NowhereThey were everything, the stars –Nowhere9 years ago in In The End Poetry Comp
their hope we harbored in our pockets,
and it seeped under our fingernails in the winter cold
until we bled and breathed them, believed
their possibilities cupped like fireflies
in our hands – we went to sleep to them
and woke to their memory, dreamed
them in between – we ourselves
piloting the ships of tomorrow.
They called us, stringing their melodies
down to earth in half-remembered
filaments of color: we whispered our promises
up in return, the four of us,
our breaths frosting windows as we
stared up and pointed at the darkening sky.
Lodged in our eyes and minds, the stars,
and the only escape, that Christmas evening,
from the grey drone of the house – Mother's
wearied dusty voice speaking of
decline and demise, rising oil prices and
Old Mr. Hart down the road:
he had some kind of complex from the First World War,
that's why he did it – every Christmas, drowned the new kittens
of his cat, orange-striped and unnamed,
who roamed the streets with a fr
InterceptsIntercepts9 years ago in Short Story
"Don't do it, brother," said Luc, popping the last chip into his mouth.
"Come on," Jean protested. As if in cue, the warning 'Insecure Area', which was traveling back and forth along the length of the cafeteria table, slid between them. "Come on," Jean repeated, softer. "What harm could it do?"
Luc cocked his head. "You want a list?"
"Look, she hasn't even done anything," said Jean. "The only reason she's on the array is because of automatic traffic analysis, and she's only a Class IV anyw-"
"Whoa, brother," Luc cut him off. "I don't want to know, and believe me, you don't want me to either. You're on your own here."
The Chapel was as dim, long and high-ceilinged as its name implied, with eight rows of terminals arranged facing the three massive scre
Meta Carpals and BreakfastMeta Carpals and Breakfast9 years ago in In The End Poetry Comp
Early sun deafens
as crusty eyelids flutter
to the smell of toasted bagels.
Cold tiles underfoot mingle with muffled birdsong
illuminating the noise.
I amble to the eternal hum of
the browning toaster
and the grandpa tone
of my fridge. Bone bowl and silver spoon
on the marble counter;
a snatch of tilted cereal box
spills oat grain across patterned stone,
mimicking my scattered senses.
My hand flails but flakes slip
between joints; failure drips,
double decker red,
from my tongue.
In these granite crevices lie
my waning fictions; crumbled
nutrition and fruitless future of
the one that crossed
my knuckles like a ring seeking
the perfect finger.