in any form; printed, electronic or mechanical, without the express permission of the publisher. The only exceptions are by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review, and to the contributing author to whom all rights to individual works revert back to the author ninety days following publication. From the Depths is a quarterly publication of Haunted Waters Press. Cover design by Susan Warren Utley © 2013. Please see Credits & Permissions for attributions. Works contained herein are works of fiction. Characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to any actual places, events, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Printed and published in the United States of America. First Printing: March 2013 For more information please visit: Or email us at: From the Depths is a quarterly literary journal released in the months of March, June, September, and December in digital format, and periodically in print form. All submissions should be sent through our online submission manager. Please visit the Haunted Waters Press website to review our submission guidelines. This publication is made possible through the hard work and dedication of the contributing editorial staff who give their time so generously. Funding and support for Haunted Waters Press provided by The Man. Thank you for encouraging us to follow our dreams.

From the Depths Spring 2013

EDITORS Savannah Renée Warren Susan Warren Utley PENNY FICTION EDITOR Penny Dreadful FEATURES EDITOR Savannah Renée Warren DESIGN & LAYOUT Susan Warren Utley CREATIVE TEAM Debby Warren-Manning Donna Parkman Barbara Pellegrino Rebekah Postupak Alec Spidalieri

In this issue... 12



16 20




17 23



18 19







42 44



40 46


, 5

From the Editors... Dear Readers,

Our theme for the spring issue of From the Depths is “tributes.” For my own personal tribute, I would like to share a letter written to my daughter and co-editor, Savannah Renée, just a few days ago on her 27th birthday. As always, we hope you enjoy the

many fine works of poetry, fiction and creative nonfiction contained within these pages. They are some of the finest works ever featured in From the Depths. Susan Warren Utley

Editor, Haunted Waters Press Savannah Renée, you are without a doubt, the person who has made the most impact on my life and who I have grown to be. Without you, my life would be incomplete. I would be incomplete. Today, on your 27th birthday, I look back on my life with you, and it plays like a movie in my mind. Flashes of a girl running through the woods, catching frogs and climbing trees--things you have yet to outgrow. Searching for your favorite yellow flower, so elusive in Grandma’s garden, yet so abundant in Mommy’s--your heart was always open to unpretentious beauties in a field of daisies. White confetti floating in the air after a toss of a bean bag chair--from the year you discovered scissors. And long blonde hair under giant yellow sunflowers pinned to floppy hats--you always had a style all your own. I remember our first moments alone together. I’ll be the first to admit I was terrified. You were so small, I thought you might break. The idea of you so big, I was certain I would fail. But there you were needing me, and I needing you. Somehow we managed. You didn’t break, and we didn’t fail. I became a better person because of you. And you? You became the sun and the moon and the stars in my sky, the root of my life that keeps me grounded. Happy Birthday, Savannah. You are beautiful. I love you. May your life always find you searching for dandelions among daisies.


Love, Mom

“Versions of myself in previous years are some of the best company I keep.” savannah renee “Inner Children”




by Melinda Giordano

M y mother is as dainty as a teacup, as colorful as a tapestry, as rare as an alchemist's recipe for

gold, as valuable as…nothing this word holds, voluminous as its pockets may be. Her delicate profile tempered my features, made my lower lip full, and kept my nose from spiting my face. If I had any aspirations to grace, it was through her. When she had me, I made the birthing rather difficult, and for that I apologize. Large shoulders will get stuck, but that's hardly an excuse for a most disconcerting debut. She loved me unconditionally, and I believed I howled like a monkey in return. Her style is not the style of comfort or resignation. Like the person it adorns, it is witty and sophisticated. And out of gratitude to one who wears it so well, Beauty has decided to stay. My mother is beautiful. She battles age on its own terms – any gauntlet it cares to throw down, she picks up and slaps it across its barren face. The years are pointless, meaningless. They do not order her around; in fact they are roundly defeated. Time has not been able to change her, and it retreats in disgust, shaking its hands which have been left inexorably tied. Our friendship is profound. We are the best of sisters. Many times I've reflected on my spectacular good fortune to have such a companion. We know each other’s thoughts: they travel side by side, and the drivers – mother and daughter – lean out the windows, waving to each other with happy recognition. 9

, For Rico, Jack’s Last Request by Holly Christina Combs





Heart to Heart A darkening shadow hangs over my heart as arteriosclerosis closes in on my father’s brain.

His rational presence in the here and now decreases as his processing and memories jumble up, and, more and more, he’s in another time and place, or just confused about what’s going on.

But it never was the spoken words that glued us heart to heart.

Selfishly, I mourn the loss of the most incisive mind I’ve ever known,

It has always been the unspoken certainty of absolute fealty,

an enchanted well of razor-sharp thinking and profound wisdom is slowly going dry.

the most rock-solid guarantee in my life.

What a staggering privilege to have lived with this totally unconditional endorsement of everything I ever was or am right now or ever hope to be.

John Cannon


My Mom She was, quite simply, a better person than most of us.

She believed in the Power of Love, and her faith was active ― a live-it-every-day faith not passive ― a mumble-a-few-words faith. With Mary Cannon you were loved merely for being, and, miraculously, just being worthy of her love made you a better person. She was a Franciscan in the pure sense ― she spent her phenomenal energy lifting up rather than tearing down,

Her image of you was always just a little better than the reality you knew to be true, not a naive distortion, but rather a hope that you could grow into, and so often, when you looked back, you found that she had enabled you to become what she always believed you to be. No one of us can ever be all of what she was, and continues to be, in our lives and in the greater world,

but, perhaps, each one of us can strive to be one small part of what she was and what she believed in, and, together, we can help to keep her amazing uplifting power ALIVE and at work in this world.

John Cannon

and you felt the nourishment of that lifting up whenever you were with her and sometimes when she was just thinking of you while you were far away.


Knitting Memory

by Emily Strauss

To Greta Whenever I’m knitting I always remember her instructions as we sat on the wicker couch she brought home from Thailand. She taught patiently on the double-stranded English wool I picked from the bottom drawer, my luck to begin the hard way, she carefully showed me the hole, see, the yarn comes through here, mocking the American way like chicken wings flapping, she mimicked. She guided my fingers firmly, held them straight. I remember too the roasted chestnuts and apple strudel, stale pancakes, warped pans, faded doilies. In a dream I found her on a bus, disbelieving her reality and pulled her into my arms once again. I forgot to show her my knitted shawl and beret.


The Cotton Apron by Sarah E. N. Kohrs A fine white dust sifts through the air about the metal-top table—there, falling gently, and here, upon Mama's cotton apron— it settles as snow on Spring’s flowers. How I loved to watch her knead! Skillful shoulders and seasoned hands worked dough into soft mounds, glistening with lovingly-placed lard. And after noon luncheon and nap with the aroma of baked bread scenting every corner of the house, golden-topped rolls beckoned me. Lines of light sprayed across the sill as the sun prepared for bed; and there we sat with a roll for each, and an open jar of strawberry jam. Memory seeps into these hands as I touch the worn rose-patterned cloth, which willing fingers fit in place about my waist as now I set out to knead that bread.


White Balloons

by Devon Neal

White balloons cloud the sky like a bloated school Of jellyfish bobbing in a gray-blue sea, Their tails in unison, Their slick membranes scissoring scale-on-scale Into a tree’s fishnet fingers. When you were six, A foggy blue ball in your thin pink fingers, Pebbly teeth loosened like bike tires, You’d attack those branches. Momentum would kick you from your high-tops, Elbows spiked and acute, And the ball would sing through the air, Chipping the thinnest sticks Until they fell around you. When you were eleven, Your feet would curl like swim fins Around the tree’s bony trunk. Your knobby knees would bend Against the knuckled wood, Lifting you to heights you’d always describe As being great for jumping into the pool. You’d shake those limbs with your muddy toes Until the balloons escaped, Then swing back down like a graceful diver. When you were fourteen, Your BB gun rattled like a toy, And you’d pump it against your knee Until your arm swelled and shook. You’d stand straight and tall with a stiff finger Until the barrel sneezed A shining gray pellet into the treetop. When you were nineteen, We released your balloons into the air. White and loose like teeth, And bobbing like your pool toys, They were netted by a tree. My mom said, “He would’ve liked that.” And I knew you would have climbed to get them.



All Grown Up

by Sara Schmidt

A wood sprite with silky curls Festooned with soft white buds, You wore a gold circlet of promise Newly purchased delights, A lovingly borrowed treasure, And an old heirloom on your beautiful day And as you giggled and pinked-Just enough to make your eyes sparkle In that twinkling way they always do When you're grinning and giddy-Before the congress of loved ones, I could see you, gap-toothed again at six, Tousled hair sticking to your cheek as You swung my hand, asking for another story-Now that hand is perched on another-A deserving fellow, I must admit-And I wonder at the passing of time, Of how quickly you went from diapers to diamonds, And though it's one of joy, I feel a streak of clammy dew Drop beneath an eye, As I marvel with pride at my wondrous sister, So lovely and so quickly grown, As you step onto a new light-filled path.


Little Explorer by Sara Schmidt

Bent beneath the Bradford Pear, Pink knees drawn up to her armpits Like a jovial, crouching gnome, She picks only the purplest blossoms (To bring to Mommy) I'm afraid to blink, To miss even a second As she eyes the subtleties In each individual leaf, The satisfying whoosh As she pulls fresh foliage From the bark Lighting up her eyes, Discovering


Pageant for a

Crazy Man by Gerald Warfield

I woke to a distant scream—only to close my eyes again. You would think that somebody screaming would bring me straight up out of bed, but sleeping late was one of the blessings of summer vacation, and that cot was comfortable. Besides, maybe I was dreaming. Then I heard running outside the tent. I sat up in a flash and tried to throw off the covers, forgetting that I’d zipped the sleeping bag all the way up. Snaking out the end, I made for the door flap. Ducking under a rope, I scooted around the tent to where Mom was grilling bacon over a smoky fire pit. She stood there, gripping that big fork she cooks with like she was ready for combat. I could see other people in the campground all heading in the same direction. Some were running. Dad was nowhere to be seen. “They’ve crucified a man,” said the woman in front of the tent across the road, her pale face screwed up in a look of horror. Mom turned on me. “Marge, get back in the tent.” “Mom!”


“Now,” and she pointed with the fork. I spun around and stomped back into the tent. Once inside, there was nothing to do but get dressed as quickly as possible. I couldn’t demand release from prison without decent clothes on. I threw my pajamas on the ground and pulled on my jeans and Howdy Doody sweatshirt. By now I could hear Mom talking real low with that woman who’d camped across from us. The couple over there drove a Nash. What kept Mom and her from going to see the excitement for themselves was more than I could figure out. I paused at the door and then pulled back the flap, resolved to confront my mother with the urgent need to be informed as to what was going on in the world. But then I noticed our own car. We had a Ford station wagon. It was parked along the side in such a way that I could reach it without being seen. Once behind the car I could make it to the little side trail through the trees that I had explored yesterday. The trail split a ways down, one path going to a big cliff—Inspiration Point they called it—and the other to the front of the camp grounds where everyone was heading.





They crucified a man, the woman had said, and I knew what that meant. I pictured in my mind some guy with a towel wrapped around him nailed to a cross. When I came dashing off the trail I saw that a bunch of people had already congregated at the edge of the field just inside the entrance to the Pageant Campground. In the middle, above their heads, a big cross was beginning to tilt over. Some men were lowering it, and sure enough, there was something on the cross, but I was too far away to tell if it was a man or not. I tore across the field, quick as a rabbit, but when I got there I slowed down. It made me nervous that neither Mom nor Dad were there. Curiosity got the best of me, though, and I squeezed between people to get close enough to see. The men had laid the cross

on the ground, and everyone was looking down at it. Sure enough it was a crucifixion—sort of. There was a man tied to the cross, ropes all wrapped around his arms and his body. Some of the men were trying to untie him. One guy was cutting the ropes with a pocket knife. The man himself was struggling and holding up his head, making the weirdest faces. It didn’t look like any picture of a crucifixion I’d seen. Whoever had done this wrapped the ropes around his body and arms like they didn’t want him even to wiggle, but they didn’t stick any nails in him. There was a crown kind-of thing lying next to him made out of grape vines. Oh, and he was fully dressed, no towel. The man kept on struggling, and it struck me that he hadn’t cried out or said anything. He looked wild and grimaced, like he was trying to holler, but nothing ever came out of his mouth. At the edge of the crowd there were two big guys standing together laughing. They were townies, I guess. With overalls on, they didn’t look like campers. Nobody else seemed to think it was funny. The man scrambled up when he got loose and rubbed his arms, looking this way and that like he was scared of the crowd. People tried to calm him down, but when somebody patted him on the shoulder he jerked away. Everyone kept their distance as he made for the road, and I was too fascinated to realize he was coming right at me. We had someone called Crazy Harold back in Dayton. This guy was kinda like him. He didn’t like crowds, either. Crazy Harold had the mind of a child, Dad said, but he was a fixture in the neighborhood. Everyone knew him, and he always said hello—on his good days. Suddenly, this guy was right in front of me, like he was deciding whether to push me over. Then he kicked me. It wasn’t a hard kick. It was like a little kid who wants to be spiteful but doesn’t dare put his whole strength into it. By the time I was rubbing my shin he was loping around me.


“Pickin’ on a little girl. Let’s git’ him,” said the two big guys who had been laughing. I’d heard that tone of voice before. “It didn’t hurt!” I said it much louder than I intended, it being a crowd and all, but in that moment, I realized that the crazy man was in danger. My outburst was enough to stop the two bruisers. They both gave me poisonous looks. “Let him go,” someone in the crowd said. “He’s been traumatized enough,” said a woman’s voice. By now the crazy man had made it to the road. I thought I might follow him to make sure he got away, but in the corner of my eye I saw Dad bearing down on me.





“It was just a prank, bunch of kids,” my dad said. “Locals pick on him all the time.” “Well, I can’t believe Marge slipped over there.” She sniffed, as if I’d personally insulted her. “And she’s got a huge bruise on her leg.” “Actually, she comported herself very well.” Dad gave me an approving nod. “The guy was a mute. I think he just wanted to get away from all the attention.” ”People can be so cruel. Couldn’t he have suffocated hanging up there like that?” “Well, it wasn’t good for him, that’s for sure, but that cross is the one they use for their Easter pageants. It’s got a little platform where you can stand on it. I don’t think they meant to hurt him. It was a joke that went too far.”





The next morning I was awakened early, again. “Get up,” Mom said, “We’re leaving.” “Why?” “Roll up your sleeping back and bring it out to the car.” “What about breakfast?” “And put your clothes in the duffle bag.” I was already in deep doo-doo, so I caved in without further resistance. Then it hit me: it had to be the end of the world for Mom to let me get away without eating breakfast. Something was up, no doubt about it.


I could hear Mom and Dad outside folding up the chairs and loading the station wagon. I had just finished tying my sleeping bag when I heard a car stop on the gravel road outside our tent. “Y’all clearin’ out, too?” I recognized the voice of the man who was camped across the road with his wife. I couldn’t hear Dad’s answer. “You know he didn’t just fall off that ledge. He may ’a been deaf, but he could see where he was goin’. I bet it was those townies what done it.” I stood stock still. There was only one person they could be talking about. “They said he’d been there all night. Talkin’ like it was an accident.” My heart thumped like I’d been running, and the walls of the tent seemed to close in on me. I started stuffing my clothes in the duffle bag as fast as I could. Mom and Dad didn’t talk about it as we drove away. And the more they didn’t talk, the more I thought about it. That was the first time it occurred to me to be afraid of the world, not just some monster under the bed, but the real world out there, the one Mom and Dad couldn’t protect me from. We went to a much nicer campground, one with a big swimming hole and a sandy beach. I was twelve, easily distracted, and Mom and Dad must have thought the memory of those two days at the Pageant Campground faded. But at night when I lay alone on my cot, or later in my bed in Dayton, I wondered about the crazy man. Twenty years later I ran across a yellow clipping in my mother’s scrapbook. By now, I’d learned to deal with the world, the one Mom and Dad couldn’t protect me from. It had taken a long time to overcome the fear I felt that summer, the fear that if I were different, somebody in the crowd would “git” me like they got the crazy man at the campground that summer.





Man Killed in Fall. Dayton Ohio: The body of John Church, a deaf mute, was found at the bottom of Inspiration Point. Authorities said that the man had apparently wandered onto the cliff at night and fallen. The site, ten miles west of Dayton, is on the Pageant Campground where annually the Easter pageant is reenacted by local townspeople.

Gerald Warfield

W hat inspired you to write Pageant for a Crazy Man? Near Mineral Wells, Texas, there is a high cliff overlooking the Brazos River.  It’s a scenic spot from which you can see for miles up and down the meandering waterway.  Such beautiful places also have an undercurrent of danger.  I have explored this danger in two stories, now, the other being in a dystopic future in which a woman cares for mutated babies in a cave halfway up the cliff. We have published your poetry, short fiction, and now with a six word story showcased in Penny Fiction this month, even flash fiction. You are a man of many talents. What kind of writing do you feel most at home with? Fantasy.  I feel that I have more control when I do my own world building.  Where do you find your ideas and inspiration? From nature:  a photo of migrating spotted rays, a film sequence of bees pollinating an orchid, an article about an ancient temple from the Upper Paleolithic. Are there any authors who have influenced your writing? I am attracted to beauty in writing with a strong narrative component:  Ursula Le Guin, Margaret Attwood, J.R.R. Tolkien.  What are you reading right now? Nightingale by David Farland (David Wolverton), and City of Angels by Todd McCaffrey How long have you been writing? I have been writing, off and on, my entire life. What is your writing day like? I write all the time with incessant interruptions for emergencies.  The clock is ticking for us all, but for me, it is sitting on my shoulder. Where do you find yourself writing the most? I write at home.  I never go to writers’ retreats.  My home is a writers’ retreat. What did you pursue as a career? Has your career influenced your writing? My formal education was in music, and I achieved modest success as a composer.  The Dallas Symphony, for instance, played a couple of my pieces.  In midlife I began writing how-to books and textbooks.  Only late in life have I reached my goal of writing fiction. What’s next? Do you have any writing projects on the horizon? I’m taking a course in novel revision from David Wolverton.   I’ll be working on my YA novel The Last Gargoyle and bringing it to market this year.  In it, I attempt to give a mythic underpinning for gargoyles, who have been rather neglected in our legends and tales. If you could share any advice for aspiring writers, what would it be? People say there are no guarantees in writing, but they are wrong.  There are guarantees.  The story you don’t write won’t be published—guaranteed.




edited by Penny Dreadful

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The Curious Death of

Myzer Y. Girato

by Victor Luis Zamora

The wind was dull, but cool I thought it crisp, and it felt that way, after a while. There is wine in a blue cup, in the middle of the day, and I in the middle of all the middle. I thought about going somewhere. A sip, longer than the last. A sip, short. The breeze came, from the street under the rolling cars, and through the brigade of trees near the sidewalk, and it glided over the fountain and onto my face, bringing along remnants and tints of where it came, like trampled cigarette butts, and shards of dusty glass, and chlorine, clear and repulsing. The cool trash spread across my face like jam, and it smelled just like that—jam, in a wooden house with jam filaments in between the splints.


Scratch, Of a metal bumper, On a steep driveway. Holding in a mediocre sneeze in a wooden cupboard near my open bedroom door with no knob, and dolls with red hair and blonde faces were placed on a white rocking chair in the far corner of the small room. I had no shoes, nor socks, and if I knew, I would have put some on, knowing the cupboard to be cold and demanding on the bottoms of my feet, and toes too—my big toe, especially, always sensitive to abrupt changes in temperature ever since I broke it upon the doorway that I can see through the crack, and everything seems far, gone, and I close and shivering. I didn’t want to be heard. Myzer Y. Girato. Like a gun in those spy movies, a book was always under my pillow. Just in case, whenever he came, he would at least find me reading—anything, and I would in doing so kill his temper with my obedience. But no book, not under my pillow, not this time, and like a heat, a fever that comes over you, I just panicked and hid, and hid to the closest: the most dark and obvious place in the house. For the moment it felt fine, like disappearing behind young childish hands, and if I can’t see you, you can’t see me Myzer Y. Girato. The screen door out front swung open. It clanked behind him. The floor under him creaked from his innate intensity; Unmoving, Still, Barely—breathing. “Madara!” His voice dripped out. High-consistency. And poured slowly, but surely through the wooden house, And it seeped into the cupboard, Hitting my cold feet, Swallowing my ankles, Then rising up like through my yellow dress, And up to my neck, And my lips, Into my mouth,


The Curious Death of Myzer Y. Girato. by Victor Luis Zamora

Drowning, but only there, Right above my upper lip, Keeping my eyes in air, Leaving me demonically capable of seeing myself drown. Mommy answered back. “Yes.” “Smells good.” He said, indifferent, as if he was supposed to say it. Myzer Y. Girato. My back was hurting, and the cupboard was barely big enough for me to fit. I stood in there, neck scrunched down, and knees bent. But I couldn’t leave now. He would know. The floorboard right outside this cupboard creaks harder than the shriek of an unknown cat. He would take offense, and I, a young girl in a yellow dress, with no defense, save for “A Life Bounded” by Z. Luis. Myzer Y. Girato. He was now in the dining room, going through the mail left by Mommy on the table. Letters were dropped down in reverse order, and he, too metaphysically separated from this life, this reality of I in the cupboard to rip them open and see real life things like bills, notifications, and coupons, ads, and junk. Can men be defined? Can Myzer Y. Girato be found in the dictionary, with an accompanying picture? A crazed man. Too hysteric for any decent amount of knowledge. Too curious for this simple, wooden, boxed house. Too demanding. I, only a girl, he a father, wishing he had a son. I want to watch TV, play with my dolls, and skip in the yard. He wants me to play the piano, read books, and interpret Art. But I am scared. I am scared of those eyes of his, They are not black, nor even dark, But mellow and honey, Burden and squished by eyelids, And like it, minutely visible,


Seems precise, and tight, Like a yellow bullet. He pinches, Grabs, Pulls, And screams, too. I wish I could stay here forever. I really do. Everything hurts. Everything is strained. I catch myself not breathing, Holding it all in, Not aware that my attempt at silence, Can kill, And maybe, Maybe not? What if? What not? Not what? But? Myzer Y. Girato. He wouldn’t ask for me yet. I know him better than that. He indulges himself in the mess of his study. The cluster of it all, and he says it’s a sign of genius, a metaphor for the whirlwind of information in his mind, and then insists of screaming at Mommy for moving an insignificant paper of scribbles and symbols from the right top corner of his wooden desk to the bottom left corner, and he doesn’t like it, not one bit. That is not today, but a big blog of the past, that consumes not only a day but your whole past, as if he had the power to make you feel guilty and incompetent to last not forever but for the definite amount of time behind you that keeps growing, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, and it will grow, but still definite, still definite, still there. Myzer Y. Girato. He was too big from this small nimble house. The frame was dull and unoriginal, and something a four year old can draw. He wanted accented borders, with nice shutters, and tile roofs with rod iron flower baskets under the windows, and Ionic order columns for the entrance, way high, and it would be a mess, an architectural nightmare, but it would be a cluster, a genius dwelling, a place for secret meetings in the study with another man, because Mommy is not smart enough, and curiosity is persuasive to a man who want’s to know all, and feel all. Myzer Y. Girato. “You’re a ditz!”


The Curious Death of Myzer Y. Girato. by Victor Luis Zamora

“A good for nothing ditz.” “Lazy!” “Stupid!” “Dumb!” Because I wasn’t fluid enough. “Your fluidity!” I couldn’t keep the tempo to ‘Ode to Joy.’ And he would smack my hands with a ruler, And it stung, And bit like a snake, And swelled like a bruise, And I hated it, But secrets please, Since I am in a closed cupboard; I did it on purpose, Because it made me happy Frustrating him, Frustrating him like that, Frustrating— Myzer Y. Girato. I had one eye pressed upon the white wooden door, and let my right eye blink through the small crack. I hear voice, and saw but only half of his body near the table. He paused there, as if thinking, thinking about the absence—I—no doubt. “Madara?” “Yes.” “Ilene?” “Her room!” He stayed there and let the sound of mommy’s voice and the smell of cooking rice settle in. It did. He walked slow, Over to my room, His steps were short, But precise, And heavy— Too heavy for creak. He walked by the slit.


I wasn’t breathing. I knew I was in for a world of trouble, But I was too deep in, Too deep in this small cupboard to get out now, Maybe he would forget, And leave, And disappear. Blue, Eyes dilated, Nose flared, Lungs weighted down, And stomach cramping. He walked into my room, and saw nothing but the dolls in the far corner, they probably smiled at him, he probably didn’t smile back. He knew exactly where I was. He has caught me here before. But there was nowhere else to go. He stepped to the front of the door, and I stood back from the door, awaiting the flood of light to come in his big silhouette to wrap around me. Myzer Y. Girato. “Again.” Piano Playing “No, that’s not right.” Piano Playing “Again.” Piano Playing “Do you want to eat dinner?” Piano Playing “Again.” The room was cold, and it was late. My door was slightly closed, But enough for a slit of light from the dining room to sneak in. I am in bed, nestled in tight. Scribbles. Myzer Y. Girato died today. -Light SwitchGood Night!



Hollyhocks and Brambles by John Stocks

It was the kind of place you stumble on When the mist clears suddenly Breaking the rhythmic pattern of the walk. Nestling by a stream, below the mountain Walls of cool grey limestone, grey grass withered Under dry stalks of dead hollyhocks Where life is twisted thoughts, tangled like briars. Who lived and died here, why did they leave? And who closed the door for the last time? Cocooned against the moorland storm They gasped a first breath, washed and cried Tears from the cool dark water of the stream Dreamed of kisses soon to be stolen. Did they imagine the timbers charred A trespass of nettles in the parlour This lifeless plateau of dereliction? Or how this place might stir the soul Of some lonely, solo traveller Still many miles from home.



Event Horizon

I am drinking whiskey from a tin can – this line sounds so much like blues, but let me tell you the rest. This tin can is shiny and red- oh yes, many years ago, my grandfather, for many years, kept his pencils inside and some small notebook in which he scribbled late at night. Secret notes about his past, I presume, then just a blink of a supernova, and he was gone. After that, my uncle stored in it his old German ‘Luger’, which he cleaned almost every day. Maybe he was afraid of loosing his prolonged quarrels with cancer and immortality, maybe he wanted to go on his own terms. My uncle was a great admirer of Ernest Hemingway. He was gone one summer Sunday morning. And now the can is mine. I pour whiskey inside and drink it sitting in the dark. No music, no light- just me and the old whiskey, but it has some strange taste, almost like rust from an old pistol and fading memories of words never written. I lift it close to my ear and I can hear the whizzing of the chilly mistral, that so long ago licked the skin of my father. I sigh and say to the time in my tin can: Please scholar me as you collar me, because everything fills- Now and then

by Peycho Kanev



Each day, the boy, always in his street clothes, Stood on the wet sand, hands cupped over his eyes, Squinting, searching the horizon for what? Did he doubt his brother had drowned? Dream that he was just now putting in, weeks After setting sail? See him miraculously climbing Down the huge granite slabs that mark the End of the cove, gathering himself, then wading Toward the sunbathers and Frisbee throwers, Glad of his adventure but ready to go home again? Or, did he imagine him embarrassed at causing Everyone concern, ashamed he had put his own Wishes first again, misbehaved again, and so now Reluctant to look an older brother in the eye? The boy squinting out to where sea meets sky Thought all these things. He had no choice. We have no choice. We are hardwired to bring Those we love home again in scenes we rewrite All our lives.

by Bill Harney


Wildflowers and Weeds

by Barbara Purbaugh (for my friends)

Wildflowers and Weeds bloom in rocky soil in mud among trash. Wildflowers and Weeds huddle together, sharing dirt, basking in the sun, enduring the wind. Wildflowers and Weeds get tangled together and are made more beautiful by the company they keep.



Everything in its Place



ou're sure the box won't open?" my sister asked the woman from the crematorium.

"Don’t worry. These are fastened with screws," she responded, putting her notebook away. “We’ve been doing this a long time. It will be fine.” A couple of drinks, a broken heart, and a confused widow prying open the box of her dead husband's ashes. Our worst nightmare. Reassured, we wrote the check and circled mom in our grief once again. "He'll be back in a week or so,” I said, squeezing her hand. And then he was. With no great ceremony, we put him on the dresser near the ocean-facing window. She liked that they listened to the sibilant whispers of waves. Mom tucked photographs of dad into every spare spot of the room, sleeping with the flannel nightshirt he wore when he died. We took her car away after the accident, and gave her pills to help with the tics and funny breathing she developed. Anxiety, the doctor said. Each evening, she talked to that brown box. And every morning, she caressed it with her wrinkled hand. One day I called to check on her. "Dad fell out of the box this morning," she said. "What?" I stopped breathing. "I wanted to move him to a new spot. When I picked up the box, he fell out." The bottom of the urn, screwed shut, had somehow come open. A plastic bag filled with Dad's ashes, parts of metal from his knee surgery, and decades of memories had dropped to the floor. My throat tightened as I said, “Are you ok?” “I put him back inside,” she said. And then, giving the box a pat, she headed downstairs to make breakfast. Everything in its place.

by Susan Carter Morgan


At Twelve Years Old by Denise Mostacci Sklar

Dust under fingertips writing 'I hate myself ’ wiped away like a cloud passing for no one to see‌ words sinking into mahogany night table dated 1953, next to parents’ bed unaware--a young girl's epitaph. No one teaches children how to die inside, but it happens.

I was guilty of dying. I forgot to finish the last page on my achievement test. Got up early to go to church for lent every day--school days, 6 a.m. I took an extra allergy pill by accident, was drowsy. Wasn't paying attention--too busy with other things like going to church every day during lent, assuring that at death I would have a priest by my side to absolve me of sin, a spotless soul, I would be saved. Not sure from what, but in fifth grade I knew it was important. But mostly, I wanted to be good, think of people all over the world that were poor, helpless. I could get up early before school and go to church, pray--like the


saints that my grandmother taught me about from color pictures in books, with long scarves framing their kind faces, hand of God behind them. I knew how to sacrifice for others, plenty of household chores--offer them up. But how could I forget this last page on such an important test? And how disappointed and upset my mother might be! What would happen to my score? Would old Mrs. Horak and her white hair have mercy on me? Let me come to her apartment Sunday afternoon awkward, humiliated, sit on the sofa, finish the test, because she remembered how she came to school one day, took off her coat to hang in the closet and came out without her skirt, only slip--cream colored with lace. The substitute teacher had to be called in, as I watched her put her coat back on, slowly, go home with the whole class giggling silently. What words do my children write on dust when I am not looking?


The Story of a Stone

by Jean Di Motto My father was an edgy, craggy rock who calved off a low mountain


Like his father he was multi-hued gray granite stately, quiet, still My father bounced and rolled, skidded and slowed splashing into a small creek There he rested while the clear water washed ev’ry nook of his body Some years before my mother had slid gracefully to a nearby spot

Her mother lived upstream the wise matriarch of a clan of smooth stones

As destiny unfolded he bumped into a round and lustrous stone

Six other smooth stones and seven craggy rocks were born of my parents

My mother was round with a glistened glow from years within the creek’s flow

Immediately smitten he wooed that kitten and asked her to play

They gave us stability, solidity and a soft light within

Though shallow the creek my mother was deep in a soulful, thoughtful way

They frolicked, tumbled jostled, jumbled and that is how I came to be

They taught us our place in a universe great our contribution of

There came a time when my father grew restless and explored his new home

They nestled in a Stillness, observance charming home warmed by the sun witness, endurance and and enduring love an inner radiance


The Bike

by Lisamarie Lamb

T he bike is still there, still chained to

the lamp post, still waiting for her. I am still waiting for her. The difference, however, between me and the bike is that I know she isn’t coming back. I’ve spent a year knowing that, dying a little each time I hear her name, each time I hear her voice in my head. I’d bought her the bike for Christmas and she, like a child, the child she wanted still to be--but couldn’t because she was a grown up, a wife, a mother, a real person in the real world--had beamed and grinned and shrieked at it. At me. She had run her gloveless fingers across the handlebars and over the leather saddle, squeezing it slightly, glancing cheekily at me as she did it. Her feet were bare and she was standing on the patio in freezing December weather wearing nothing but a pair of pink checked pajamas. I remember that so clearly. I remember her face, reddened by the chill wind. I remember her smile behind cracked lips. I remember her dark hair– nothing hair, she called it– dancing in the wind. 44

It wasn’t nothing hair. There was nothing nothing about her. She was everything. And she loved that bike. And she loved me for giving her that bike. She loved it for a day. Just over. A few hours over. Since then it had been chained to the lamp post outside the library getting rained on and sunned on and sat on by strangers who didn’t understand. I always chased them away, careful not to steer them into the road. But they shouldn’t be touching it. It was a good Christmas that year. Last year. A quiet Christmas. Just me and her and the kids. And the bike. I could see her keep looking at it, her eyes drawn towards it as we celebrated, as we ate and drank and played games and watched silly television programs that we’d never watch at any other time of the year. Just a little flicker of her eyes, that was all. And it made me so happy. Who would have thought a thing like a bike would make a thirty-five year old woman so excited? But it did.

When we went to bed that night, tipsy and a little too noisy, she was still grinning. “Thank you,” she said, and she kissed me on my redtinged lips. I can still feel it, that kiss. I can still smell her nothing hair, the scent of almonds wafting up at me because she’d used the baby’s shampoo instead of her own. Sometimes now I use that shampoo myself, but it’s not the same. It isn’t her. The next morning she had a headache, we both did, but she still wanted to ride the bike. She couldn’t wait any longer, and I said I’d wait for her at home, have a lunch of cold meat and bubble and squeak and pickles – leftovers, but what else do you eat on Boxing Day? – ready for her when she got back. I gave her a quick peck on the forehead, a goodbye kiss, a goodbye forever kiss except I didn’t know it, and watched her wobble down the path and onto the street. No helmet. I hadn’t bought a helmet. Why hadn’t I? Would she have worn one over her nothing hair? But then I didn’t think about it, I turned back to the children and pulled them apart

since they were arguing over some toy or other. In the end it didn’t matter about the helmet. It wasn’t the bike that killed her. She reached the library. That’s where she had chosen to go, she said she would pop her overdue books through the door and hope they would forgive her the fine, since it was Christmas. She propped her bike, her wonderful new bike, up against the lamp post. She locked it. And she walked away from it. She walked away from the bike and then she stopped walking. She stood, a pause, and her hand fluttered up to her face, up to her head, and then she fell. That’s what the witnesses said. That’s what they told me with their sad eyes and sorrowful voices. She walked, she stopped, she died. A brain aneurism. Thirty-five. A wife, a mother. And the bike is still there. 45


In my Grandfather’s Footsteps

by Tina Wayland

H e was a talkative man. Chatty, even with strangers. He’d start conversations with anyone, about anything. But he wouldn’t talk about the war. “It was a long time ago. Very sad.” Yet he carried it with him. A limp. His scarred knee. And nightmares, full of thrashing and screaming. Barking orders to dead people. My grandmother had moved into the spare room years ago. “Let’s talk about happy things. Okay?” He was impenetrable. Defensive. Still, I kept trying. Where did you land, Pappy? What did you see? He would wave his hand at me. Enough. Then he’d lean over to tease an aunt, grab a handful of peanuts. He’d pat my shoulder, proud that I’d ask. Afraid to answer. One day I brought him a picture of a Black Watch badge. Shiny, with purple thistles. Something I’d found in an old war book. My grandfather adjusted his glasses, squinted. Pointed a finger.


ne aci R nd ymo a R

“I had one of these. Lost it in the mud, I think.” I sat still. Stared at the picture. My grandfather. Looking for the crawlspace where he’d hidden the war. “Yes. In France. Always on our hands and knees.” Time crawled to a halt. Turned backwards. “There was this one guy—” Back, back, back. Stepping over years. A thousand family suppers. Over grandchildren and houses. Kids and marriage. Landing in the mud. “He was standing there, next to me. From Halifax, he said. Once he rowed his family into town from some island where they lived. Made it halfway down the pier before he heard the explosion. Propane tank. In the boat. Killed his wife and son. He joined the war after that. “They shot him right next to me.” He picked up a napkin and wiped his face. Cleared his throat.

“Why do I tell you all this? No more. It’s not for you.” But when I saw him the next time I stuck my foot in the door. Prodded it open. “The bodies, they were everywhere. I didn’t know there were so many black soldiers. They lined the fields for miles. Miles. Then I realized—not black soldiers. Dead ones. Turned to black.” The beach is what finally stopped him in his tracks. “It was so noisy when we landed. Boom! Boom! You’d think you were going deaf.” He sank into the sand, his boots leaving tracks. Filling with water. “That’s the worst thing. Wet socks. You remember that. Get your socks wet and you’re finished. Keep your feet dry or you’re dead.” He looked down at his feet. Rubbed his crippled knee. I thought he’d ended his army advice—his wartime warning. But my grandfather took another step. “They shot them all. The whole regiment. Stupid people, couldn’t even stay alive. I just kept going. Up. Up. All the way up until I was the only one at the top. Sometimes that’s worse. Being alone at the top. The only one. Because they crawl after you in your dreams.” I found an old Black Watch badge online and had it mounted. Wrapped it in tissue the color of thistles. I

wanted to save it for Christmas, but I couldn’t wait. In case. Just in case. “What’s this?” I shrugged. Waved at him to open it. “I had one of these. Did I tell you? Lost it in the mud. It’s where foot soldiers lose everything.”

!I went !to Normandy ! the˜year after he died. It was November and cold, everything covered in early winter sun. The beaches were empty. The tourists gone home. The German bunkers wrapped in grass and graffiti. But the flags were up, bright and clean. Waving in the wind. “Are you here alone?” an elderly lady asked me. “Yes. My grandfather was here before. I wanted to come. To see.” “I remember those soldiers. They came through there —it was a dirt road then. Muddy. They gave my brother and me candy. We were free, hein? Free. You are good to come. Merci.” I filled an empty canister with sand. Put it in my pocket, next to some seashells. I miss you, I said to the waves. Thank you for leading me here. Then I sat and watched my footprints crawl back into the sea.


The Lovely Spring Contributors in order of appearance

Penelope Everett Plucked and Screaming Penelope Everett is a lover of books, the older the better. She is often seen lurking in the shadows of used bookstores. Once, while lost in the dark catacombs of Edinburgh, she brushed up against a stranger who nudged her toward daylight. Upon turning around, no one was there. She writes when the spirit moves her.

Sarah E.N. Kohrs The Cotton Apron Inspired by rolling blue mountains, Sarah E.N. Kohrs (SENK) savours life in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. She is a writer and artist, who home-schools her two young sons. Sarah maintains two blogs, Sunsplashed Window and Ink-Splattered Desk. Discover more at

Melinda Giordano Gratitude Melinda Giordano is a native of Los Angeles, California. Her written pieces have appeared in Lake Effect magazine, DanseMacabreOnline, BatteredSuitcase and Scheherazade's Bequest, among others. She writes flash fiction that speculates on the possibility of remarkable things. She is interested in many histories - art, social, fashion (everything has a past) and anything to do with Aubrey Beardsley.

Devon Neal White Balloons Devon Neal received his B.A. in Creative Writing at Eastern Kentucky University. He is currently anticipating the arrival of his first son and considering graduate school options. He is writing regularly in the interim.

Holly Christina Combs For Rico, Jack's Last Request Holly Christina Combs is a queer feminist/humanist poet and storyteller living in New Orleans. She recently graduated summa cum laude from Loyola University New Orleans. Her work has been featured at the 2012 Queer Writer's Showcase in New Orleans, the 2012 Sigma Tau Delta Conference, at 1718: A New Orleans Reading Series, and in Calla Lilies, an anthology by Write-On Publishing. More of her work can be found at John Cannon Heart to Heart and My Mom Dr. John R. Cannon is a Conservation Biologist who lives in the Shenandoah Valley of Virginia. His professional work involves the conservation of wildlife habitat and the reintroduction of endangered species. Dr. Cannon's poetry focuses on appreciation of the infinite wonders of the natural world and the blessings of being alive. He started writing poems in order to share his nature experiences with his parents when they became unable to travel.


Emily Strauss Knitting Memory Emily Strauss has an M.A. in English, but is self-taught in poetry. More than 90 of her poems appear in public online and in anthologies. The natural world is often her framework, but sometimes she tells private stories from life.

LaMishia M. Allen Daddy’s Gone LaMishia Allen indulges her creative spirit by writing a mixture of Paranormal & Urban Fantasy Fiction. Every November she practices her craft by participating in National Novel Writing Month and when she’s not writing, she’s stopping time with her photography. Sara Schmidt All Grown Up and Little Explorer Sara Schmidt is an award-winning writer from Missouri. Currently working on her third novel, she has written for dozens of publications both on and offline, including Life Learning Magazine, Teaching Tolerance, Short Fast and Deadly, Daily Kos, wiseGEEK, Blink Ink and Ecorazzi. Find her online at Gerald Warfield Pageant for a Crazy Man Gerald Warfield’s poetry has appeared previously in From the Depths and in New Myths. His short fiction has won recent prizes such as the Writers of the Future contest and the Grammar Girl short story contest. Gerald is a graduate of the Odyssey Writers Workshop (2010) and a member of SFWA. You may see his website at Victor Luis Zamora The Curious Death of Myzer Y. Girato Victor Luis Zamora is currently in his second year of law school in Orlando, Florida. He is 24 years old and is an aspiring writer hoping to one day influence literature, even if it be in the slightest way.

John Stocks Of Hollyhocks and Brambles John is a widely published writer from the UK. In may 2013 his work will be alongside poetry by Maya Angelou, Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen in the anthology Heart Shoots. Peycho Kanev Event Horizon Peycho Kanev is the Editor-In-Chief of Kanev Books. His poetry collection Bone Silence was released in September 2010 by Desperanto. A new collection of his poetry, titled Requiem for One Night, will be published by SixteenFourteen in 2013. Peycho Kanev has won several European awards for his poetry and he’s nominated for the Pushcart Award and Best of the Net. His poems have appeared in more than 900 literary magazines.

Lisamarie Lamb The Bike Lisamarie Lamb has written and published a novel (Mother’s Helper) and a collection of short stories (Some Body’s At The Door). Dark Hall Press has published a collection of her short stories, entitled Over The Bridge. Her work can be found online at http://, and within around 20 horror anthologies. Jean DiMotto The Story of a Stone Jean DiMotto writes haiku and creative nonfiction. In addition to being a writer she is a judge and a nurse. She lives outside Milwaukee, Wisconsin with her husband, three cats and two bunnies. She composed "The Story of a Stone" while receiving a hot-stone massage in Vermont.

Bill Harney Hardwired Bill Harney teaches literature and courses about place at Endicott College, north of Boston. His poetry is about memories and uncovering in the writing process why they have the hold they do.

Tina Wayland In my Grandfather’s Footsteps Tina Wayland is a freelance copywriter, stay-at-homemom, and writer-type wannabe. She writes fiction whenever she can still keep her eyes open.

Barbara Purbaugh Wildflowers and Weeds Barbara Purbaugh received her Masters of Fine Arts degree in Creative Writing from Naropa University in Boulder, Colorado. She is currently an English instructor at Pennsylvania Highlands Community College in Johnstown, Pennsylvania. She has published short stories and poems and won awards for both her fiction and poetry. You may contact her at

The Lovely Pennies

Susan Carter Morgan Everything in its Place Upon retiring from teaching a few months ago, Susan Carter Morgan opened a writing studio in an arts workshop, where painters, potters, and weavers offer inspiration for her writing. Unfortunately, she often does her best work in the middle of night when she yearns for sleep but settles for tea. Her work appears in Brevity Poetry Review, The Front Porch, and in professional journals. She also writes on her blog, Writing in the Open Spaces. Denise Mostacci Sklar At Twelve Years Old Denise Mostacci Sklar is from Hamilton, MA. She began life as a dancer and now, later in her career, has had the good fortune to discover writing as a new way to move through, remember, and keep looking at life. Her work has been published in Poetry Super Highway, LYRICAL of the Sommerville NEWS , Dark Lady Poetry , Wilderness House Literary Review, MFT-The Valley Review, BRICKrhetoric and will be published in upcoming issues of Sword and Saga Press and Emerge Literary Journal.

Alexandra Clare is a corporate refugee stalking commuters on trains for inspiration. Amber Monnin loves to eat chicken with ketchup--her husband thinks this is awful. We all do. Arthur Carey swam with sea lions in the Galapagos Islands. Clare Kirwan is a library assistant by day--like Batgirl. Deanna Willis is a mom of three teenagers. She can do the impossible...lick her elbow. Michele Cacano owns a Dracula Nutcracker. Donna Schwender was a Wildlife Biologist until a tick bit her tuckus. Donna Schwender collects fairy wings and leprechaun beard hair. Gerald Warfield is a closet arachnologist, an occasional archeologist, and he writes, too. Kristin L. Beno is a belly dancer, novice blogger, and attempted author. LaMishia M. Allen is a decor hacker/repurposing queen. Miriah Hetherington is a compulsive recycler. Sosanya can occasionally be found singing badly in karaoke bars. Tina Wayland can write fiction with her eyes closed. Denise Mostacci Sklar was once a dancer, now enjoys stillness...waiting for words to make an entrance. Lars Trodson has been seen lurking around H.P. Lovecraft’s grave. Donna S. Parkman is obsessed with cardinals obsessed with tapping on her windows. Sara Biggs Chaney sometimes touches the stove with bare hands. Just for fun. Jay Finn is Irish. Enough said.


Production Notes

Cover art and design by Susan Warren Utley. Interior art, design, and derivative works by Susan Warren Utley and Savannah Renée Warren. Cover image a derivative work of contributor Melinda Giordano’s mother. Cover fonts include The King & Queen’s Font and Underwood Champion. Additional fonts used throughout the issue include Times New Roman, Mom’s Typewriter, The King & Queen’s Font, Enchanted Castle, Nanum Pen Script, Papyrus, and uncletypewriter. Artwork created in ArtRage Studio Pro from Ambient Design and Pixelmator 2.1.4 Cherry. Additional artwork created in Sketch Club and TypeDrawing for iPad. Artistic image manipulation on PostworkShop from Xycod and Pixelmator 2.1.4 Cherry. Layout completed in Pages from Apple. From the Depths is created on a Mac.

Credits & Permissions


Artwork created for this issue made possible by the generous donation of photographs, original artwork, and artistic tools which exist within the public domain either by gift, copyright expiration, or made available by their authors under Creative Commons License. We at Haunted Waters Press would like to acknowledge and thank the original creators, artists, and photographers, for without their contributions, this issue would be incomplete. Special acknowledgment and thanks goes out to, Wikipedia Commons, and their contributors. While attribution is not required by all, we would like to acknowledge the following contributors and their works: Giordano, Melinda. “Photo of her mother.” From the author. Cover, Pages 8-9. Stunning! hotblack. “girl_silhoutte” Pages 2-3, 18-19. Kimbrough, Caleb. “Wallpaper Textures.” Via Lost & Taken, Pages 4-5, 6-7, 10-11, 32-33, 40-41, back cover. Gorgeous! sanja gjenero. “morning tea, little_daisies_1, and dandelion 1” Pg. 4-5, 6-7, 8-9, back cover. Michal Zacharzewski. “Daisy” & “Dandelion” Pg. 4-5. Jay Simmons. “Flowers” & “Flowers (grass & sky)” Pg. 4-5. Karen Andrews. “Flowers” & “Flowers (daisy)” Pg. 4-5. Lars Sundström. “Dandelions 4” Pg. 4-5. John Nyberg. “Dandelions, clouds and sky” Pg. 4-5. Lynn Lancaster. “Danedelions.” Pg. 7, 48, 49, 50, 51. Nelson, Linda. “Photo Frames and Slide Mounts.” Via Pixelberrypie Digital Goodness, http:// Pages 8, 46. Billy Frank Alexander. “Vintage Paper” Page 10. Billy Frank Alexander. “Vintage Envelope 4” Page 10, 24-25. carygrant. “Our Rico” Pages 10-11, 25. jeltovski. “Ball of Yarn” Page 14. Morris, Ken (kenmo). “Tree Branches.” Via Artrage Forums. Pages16-17. AJ. "A white balloon on a ribbon." 1973. Public domain clipart. Via Wikimedia Commons http:// Pages 16-17. Kanakos. “Cumulus_4” Pages 16-17, 18-19, 20-21. grietgriet. “Girl Silhouette” Page 19. inkogutto. “Cross in Field” Pages 20-23. SSDema. “Spider Webs Photoshop Brush Set.” Page 24. Antoniu, “Embossed Plastic Label Set.” page 24. Billy Frank Alexander. “Vintage Envelope 4, Blood Tag 3, Vintage Tag 2, Music Fades, Photo Frames, Clipped Notes, Vintage Pressed Flowers, Grunge Paper 2, Open Book, Wooden Collage 1, Index Cards Page 24-25

H. Michael Karshis. “Ephemera European Tickets.” Via photographer.php?photographer_id=17474. Page 25. “Key” (Public domain.) Page 25. chrystel-lux. “regard_max1” Pages 26-28, 31. hstauffer. “Blue Door” Pages 26-31. Wellcome, Henry S. (Henry Solomon), Sir, 1853-1936.”Example of homes abandoned by natives after "invasion" by Bureau of Education agents” 1915. Via Wikimedia Commons https:// %22_by_Bureau_of_Education_agents,_1915_-_NARA_-_297916.jpg. Pages 32-33. Bonvin, Léon. “Thistles and Weeds” 1864. Via Wikimedia Commons wiki/File:L%C3%A9on_Bonvin_-_Thistles_and_Weeds_-_Walters_371519.jpg (acccessed March 2013). Pages 32-33. Jef (littleman). “Tin Can” Page 34. DSee. “Horizon” Pages 34-35. markmiller. “Queen Anne’s Lace” Pages 36-37. rikahi. “Beach” Pages 38-39. Roxanneh. “Window” Page 38. gracey. “JGS_Rock” Page 42. gleangenie. “Garden Stones” Pages 42-42. Phototogo2. “Pink Bike” Pges 44-45. Wayland, Tina. “My grandfather, Raymond Racine, just after joining the Black Watch.” From the author. Page 46. Hisgett, Tony. “Thistle” 2009. Photograph. CC-BY-SA-2.0. Via Wikimedia Commons, http:// (accessed March 2013). Derivative works appear on page 46. Marnot, Elodie. “Danger” Via (Accessed March 2013). Derivative work appears on pages 46-47.

Call for Submissions

From the Depths: Summer Issue 2013 The Summer 2013 issue of From the Depths will feature works whose stories revolve around conversations and the sharing of words and ideas. We are looking for elegantly written fiction and poetry where the heart of the story lies within words shared in conversations between lovers, friends, strangers or even enemies. Submissions need not be dialogue driven.  Stretch the limits with conversations of unspoken words and thoughts conveyed through actions.  As always, we seek writing that comes from the heart creating an emotional connection with our readers and poetry that is clear, meaningful and accessible. Penny Fiction: A Flash Fiction Writing Competition Haunted Waters Press editor, Penny Dreadful, is selecting exceptionally small works of flash fiction (42 Words--No More. No Less) to be showcased in Penny Fiction, a regular feature of the literary journal, From the Depths.  Extra points will be awarded for entries with a connection to the Summer 2013 theme. Online Literary Content Ideal for writers who prefer not to be bound by theme based submissions, we continue to accept works of fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry for our online literary content. Works submitted here will be always be considered for upcoming issues of From the Depths. For more details & submission links please visit



From the Depths is a publication of HAUNTED WATERS PRESS For more information please visit: Or email us at:

From the Depths, Spring 2013: A Literary Journal  

From the Depths is a quarterly literary journal from Haunted Waters Press featuring works of prose, creative nonfiction and poetry. Issues a...