Brian Rosenberger lives in a cellar in Marietta, Georgia, and writes by the light of captured fireflies. He is the author of As the Worm Turns and three poetry collections: Poems That Go Splat, And For My Next Trick…, and Scream for Me.

You can find him HERE


Dear friends and neighbors,
I’m overjoyed you have survived
This terrible tragedy that has befallen
All of us. In fact, the entire world.
I am thrilled you continue to survive.
In your perfect suburban homes,
With your immaculate lawns,
Your perfect families to comfort you,
And the family pets too. Dogs, their tails wagging,
Your cats, meowing to be petted, to be loved.
And state-of-the-art security systems,
Not that cameras and monitors make
One damn bit of difference these days.

I empathize with the cats more than the dogs.
I long to be comforted and loved too.

I know, my dear friends and neighbors,
You remain too busy with your perfect families,
And your perfect lawns to have thoughts
About me, your caring neighbor.

I observe you with my binoculars as you parade
Around your perfect lawn, firearms on display,
On the days you dare brave the outside. Smart.

I get it. I understand. I harbor no ill feelings
Towards you, your family, and your busy lives.
I don’t blame you that no one answered my knocks,
That my calls went to voicemail,
All my cries for help didn’t matter.

I understand.

I’ve taken the time to pen your suicide notes,
Just in case someone cares. I’m assuming perfect families
Might have someone who gives a damn.
No worries. I have the time.
My perfect family died days ago.


As the lightening dissects the sky
And the thunder screams in pain,
The villagers hide inside their homes,
Take comfort from their loved ones.
The storm merely a herald.

Down rain-soaked streets,
Two horses, darker than the clouds,
Pull the carriage, down Main Street,
Down the cross streets and alleyways.
Its driver, a shadow, oblivious to the storm.

The carriage stops in front of a non-descript house
On a non-descript street. Inside one resident,
The home’s owner. He worked the mines,
Knows about darkness. He has Black Lung disease.
He fought. He survived. For a time.
At least, he was at home, not some ward for the dying.
He still has his pride.
He’ll make the driver knock.

Inside the carriage, an empty casket.
Not empty for long.


Visiting family and the unexpected flat-tire,
Your cell phone has no bars and the GPS is dead?

The sudden thunderstorm and the streaks of lightning,
Illuminating the Castle, camouflaged by the forest?

The Castle and its unlocked door and your unanswered echoes,
“Hello. Hello. The door was unlocked. Hello. I need help?”

Searching for the Castle’s inhabitants,
Descending wet steps into the crypt chamber?

The bioluminescent fungus almost lights the way
As you grip the slime-coated walls for balance.
Chills coat your spine as you descend—


What’s worse?
The flying bats and scurrying rats you hear
And feel against your head and legs?

The foreboding coffin and what’s in it?

Or what once resided in it?

What’s worse?

The vampire behind you.