Today I want to see how many cars go by.  It’s cold outside and there’s not a soul around.

Neither a passer-by, nor a cyclist.



This is the rush hour.

A car arrives.  It moves slowly.  I think it’s someone who lives nearby and comes home after work.

Others should follow.



from one lockdown
to another
winter fog

Andrea Cecon


Unnamed Counts

Dinner flip-flop-flips on the hooks. They climb the bank to their fire drum. Salted, sizzling skins are popped in mouths that grin warm-belly bliss. A mutual moment of plenty before tomorrow’s rumblings. Reading lines by flashlight from second-hand journals is their nightly home entertainment. Laughter stumbles over spoken word, interrupting their recitations with impersonations of celebrities.

Cold fingers share communion in this private camp. Praying over one another’s skin, their joined bodies sing hymnals. Two voices rise and call and hush into exhaustion. Sleeping under rainfall, they do not dream.

A cough and another. Their days tighten into wheezes and fevers. Wrapped up holding each other, they sleep in fits and starts. Sipping pine needle tea and breathing in its steam, their comfort word offerings weaken. They are together alone and scared.

a hike find
ruined artifacts
deserted tent

E. L. Blizzard

Unnamed Counts

A brief history of the Mesophile

The earliest records of the Mesophile refer to a Creation Myth: how they emerged from the primeval darkness and, thanks to the Sun’s bounty, moderate temperatures and an adequate supply of oxygen were able to take root and thrive.

By their reckoning thousands of generations had passed since The Great Sprouting.

Mesophilian culture had passed through three stages: the coccus, bacillus, and spiral. They were now on the cusp of advanced civilisation.

The ancient seers spoke of the Dark One, whose coming would blot out the Sun and plunge Mesophilia into blackness.

Then Craig came and binned the mouldy cheese.

the universe turns in on itself
a thought trips the synapses
and an eternity passes

Robbie Porter

A brief history of the Mesophile

cacophony in the eye

pssst listen a cloud respirating
it’s the wind sighing, “You’re mine”

a woman’s vibrato could be sadness in a real world

am I stepping into a soul?
carbuncled cheeks a shivering chin

absent sky absent life still life

my toes sanded gray ten wiggling stones
deciphering the language of seals

rumours rise on a bench the now  a honking overhead

a flickering V hurriedly ink-brushed
pierces the blue that ocean groans have frayed

no matter the pitted grass footfalls crackle on brittle heliotrope limbs

in the eye   in the end
a cacophony
on the beach

Alegria Imperial

cacophony in the eye


for the hell of it
for the weight of yourself on your knees
for the whispering sigh of your voice escaping
for the sourness of hypocrisy pickling your tongue
for the darkening thoughts pooling like sludge in your heart
for the tangled dreams that strangle your sleep
for the gods to suit up for the team
for something besides the news

not a cloud
in the sky

Bob Lucky