Lists

*Below are some notations–some obscure–of my work that I’ve located thus far. Locus Magazine’s listings and the Speculative Fiction Database have helped me to locate listings of  published work from back in the zines days–and some more recent have been listed. Some are redundant and will be sorted out with time. I am in the process of unpacking several boxes of old zines and magazines…will share photos and update references with time. Some list me as Sandra, as opposed to Sandy, as I used my legal name in the early days in the genre world. I encourage collectors, readers, art lovers and fans to take a peek at my history. Thank you.

*House of Pain, an online magazine, published several of my early horror tales around 2000-2001. The archives are no longer available.

My ghost story, Dusty was featured as a Halloween tale by House of Pain, and is said to be “a classic Halloween ghost story”. It has been read in theater groups and Halloween gatherings over the years.

DeLUCA, SANDRA 

DeLUCA, SANDRA 

 Hauntings, (pm) Mindmares Fll 1998

 

DeLUCA, SANDRA (stories) (chron.)

Burial Plot in Sagittarius (Thievin’ Kitty Publications
 no ISBN, Jan 2001, $5.00, 52pp, ph, cover by Sandy DeLuca) Collection of 26 poems, eight reprints. Illustrated by the author. Order from Thievin’ Kitty Publications, PO Box 341, Marion MA 02738; [theedge@capecod.net]; [www.capedcod.net/theivinkitty/]. (Contents)

 

DeLUCA, SANDRA (books) (stories)

DeLUCA, SANDRA (stories)

 

DeLUCA, SANDRA

    •  (fl. 1990s-2010s);

Illustration “Bad Alice” by Marge Simon, (pm) Hungur Magazine Nov 2011

DeLUCA, SANDRA (books) (chron.)

DeLUCA, SANDRA (stories)

 

Novels

Collections

Anthologies

Chapbooks

Cover Art

DeLUCA, SANDRA

    • art (fl. 1990s-2010s);

Interior Art

Poems

Essays

 

Unholy Biscuit, Issue III (2 of my poems).

– Now That Saturn Has Returned –

I’ve plucked the thorn from my side;
it’s been there since I brought
you to the crossroads;
you stepped out of my jeep;
tossed a penny into
Hecate’s cauldron;
Excalibur’s hilt gleaming and your
shirt caked with the blood of
a biker you’d met over beer and
dope the previous dawn

Sometimes I dream about you,
hunched against the French doors
in my parlor,
eating my ice cream,
gazing at the neighbors
on the other side of the glass;
you loved their fangs
dripping with semen;
how their asses shook
when they polished the coffins

You took the oldest dancer;
she cut off your pinkie
when you tried to steal her grass;
you washed down the pain with Jack Daniels,
the next morning we peeled the flesh
and hung the bones next to the door jam

I heard you died down in Brooklyn;
they found your car in an alley,
pieces of you on the seat and floor;
my rosary still hung from the mirror;
my cauldron was inside the trunk

I’ll bury this flower prick in a
shoebox with your razor
and the photo of you
and John Lennon;
then I’ll call the Voodoo woman,
cry as she lights the fire,
wiggles her fingers
and we’ll watch your ghost fly away

– In a Future New York –

Glia and Tandra huddled beneath tracks
where trains once carried a lost
civilization to jobs in high rises
and dinners in glass buildings;
wine poured in crystal glasses,
and violinists played
love songs to women with platinum-dyed hair
and men in designer suits

Posters hung in crumbled brownstones,
on the walls of opera houses,
and Broadway theaters
told stories of women
in sequined gowns and agile ballerinas-

The city died when
green-scaled creatures
with yellow eyes
released their seed into the bellies of waif girls
and lonely gypsies who roamed the night bars
in search of pleasure

Gilia and Tandra- mutant spawns-
hugged each other,
listened to the earth pound
as a soldier marched above;
seeking their flesh in exchange
for a piece of meat,
or a soft bed

Misshapen fingers tapped
on concrete and their young bodies shook;
but they did not stir until the footsteps ceased;
until the thunder moon glowed
in the mid July sky

Then they climbed the stairs
of the old subway station;
talons trailed behind them,
glowing silver in flashing neon;
they walked to the river and
dove into cool wet slime,
gazed up into remnants of old skyscrapers
and a cathedral that once touched the
stars on balmy summer nights

They sang a hymn found in an old brick
structure at the edge of the city,
where paintings of men with unmarred flesh hung;
where words of freedom were painted on domed ceilings;
water formed crystal bubbles on
on their tongues and
they gazed at a tattered flag
fluttering in the humid breeze–
shredded with time,
gone with the liberty of seven centuries past

 

Twilight Times-My poem, ESMOND