The Color of the Grave is Green Several people have asked me about green burial. Is it really a thing? The Green Burial Council defines green burial as “a way of caring for the dead with minimal environmental impact that aids in the conservation of natural resources, reduction of carbon emissions, protection of worker health, […]
Ask A Necromancer, by Amanda Downum Keep Reading »
The Universe eats itself until there is nothing but air and space nothing but you and me. I am the God of Undoing, your breath my playground. I leave you bleeding, panting, desperate. For something you are unsure of, for blood, for spite, for the rivers of me pushing forth engulfing, drowning, saturating. Blurring the
Undoing, by Zin E. Rocklyn Keep Reading »
I work in haunted houses. In this one, there was a child who drowned in the well. In that one, a woman wasted away of cancer. Here, there lived a man who couldn’t let go of his worldly goods. Every historic house museum has its ghosts. We cobble together stories, passed from one staff member
October’s Ghost, by Caitlyn Paxson Keep Reading »
I picture you at your typewriterimpossibly young in the blackand white world of the 1950swriting I Bury the Livingyears before my birthyour father over ten years gone black pins imbuedwith the power of deathwhen pushed into vacant plotson a cemetery mapI wonder how you came upwith that idea you were always devisingmovie premises at
the ending, by Gwynne Garfinkle Keep Reading »
I It goes up, forever. Changes the sky’s color.A howl in the sere grass. A death, root-sunken,resonates down into the water table, nested ringsof shale and lava. A tremble in the hand, a shiver. It lasts a thousand years. Unknits your cells,decays you from core code outwards. Your veins unravel,spill black pus and yellow,
Chernobyl Litany, by Gemma Files Keep Reading »
Everything washes away,Red running down to silver against zinc.The tools are set aside. The voices stay,Locked in drawers at the end of the shift. Red runs down to silver in the sink,the last of the parking lot, the ditch, the cooler.Behind closed doors, at the end of the shift,death’s scent is lemon; sour masking sweet.
Cause and Manner, by Jeannelle Ferreira Keep Reading »
So it begins. And the play is conducted upon the gears of a clock. Constructed inside this ancient cathedral the bright artifice of turning brass was by necessity laid flat to provide a stage; it looks wrong but it all works to keep time. There is a bell, though it does not strike the hours.
The General’s Turn, by Premee Mohamed Keep Reading »
I hope this letter finds you ill. I write to you today having finally succumbed to the weariness that has plagued me since you stumbled upon nuclear fission all those years ago. I can no longer keep up the pretense of the godly (and very attractive) reaper that you’ve come to cherish and adore. So,
To the (mostly) living, by J.D. Harlock Keep Reading »