The Horror Zine
Body in a Field
Tina Goodman

The March Featured Poet is Tina Goodman

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Tina Goodman


If you chance upon a body in a field,
first, stop.
Calm down!
Think, think, think!
Were you seen?
If so, shout, “Somebody call 911!”
If not, keep calm, sniff the air.
Do yo smell decomp? No.
What do you hear?
A moan, a groan? Yes!
Don't use your knife, it's too messy.
Casually approach the body.
Look out at the distance.
Place your boot on its throat.
Don't let it scream!
Keep calm, remain calm.
Again, don't let it scream!
Don't look down!
Did you hear the bones crack?
Good, it's done.
Now walk away... veeery care-ful-ly.
Leave the same way you came.
Remember, no matter how strong the urge,
never return to the scene

But what about your boot mark?
The tread pattern.
Your shoe size, your foot size,
your height, your weight?
Your gender. Your age.
The time of day. The temperature.
The evidence that fell from the cracks in your boots.
The shrub that scratched your arm?
Your fibers and hair and dander and skin cells
and any vegetation that dropped from your clothes?
The DNA that dripped in the sweat from your brow?
The guilt written all over your face?


She waits for him
wondering amongst the tombstones
He waits for her
slumbering, down with the bones

She waits for him
Hoping, praying to the moon
But his time has long since past
For he was born too soon

He waits for her
Cursed, haunted by their fate
Sensing she is now alive
But she was born too late


Looking into my crystal glass
What do I see scurrying just past
What could they be, running so fast
Is it a black black cat
And a white white rat

Peering deeper into the fog
They are chasing round the bog
In the gray and misty smog
It is not a black black cat
And a white white rat

At last my glass is getting clear
I attempt a clearer peer
Images now are coming near
Ladies' shoes are the little black cat
Fangs of a brute are the big white rat

Run faster, faster little black cat
Yes! Your shoes fly from the big white rat
Out of the fog
Out of the bog
Away from the night
Into the light


The doctor, lonely and longing,
had his head set on creating an ideal.
He handed his demands to the mortician.
The parts must be:
thicker, thinner
stronger, softer
prettier, wittier
sweeter, neater
delightfully enlightened 
and wholly substantial
The mortician, sinful and spiteful,
snuck in a heavy heart.
Now the bride,
at night,
whispers a prayer to her creator,
“Grant me wings, grant me wings.”


Your eyes
they show the strangest ways
Tempting, pulling
with hypnotic sways
Playing exotic scenes
from long ago days
Acting out longings
from lustful plays

To linger on
I do not dare
But, seems my life
is held in there
Too late, you caught me
in your snare
My will is lost
inside your stare







Tina Marlene Goodman has spent much of her adult life as a professional student. After years of taking classes in whatever subject caught her fancy, she finally earned a  bachelor's degree in philosophy from the University of Washington.

She is continuing her education through on-line writing workshops and taking courses at her hometown college, Boise State University.  This past semester fate assigned her to a workshop with instructor and poet Adrian Kien, who was receptive to Tina's horror genre poetry.