The automatic doors snark an impatient hiss and he rushes out. Clots of rain thrum the sidewalks. He ducks into a phone box and it is a muddier, submerged rattle.
She is croaky and detached through the line, as if the elements traverse the circuits to wash her away.
It’s just dying a slow death, she says.
It would be a terrible shame if we stopped speaking or spending time together, though.
It would be, he agrees.
Continue reading “Foundations | by Stephen Thom”
I rent the apartment upstairs from Marcus
His garage is full of junk he uses to make things like a shop vac or parts for his car
or a sparrow trap
Once, when I passed his garage, he was trying to find a silver rod
for his chicken coop
He lured me in with his homemade apple brandy
After searching for a while he became so frustrated he told me
he thinks about killing himself. When he looks in the mirror
he says he sees a monster
On the shelf in his garage is a box that contains
an old Halloween decoration. On the box written in sharpie it says
“Marcus the Carcass” and inside is a rubber zombie mannequin
Marcus says he feels so alone sometimes he wants to be the dead one
The sparrow trap sits at the end of the driveway
It’s a metal structure that lets sparrows in with no exit. After a few hours
they just die. Marcus says when he has six of them, he’ll make a sparrow pie
I walked past the sparrow trap this morning and there were
two sparrows. They looked exactly alike except that one of them
was alive, still trying to get out, and the other one was dead in the corner Continue reading “Three Poems | by Katie Quinnelly”
Sister Midnight, Queen Midnight, Red Midnight, Red Queen, Carrion Queen, Attic Queen, Sister Twin, Sister Dusk, Sister Eclipse, Sister Arson, Sister Nero, Queen Red, Queen Blank, Queen Tremor, Sister One, Sister Two, Sister of the Velvet Basements, Queen of the Back-broken Chairs, Queen of the Rabid Statuary, Sister of Fortune, Sister of Grace, Sister of Obscurer Elements, Queen Tarot, Queen Serpent, Queen Mourning, Sister Morning: Continue reading “Three Poems | by James Pate”
Window Is a Lens
Marigolds line up
as the Cocaine cut of Sigmund Freud
on my Neighbor’s parapet.
A staircase on the side
to get to the moon for an ass,
that curves in the cycloid
of golden ratio and Fibonacci numbers.
Sky paints itself in thick layers,
of doomsday silver and
gliding anxieties. I don’t ‘want to
fill in the blanks.
An ache. An alienation
a moment that
is going to die soon on its own elements. Continue reading “Two Poems | by Sudeep Adhikari”
Pub has four doors. Two cold, one above leads to the Arctic, the other below to the Antarctic. The left hand door leads to the hot Western Desserts of icecream mountains and cookie crevasses, the right hand door to the warm Eastern Aperitifs of Lychee Lakes and Squid forests.
The proprietor of Touch Screen is Trans always on the way to somewhere else. Some folk say Trans is asexual, others know better. Talk to Trans the eyes are always somewhere else. Ask Trans directions and the place you knew is never the same. Everyone is a different person after the conversation. Continue reading “Touch Screen | by Paul Brookes”
Shane is looking in a box. The box is full of light. There is a scene through the light where a rabbit carrion is picked apart by a magpie.
“Thank you,” he says, “I knew it would all work out.”
Shane smiles and closes the lid. The lid slams shut with a heavy bang, but the loud noise seems to come from behind him. Shane turns, shocked by the crash and sees an empty room, different from the room he was in a moment ago.
In the top right corner where the walls meet the ceiling, a shadow is slowly growing, spreading out. The darkness fills him. Horrified, Shane runs from the room.
Continue reading “Blue Bliss | by Rob True”
True, when we try to understand, we are leaping open armed into our own
ignorance. It’s impossible to put everything in order when we can’t even agree
where order begins. One strategy is to abandon any attempt, or risk going mad.
But at one time we possessed certainty: we saw the sky as a collection of companion
bonfires. In fact, one theory states these distant flames are the source of our own
alien origins, and yes, this is the reason I, as a child, would often press an ear up
against old trees—I hoped to hear the escape of some cosmic inertia. That rumble
which moves never ceasing into emptiness.
Once in a dream I thought I witnessed this indifferent conquest. I stood on the edge
of reality, watched everything expand into nothing, no steady movement, but
random, crystalline cracks, pregnant with possibility. What would you do?
Continue reading “Rebuttal | by Duke Trott”