By David C. Weinczok Salt-fresh their sea-plucked prows breach ivory sands piercing the frail shallows of island peace wake and quake tonight the moon will glint blood in the machair Storm-willed their white horses trod the sea roads to plough red rigs in the earth no corn shall grow this season on the strand hewn by black hulls from other-lands Sword-won their keels heavy as summer creels leave cold silence in their wake our dead we lay in watchful mounds to keep

By Lu Sargeant Night descends And through this web of streets Your pumpkins glow and sputter Announcing to every passing stranger All the things that make you scream. Number three has carved an arachnid Eight long, elegant legs wrapped round pumpkin skin. And opposite, Luke has rendered the monster under his bed, So detailed I can almost pet Its soft, hairy pelt with my fingers. Next door, a classic vampire bat Sits next to Dracula in all his October glory Seductive, transf

By Evelyn Thakur Midnight, darkness abound — here comes the Bride of Cavendish! Gaze upon her sallow, shuddering form, as she floats from her marbl'd fortress to reach for your hand; catch the dim glow of candlelight burning through her diaphanous skin, clear as glass and crystalline as the oceans once reflected in her eyes. Pray, keep your distance! The Bride is beautiful, porcelain doll kept pristine despite the weathered hand of time enshrouding us