Poetry

Poe Twist: The Tell-Tale Heart, by Edgar Allen Poe

by on Jan 6, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

120 WORDS We were too old to play hide & seek, so we added a handicap and did it in the dark. The game turned grim as you counted out loud— I trod softly like the newly blind, groping around for nooks to disappear in. Your bodiless voice could have been anyone’s— lover, intruder or specter. I crouched first under the sink then the coffee table, clung onto the beams of the mezzanine and hung there, willing my heartbeat to stop as I waited for a hand to descend. You moved in blackness, your senses open to the unperceived shadow, your eyes closed to better feel my body throbbing within the room, your spread–out hands, like a madman’s, stealthily crept toward my throat....

Read More

Before My Father Vanished

by on Jan 6, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

90 WORDS in the Blacksun Nebulas he gave me a string of mooncrystals in cool ambers and the rogue purple–pinks of lost stars I wore them to bed and in the shower for twenty lunar years and to work in the rocket yards where they failed to warm amid bittersmoke and cinder even elements of the cold beyond under the jet and glare and noise one night they broke— scattered light across the gravel landing field I found only a handful ten unthawed cubes ten unleashed winter suns my father’s stardust remains Wendy Rathbone’s latest novel is Letters to an Android. She is also the author of the sf novel Pale Zenith, and more, from eyescrypublications.com. A collection of her short...

Read More

Doors

by on Jan 6, 2015 in Poetry | 0 comments

110 WORDS The trees are alive with possums, mice, rats. I’m sure of it. Out on their night hunt, you tell me. I shiver. You are still, at ease. Doors, passages, you say, they’re everywhere. Where are we, I ask. The darkness answers in your voice, Are you sure we are? I am quiet, used to your way of explaining things. Are you sure this isn’t death and life is what happens after? I’m not sure. Next to you, I’m never sure of anything. We say good–bye, your eyes human again, not the oak–walled tunnels I’ve traveled all evening. Doors, I think. Remember, you say, and I nod, but I’ve already forgotten. Alina Rios spent the first part of her life in St. Petersburg, Russia, and...

Read More

Sympathy for the Devil: A Duet in Two Solos

by on Dec 2, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

573 WORDS When the Devil’s in Nashville he stops by Third and Union, late, after the bars close, where someone always offers half a beer at the feet of Chet Atkins. The Devil tends to leave them for the dudes who didn’t make it to the Mission tonight, but sometimes he clambers up on the stool the sculptor knew belonged there, drinks the remains of a not–quite–cold one, smokes a discarded butt, plays what anybody passing by would swear is a duet, the Ave Maria audible from up near St. Mary of the Seven Sorrows, echoing against the stations of a mother’s grief until the bell in the tower lets out a hesitant toll in reply, one you gotta be listening for to hear. The few...

Read More

Night-time Visitor

by on Dec 2, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

28 WORDS In the dark she sings, She holds my hand tight in hers: Limbs tender, voice soft. Clouds part, the moon shines upon Green skin, one too many arms. More from Melanie Rees: Sentience is watching a sunset Melanie Rees is an environmental consultant whose work involves playing with soil and plants. When she isn’t gallivanting in the mud or stuck up a tree, she writes speculative fiction and poetry. Her stories and poems have appeared in magazines such as Apex, Cosmos, Penumbra, Daily Science Fiction, and Aurealis. In the real world, she lives in a straw house with a menagerie of animals in regional South Australia. Online she lives at flexirees.wordpress.com and on...

Read More

The Grey Cathedral

by on Dec 2, 2014 in Poetry | 0 comments

218 WORDS I suppose there must be extraterrestrials who, among the plethora of UFO specialists, are cattle mutilators, aliens for whom it is always harvest season, each bovine an overflowing cornucopia. They spend their hours slicing tongues with surgical precision, cleaving udders and ears free, coring anuses and carving out hearts. They are most neat in their work; there is never any blood. So perhaps today, as I sit at my kitchen table, sipping coffee and thinking about my departed Petunia, an alien aboard a flying saucer moves his scalpel and slender fingers through the grey cathedral of her tongue. Here are the great doors of her calfhood, the sweet taste of warm...

Read More