But for all the canal’s beauty, it was the Bridge that truly captured his attention.
Balanced precariously on massive steel beams that rose from the sea floor, the platform leaned crookedly to port, so much so that waves lapped against the girders.
Unless you speak Greek, the above lyrics are just gibberish. Actually, even if you do speak Greek, they’re gibberish anyway.
Silver Blade has nominated the following six poems and two fiction pieces published between July 1, 2012 and July 30, 2013 for the 2013 Best of the Net Anthology Poems: “Alien Interrogation” by Marge Simon (Issue 17) “Eye for an Eye” by Laura Madeline Wiseman (Issue 18) “Butterflies and Dreamers” by K. Lou Combs [...]
Mainstream poetry concerns itself with the everyday world that we inhabit and perceive: personal relationships, observations of people and the city and of nature, social and sometimes political situations, etc. When you encounter an “I” voice in mainstream poetry, it is most often the author of the poem speaking directly to the reader about something in the real world.
Years had passed since he first entered this trance, and now all he could remember was the battles. They were all that was left to him, all he knew. One by one, the lords of this realm had come here to challenge him, and, one by one, they had died by his hand. So many men. So many faces.
They sit us down on plain wooden chairs and tie our hands behind our backs. Thick rope cuts into my ankles as they fasten them to the legs of the chair. I look around. A wooden cabin in the middle of nowhere. Basic furniture. An old sofa that has seen better days. Dust everywhere.
“Tell me again, Taylenel,” Clarrisa whispered in her lover’s ear. “How deep is your love for me?”
“Lady Adir, Department of Safety and Health,” she said. “My father is the Duke.” She glanced back at the sloping, stony path. “It’s a long climb up here.”
If Fume hadn’t burnt off his eyebrows long ago, he would have raised one now. “I do live on a mountain.”
Her husband was sleeping–sleeping, but not snoring. She watched the steady rise and fall of his narrow chest, waiting. Something gnawed away in the back of her mind, like a weasel pulling on the tail of a half-dead gecko. She didn’t want to wake him, but she could wait no longer.