Issue 33 Poetry

Creationism Workers

Creationism Workers

You think you had a bad day: I hit the wrong key, wiped out Three finished star systems,

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After the Night Ride

After the Night Ride

To be honest, when you gave your trollish roar last night, I wanted to place my fingers over yours on the ignition and remove the keys.

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As Mad as the Mist and the Sea

As Mad as the Mist and the Sea

“I cannot linger long” First words my selkie said to me, Fierce eyes black as obsidian

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Haiku Swarm

Haiku Swarm

Black beetles crackle Beneath my tan, sandaled feet My life marked like ink

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Desire Songs

Desire Songs

It’s the queen he needs to appease, stridulations scraping on his carapace. Death might reward his gentle overtures as he advances through her silken web.

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Sleeping through the End Days

Sleeping through the End Days

Horsemen in black boots shine against the dead streets, peering in each window, smashing in every door.

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Save Our Souls

Save Our Souls

Wedged in the captain’s chair, our thighs pressed together, the scream of klaxons making my wife’s words impossible to hear

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The Sandman’s Children

The Sandman’s Children

The moon is full of eyes, coated with delicate dust, a thin crust

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Issue 33 Stories

River Witch

River Witch

I first saw Melusina perched on a rock alongside the narrow river that runs through our local park. I assumed she was wearing a swimsuit, but her long auburn hair concealed it.

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On the Other Side

On the Other Side

A treasure box had seemed like the perfect birthday gift for a little brother who was always collecting things. At six, it had been hockey cards. At seven, the bones of whatever unfortunate animal carcass he could find around the yard or the beach.

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Dead End

Dead End

The roar of his engine and the sharp whisper of the wind cut through his open windows. Slipstream fingers reached in with the noises and tousled his hair. Beneath skeleton branches that scraped across the black ocean known to mankind as the night sky, Arthur drove.

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The Bones of Olak-Koth

The Bones of Olak-Koth

The current roared over the black clay of the plains of Shoorm, carrying with it the thick burnt scent of the volcanic wastes. Sunlight was scarce this close to the Verge, falling to the plain like a bloodfog.

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