I used to be jealous of the rising tide, for it could never leave
Just lap at jagged teeth and spray its foam upon your sleeve
My blindness felt the seagulls flee, their mocking heard no more
Yet still the tide, it rose in time, to crash on rocky shores
I know why the kestrel races, on the hunt for freckled faces
In the beaches, ports, and harbors, raving for its saving graces
In the alleyways, for forty days, I heard them caw
In the burning trees, I heard their pleas, their throats so raw
I swore the birds, they never rest, for land and earthly law
Don’t much apply in cyan sky and clench of vulture’s jaw…
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That damn commercial. It kept airing in between game shows, its sentimentality breaking up the raucous flow of applause and flashing lights and cartoonish contestants. A little girl calling her grandmother on an iPhone and telling her about a sunflower she drew at school while the grandmother looked out the window at the lone sunflower in her yard and smiled. After about its 50th airing, Lottie powered on her father’s old desktop computer and ordered an iPhone on Amazon.
She hadn’t made a call with it yet, but she had managed to download Facebook. She filled out a few of the information fields — full name (Loretta “Lottie” Finster), occupation (retired financial advisor), relationship status (single), and education (Pine Valley High School, Dartmouth). The app suggested some friends.…
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Did I feel reformed? I can’t say. But, as I watched those heavy, black gates dizzyingly sweeping to a close, one thing was certain – I never wanted to see them again. That day, with the last rays of the sun, a period of my life ended that I wished never to relive or recall again.
The railway station was teeming with people, fortunately for me. After all, where could a person hope to attract least attention if not in a crowd? Nonetheless, there must have been something very singular about my appearance, for I noticed that even in the midst of their busy operations, they managed to throw a furtive glance or two my way – a distinction awarded to no other person.
There were still two hours before the train was due.…
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I’ve seen her fragmented,
with pupils swollen, overfilling to black,
not mourning the absence of color.
My neck tilts—revealing
her skull to be a collection of shards.
Yet, always her mouth curls up,
the corners pointed to satisfaction.
Tonight, the moon strikes her.
Rotted prisms bark back at me.
I peel along my damaged skin,
scraping the imperfection,
hoping my blood gives her new life.…
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Getting them into bed is easy. Once there, many get the wrong idea.
“It’s not that kind of club,” Nemo chides, grabbing her hands before they snake below his waistband.
Pouting, the USO girl toys with the filmy mosquito net draping the bed. “I’ll be very quiet.”
“I’m sure you will,” he purrs, playing along. “But first, sleep. It’s part of the experience.” Nemo hands her a NightCap elixir. “Be a good girl. Take your medicine.”
Giggling, she downs the cocktail, flops onto the bed, and drifts off in seconds, nostrils quivering with whistling snores.
He’d like to join her, but Nemo does not sleep, not yet. Rubbing his gritty eyes, he pulls the gauzy fabric closed, watches the black dots of her nightmares swirl into the net, then leaves to find another sleeper.…
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Hell is nothing like what anyone says, Michael thought as he walked through the large iron bar gates. They were cracked just enough for him to slip under the chain linking them together. He stood there for a moment. As he walked down the cobblestone street, the thought solidified in his mind. Not like anything anywhere. Plato has described a giant layered prison of sins. The vikings told of a barren, cold wasteland at the bottom of the universe. And every sunday morning preacher or day-time televangelist warned of fire and brimstone and demons ready to torture the damned.
In reality, Hell was a vast city, made up of buildings and monuments from every architectural movement in history. As if they had just been plopped there from the living world, large gothic cathedrals stood next to roman temples; log cabins neighbored domed babylonian mosques; even a handful of Sears and Roebuck Home-kit houses were sandwiched in between Addams family style mansions and small wooden huts.…
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The old man crouches beside a straw basket, weary from his travels, his skin glistening with sweat. Children run past him, tumbling through bright saris hanging from twine. Squatters look over his clothes, the few possessions he’s carried for miles on his orange turban. He closes his eyes and blows into the tip of a pungi, emitting a low humming sound. “Come one and all to see what the divine Nagas reveal! The guardians of water have surfaced from great depths to tell us their secrets.” A crowd slowly forms around the old man. He plays the reed instrument, carefully, teasing out the high notes; the music is strange, hypnotic. “But beware! The Naga’s message can only be understood by the one it is intended for.”…
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