Fathom 1992



Inside Cover



Derrick E. Higginbotham (2)
KimRilda LeBlanc (2)
Sean Kirby (2)
Graham Touchie (3)
Julie Traves
Ken Samberg (3)
Gina M. Beaton (2)
Dana James (2)
Morgan O’Connor (3)
Alex Mason (2)
G. J. Munro
Stephen Saunders (2)
Steve LeBlanc
Duncan McCue (3)


Adrian Vanderwiel


Stephen Saunders



Rosy, Rosy

In my life longest second
       spent dying before her eyes,
A coward who dismissed
       his weakness through surprise,
That second longest life
       that carne the moment after,
Was spent in silent bliss
       and rosy, wordless rapture.


The Starlit Night

A-wanderin’ on a starlit April eve,
The moon is lost, and won’t be out tonight
With peaceful fog and chilly drafts of wind
That dance in frozen frenzy ‘cross the flesh
Exposed. Its icy grip does stoop to clasp
The surface of the lake in gentle time;
A million ripples spread from wind to shore,
Chasing their companions ‘till upset
By flowing river, out from lake pouring
In a clamber of frenziedness and haste
Over pebbles, smooth now, worn to spheres
To curse the thirst of furry tots of fun
That live and run upon the forest’s green
And living floor. The chill, still speeding on,
Does contour to the rolling, hilly shape
Of fertile earth in waves, much like the lake
(Made sloping by the pull and tug of draft
In air), but owns the deep brown earthy smell,
The odor of potatoes, mud, and dirt
That’s found within the presence of the ground.
The night is not a fierce as it can be;
Without the moon, one still can find beauty.

Does not the night seem fearsome more by light
Born from that cold, still eye that looks upon
The earth in silent dread? So through the haze
Of smoky evening overhead, a hot
And sweaty breeze pours forth from lover’s throat
To bead ice-sweat upon your spine. And deep
Within that clammy stare, your eyes betray
Your vision of that lovely shattered lake;
You cannot tell the pure and cleanly splash
Of water from hot blood of fresh-bled hearts;
The lapping on the shoreline keeps in time
But wait... one missed its cue, its rightful place
Is warped and twisted from its common state.
The shadows from the moon assail the brook,
Transforming it into a pulsing vein

That spills its lifeblood over jagged rocks
So all the life therein shall not remain.
The forest folk, they drink from this dread well
Of horror’s tastes, and serve their master’s call
To run above the barrows and the crypts
And hilly domes that reek with stench of dust,
The earth now dead, and bones of those within.

The master of this pale and shad’wy night
Docs stand alone atop his castle’s tower.
While lightning splits the skies apart before
His silent, steady eyebrows’ etching stare,
He bids his minions “Bow before that sky!”
His twisted silver city turned to chrome
That lies amongst the swampland’s toads and reeds,
Within the shadow-mist, and in the breath
Of heated darkness, brought about to boil
The evening’s blacker nature. Hidden deep
Within, all accidents and circumstance
Obey the higher calling of this lord,
And Nature’s very soul is harnessed here,
Now bound and given up to his control.

The masters of these nights obey no law.
The powers of the earth are theirs to have
And use at will, for they stand one by one,
Alone, and at a distance, facing truth.
In shadows, dreams, and life... all where we roam,
Wherever we may walk, we walk alone.


last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul