Wisps of sandalwood fill my nostrils.
Dan told me the smoke would unlock my chakras and balance my soul. I sat across from him. We hummed and chanted, inhaled and exhaled. Apparently I wasn’t loud enough.
I lick my fingers and press them hard against the ember, dousing his memory.
Koji A Dae is an American writer living in Bulgaria with her husband and two children.
The story of the week for November 12 to 16 is…
Archived News Clipping (Filed Under Irony) by Jo Withers
She seduces me each September—
warm summer kisses
tasting of frost and smoke;
her voluptuous dance,
flamboyant raiment discarded
piece by piece,
revealing more and more of bewitching nakedness.
But it always ends the same—icy tears each December.
Still, I know I
will fall
with fall
in love
again.
Tony Jasnowski teaches English at Bellevue University. Can there be any doubt which season is his favorite?
Titan’s reflection on the spaceport’s panels reminded Gillian of a squeezed orange over monochrome tableware.
“Earth awaits.” The Captain pointed at the shuttle’s hatch. “I’ll retrieve artefacts and Corinthian marble. You?”
The once-Blue Planet had nothing left but ocean-ravaged megalopolis, a hunting ground for nostalgic souls.
“Seashells and broken hearts.”
Russell Hemmell is an alien from Mintaka snuggled into a (consenting) human host. Recent fiction has appeared on Aurealis, The Grievous Angel, New Myths, and elsewhere. See more at earthianhivemind.net and @SPBianchini.
I stand at the rear of the chapel, amongst those paying their respects. All familiar faces, yet no-one speaks to me. Too grief-stricken, perhaps?
Who chose this godawful music?
Then she appears! We haven’t spoken since she took off with my man. She has some nerve coming to my funeral!
To avoid any awkwardness at her own funeral, Melanie has pre-planned the service arrangements and music and will most likely be regularly updating her invited-guests-only list.
Who knows why the black cat walked in front of us for two miles, occasionally looking back.
Not my cat, not yours. Just a black cat, late night walking down a three mile track.
And that disappearing trick with a mile still to go.
Eileen Carney Hulme lives in the North of Scotland. She has three full poetry collections published. See more at eileencarneyhulme.org.uk.
The neon flashes.
I wobble slowly and try not to puke.
People are fast asleep and so I watch all alone.
Steel cut, razor-sharp edges softened by alcohol.
A smell of rats and fetid waste.
Stars in the sky shine above the silent city.
As if nothing has gone wrong.
Henry lives in the UK. Sometimes he thinks too much. Sometimes not enough.
In our third hour,
Father left us
to the nurses
while Mother slept.
At home, he played
his guitar,
then fixed it
to the stairwell –
wood on wood,
lacquer on varnish,
screwed in
tight.
Now Mother aligns
the tuning pegs,
wipes away dust,
but every string
is brittle and
slack.
Mark Farley was raised in Zimbabwe where he survived two dog maulings, a swarm of killer bees, and being run over by a horse.
Lying on the sofa with reruns of Family Feud and Wheel of Fortune for her company, she waited for sleep to embalm her. She no longer dreamed of him. Those nightmares were now locked away in an unused master bedroom, behind a firmly closed door, under an ink-black midnight sky.
Arlene writes poetry, flash fiction and song lyrics. More of her work may be found @ I am not a silent Poet, Tuck Magazine, Little Rose Magazine, London Grip, The Open Mouse and Literary Heist.
When I woke, he stood by our bed, his suit muddy, eyes clouded, skin sickly pale.
“I’m home,” he croaked around his decomposing tongue.
“You shouldn’t be. You’re death walking again, honey.”
“Can I stay?”
“I wish…”
Taking his icy hand, I led him from the house, towards the cemetery.
GB is a writer from Tasmania. She prefers grey areas to the clarity of light and dark.