When you arrive in the Afterlife, you eat and you drink. Pomegranate seeds, the arils like edible jewels, sweet and tart and bitter, garnet beads that burst as you chew. Fungi you know—Porcini; Portobello; Oyster; Straw—and some you don’t—violet Amethyst Deceivers and nubby Dead Man’s Toes—the taste of the things they’ve fed from, the things …
When she was three, they left;oak-leaf leather hugged the walls,and her finger, sore, turned red,turned black, the green.The woods brushed against the edgesof the neighborhood surging invisibleagainst invisible doors, ready to burst.The vixen came in first.Latches fell open at the press of fox-nose,whiskers like glass cuttersopened the window, oak-leaf leatherscabbed over the insides, skin of …
Like a Surgeon, With Her Teeth, by Erik Amundsen Keep Reading »
Crime & Putrefaction I was recently asked by an employee at a local bar, “How could you hide a body in here?” This was in regards to an urban legend, I hasten to add, not anyone’s plans for the weekend. It’s an interesting scenario, but I’m probably not the best person to ask. I am …
Daydreams, fervent and vivid ofdesolation, beauty, delight.How heavily my bodyis anchored, how listlessmy shadow passes over cold, famished streets. I am a gloomed man, with the rapid-fire neurons of a lunatic, resolvedto set sail to reach the arc of eternal light. If I fail, Star-filled skywhen I fail, oceans of ice(see how my hope is already changing, the …
Did God shrink from Adam so, when the dust settled?, by Kristin Fullerton Keep Reading »
I died in a tropical rain forest, protesting the logging industry. I didn’t want to die, but I was prepared for it. I had left a will, I had talked to my family about the risks, I had meditated and read the right sorts of books. I had many thoughts about the afterlife. None of …
The red juice incarcerated her;stained fingertips were her judge;her lips dribbled with pomegranate seeds,the jury delivering its guilty verdict. My face plastered across bus shelter glass,on Underground walls illustrating escalator climbs,spread over office-block windows… I can’t leave home without being chased by photo opportunists:newspaper paparazzi, tourists, school children wanting a selfie. I’d rather be an …
Caught by her Red-Stained Hands, by Claire Smith Keep Reading »
From inside the Gardiner cemetery, the town of Gardiner, Oregon, is hidden. A row of cherry plums blocks the view to the south; a thick line of trees shuts out the lonely patch of houses to the north. The cemetery sits on a steep hill, its back to a timber plantation, its face looking over …
I won’t resist. I know I can’t.I’m statue-still. I’m scentless.Take a whiff. There’s nothing leftof mind, or fear, or promises. I’m statue-still. Of scent bereft.I’m sea-glass tumbled smooth by salt.I don’t mind fear. It promisesto come and go and go and come and go. I’m sea-glass, yes. Still new, still sharp.I hate my edge. I …
(avec mes remerciements à Jacques Prévert) Winter is sitting on a bench. She is not noticed by the people passing, the children playing, the birds flying from one tree to another. She is ignored, as though she is no more worthy of note than a man with glasses in a gray suit. She seethes with …
L’hiver est assis sur un banc, by Margaret Dunlap Keep Reading »
