There Hangs The Sword

There hangs the sword, the one handed down from father, to son, to me, the symbol of my family, the defender of our home, the weapon that has slain hundreds, that fought for our homeland in the long war, and struck fear into our enemies, the blade that was retired but never allowed to dull, that was laid to rest but never sheathed, that was put on display as a reminder to all future interlopers this house will forever be vigilant, there is the sword even now, still hanging there, as I slowly bleed out on the floor below it.

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Let him hold and spoon your every nook and cranny of pre-decaying skin. Cut yourself slightly to scrutinize the way you bleed. Is it different?

During his flight later on, he will serve the peanuts and diet cokes to suits and pantsuits that view themselves as better, and this time they will be right. He knows, you know, and the ten untainted cells between you both know, too.

Tell your all-knowing daughter that you, Daddy, are too good at making friends.

Give tickets out with fervor.

Let yourself believe for a mere moment that you can run away for good.

From Guest Contributor Jacqueline McGarry

At Least It Gets Me To Work And Back

I pass the dump truck parade on my way to work, and I pray the spider cracks in the windshield of my creaking and shaking and ground-scraping savior will remain intact until tomorrow. But this is the end for it. The heavy glass shatters on me, pouring down with a ripping gust of gravel and unpaid bills. I cover my scrunched face to protect from the impending costs. I bleed my next paycheck into the repairs. There is a new scar on my credit report, just next to my student loan debt. My last breath is spent coughing up pennies.

From Guest Contributor Stacy Gorse