Raven sat on the branch of a strangler fig, staring sideways at the sun. The sun stared back. For a long while, neither moved. The world yawned. Then, gradually, the sun slunk down behind the hills.
“That’s what I thought,” said Raven, and took off, triumphant, into the gathering dusk.
Sam Hall is a writer from England. He lives in a cabin he built in an apple orchard, keeping bees and chasing after chickens.
I glance at the sign outside the church when I should be watching the road. Love Like Jesus, it says. A nice sentiment, I think, as the sun goes down in a profusion of toxic colors, like a ship full of chemicals burning intently at the edge of the world.
Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing).
He doesn’t take his eyes off his book.
I’m with an umbrella on a bench. I’ve been waiting for him to look at me; I don’t have time. They’re throwing the old statues away.
Whenever the stone boy finishes his book, tell him a stone girl was waiting for him.
Sunset wrote this story.