We aren’t sure how much we’ve lost. We don’t know where our fingers end. The walls reach into empty space, crumbling with a gasp as they grasp at the fog. At the end of them, we feel (we might remember feeling?) our fingers slip into the still air until they might as well not exist …
The Counting Ghosts, by Bernie Jean Schiebeling Keep Reading »
and they said “I nor we, us, I mean the fifth one.” . . . …
It is Sunday afternoon, and Silvia is watching her husband from the corner of her eye while she tries to read a book in the lone armchair where he never sits. Her husband is standing at the door to the balcony, looking out at the city below with a frown on his face. She watches …
The Watchers in the Stairwell, by Emily Henry Burnham Keep Reading »
Shave your head every third sunset, and the eyebrows, as is proper; sharpen your beak every sixth; if its straps bite into your skin, well, remember it is an honor to keep the silence; your lobes will need piercing; the black robes are to be worn always; on ceremony days—the leather cloak; drape your back …
There is a haunted house. It is made of whalebone, of mammoth bones, of overhanging cliffs and caves. It has carvings on the bones, and deep in the caves there are aurochs painted on the walls, the small handprints of women. The house is inland. It is next to the ocean. It is on wide, …
I’m not having eyes anymore, but still I’m seeing him visit that wretched body, day after day after day. Time is not having meaning anymore, but he’s coming every time before sunset, via that little shop on Roosevelt Road. I can tell because he’s carrying a blue shopping bag that I’m imagining stretching tight across …
The Time I Watch the Foxes Drink, by Jonothan Pickering Keep Reading »
Among the strange happenstances and peculiar mischances of ancient times is the story of a dervish in Ghazni who dwelt only among the dead.
(prelude 3.1) He wasn’t socruelas to namethe dog. (first day 1.1) I live in the same house I grew up in. Each day I walk my dog up and down the same streets and through the same parks. I make the same observations about the same landmarks —the dilapidated fence by the cycling path behind …
WE, with base of Ornithischia, machine-molded and encasing intelligence, run to keep the beloved ones alive WE: bird-hipped, yes, bird-fierce, mottle-fleshed, streaks on strips of whirling rubber that are the million treadmills that power this place, a place they thread the words “end-of-life care” through WE, who run for those above, with the hope that …
In the very back of Landsdelle Cemetery, beneath a windfall of vine maples, Adaranth White took respite between two sheltered rows of graves, overgrown with blackberry brambles and tufted with moss. He’d chosen this particular spot because of the gravestone he was leaning on, that of one Jonathan Pease. He didn’t believe he’d known Mr. …