through the silence clicks from the central heating ticks from the clock
black against black
in the car park a crow
pecks at the frost
*
strings and a bow that’s all it takes though maybe a hand would help and a shoulder to cry on
snowman plays Bach
a scarecrow Vivaldi
who cares
*
all my best work thrown out with the rubbish this sea of troubles
corrugated iron
a crow silhouetted
perched on a wave
Diana Webb
With undisclosed sources of funding, our project was going quite well. The objective was to develop a secret society of super-ants which would combat terrorism, cause humans to hide underground like sand dogs. Within a large container supplied with piped in air, we grew several colonies of mutated ants. We observed and noted their daily behaviors. They built cities and highways, erected small pyramid-shaped monuments. Over a period of time, many grew bigger, stronger, could even stand upright. According to Heiseman, Fletcher, et. al., a scenario was outlined.
The ants rose from their cities, climbed along the walls of the glass and ate their way through the black rubber tops, which they must have mistaken for a betrayal of sky. Several must have hid in the back rooms of the lab and it was theorized that one of these killed the night watchman and escaped. The night it happened to me, I was in a sound sleep. Perhaps it located my whereabouts by gamma-Ga radiation.
I heard the clomping, something climbing up the steps, a slow, heavy rhythm, the sound, I imagine a serial killer makes to let his victim know what is in store. I awoke to the giant ant, pinning my arms to the bed with its virulent pincers. This mutated ant, I remembered, was one of my most fascinating subjects and we spent hours studying each other from either side of the glass receptacle. Staring into my face with its gleaming marble eyes and in a low, clear voice resembling my own, it now asked, Who is your god?
Berkely’s solipsism
i said wing dings, junior,
& no bugs in my bugles
Kyle Hemmings
miniatures: 6
a flush in the hand you are holding still enough to compensate for the death that waits due north of this death
your pulse
syncopates—
scag clouds
–
miniatures: 16
taking the chance the thrill the not knowing the him the her the me or any of this dank matter held together by the weak forces that will inevitably cause our decay
twilight—
waiting to be picked up
by the blockchain
–
miniatures: 30
anyway take my trade tiny cop imposter and mute the bond yet smelted warm to the slob touch of a grasshopper
midnight sun—
grooming the coats
of roadkill
Brendan Slater
chanting a mantra
*
death anniversary
Gabriel Bates
… and if he just created an artificial intelligence that was able to create an artificial intelligence
hidden
below all the snow
an old dream
Eva Limbach
my balloon is free
I let it go
the air between us
Grass springs from cracks. Leaves scrape on stones. Wire creeps up a wall. A child holds out her hand.
welcome or farewell heart’s shadow
Diana Webb
…
(inspired by Graffiti claimed by Banksy South Bank London – photo Kathy deWitt
Shovelling in the last of the potatoes, I push back my chair and undo my belt. My gut is round and loose. It’s been a good summer. No amount of winter will cut through me now.
slap shot …
I burrow in
my man cave
Dave Read
Our youngest loses his last tooth. Three kids. Twenty teeth. Two bucks each. One hundred twenty dollars. That’s one week’s worth of groceries, three tankfuls of gas, a family movie night, jeans for my wife, or four new shirts for me. One hundred twenty dollars. Blown on a bullshit story.
braking
for unicorns …
valley mist
Dave Read
Not sure I will able to – or whether it makes any sense – update this on-going journal for the remainder of 2017, I wish every reader and submitter of works a merry Christmas and a happy New Year or whatever you celebrate. Without you, generous writers, this journal wouldn’t exist; and that’s the truth for every journal. Thank you again, all, for sending me your works and letting me bring your goodies forth for the world to read!!!
And then I’m gonna use the ed’s prerogative and publish one of my own 😉
The Birdmaker
It was another cold day and the Birdmaker put down the peregrine falcon he was working on. With the fourth he massaged three of his hands trying to get some warmth into them when the Windmaker came in causing a whirlwind of feathers. It was winter and no one could say whether it was in “the midst of”, “a little into” or “at the end of” it. It had been winter for so long that no one remembered it beginning and no one had any faith left in the prophecies of it ending. What fun could be had with making snowballs and ditto people had long since evaporated from the minds of the living. The Birdmaker snapped his fingers (with a little “ouch”) and the feathers went straight back to the table he was working at. He added a few ordinary falcon feathers and a big blue one from a parrot to the bird’s head and held it out in a straight arm: “Now this will raise some eyebrows – eventually”, he said and carried it into the storage room. For as long as anyone could remember it had been too cold for birds like that. Only penguins, a few gulls and the hardy barnacle geese could survive in the cold and the Birdmaker was a little tired of making the same kind of birds over and over. He yearned to use all his skills, so from time to time he would build something different, birds that belonged to spring and summer – but they were kept on hold till the (eventual) end of the seemingly endless winter. The Windmaker sat by the fire blowing into his hands with all four of his mouths; one for each face and a face for each corner of the world.
“Is there any coffee on the … thing”, he said not really sure of what to call the emu-of-constant-heat the Birdmaker had made into a coffee machine.
“Of course. Can’t function without it”, the Birdmaker said. “And there might be some in the thermo heron”.
“Nah, not really fond of thermo heron coffee. It tastes a bit … birdy”.
“Can’t be helped, can’t be helped”, said the Birdmaker, “but it’s way better than that from the thermo hippo the Beastmaker serves”.
“Yeah. That’s awful!” and the Windmaker’s four faces all expressed disgust.
Outside a storm howled throwing snow about and all was white.
“One of yours?”, asked the Birdmaker.
“Yes. He just has to let out some steam. He has been in a terrible mood all day and I’m tired of arguing with him”.
“It’ll blow over”, said the Birdmaker and they both laughed. After all, you only have the fun you make yourself.
embedded in the letter ø Earth’s tilted axis
some events you cant escape. they suck you in. it is the science of astrophysics and psychology that makes the rules surrounding our world. in our lives we make our own rules and break them at our own peril.
shooting stars
eyes empty and fill
with sudden loss
Michael Rehling
