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PRESENCES
by Doug Bolling So much left unsaid, autumn wind always taking away. How is it thoughts slip through carapace of words as though to fly, as though the pods and husks might wither freeing up the hidden voice. To walk here is to listen for the unsayable, hauntings, anticipations, premonitions. The gleam through the woods like an enchanter beckoning, some distant mystery almost near. |
BONES by Lynn Crounse |
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SHORT STORY
by Cassondra Windwalker The words bleed through, Even as the ink fades — One story finds its echo In the next, and I try to retreat From character to reader, As it seems I am not allowed To advance to writer and tell The story I had thought to breathe: At the very least, if this villain Finds no rest, I could reduce The conflict to a sub-plot, Rewrite your part and let you hold As your own all that now Threatens to escape you: keep close, Or turn away, the text remains As it was writ — we were, We are, we will be, and while I may hide and choose to only Read of our griefs, this secret joy Is woven in the threads Of every page, and my fingers Cannot fail to find its coded path. |
END OF THE WORLD Yellowstone National Park by Baxter Jackson |
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by Simon Perchik Struck from behind and the Earth as if you could get away with it —in the dark this yard half slush, half mist, thickening not yet another moon though the dirt you skimmed off has lost its hold, lifts and from the shadow it drained to make a second sky only you don't have an alibi —you were there —on that night —beside this stone —plead loneliness throw both hands into the air —you've got the chance, now! dig faster, this stone, another the way each mountain range can recognize itself in the marsh in the smoking grass and river beds —plead emptiness, say you were building a dam, say guilty! and fold your arms. |
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