Filmgoers

Many winters ago the blizzard buried Negotin in white noise. Snow sealed doors, and the wind was sending SOS signals all over the town. Power lines were lying in the fields, houses went blind and breath turned to frost.

Only the old cinema stood like a lone lighthouse against the storm. Its generator pulsated like a tired heart. The theater was full, but no one spoke. When the movie began, I realized the actors were the audience themselves, levitating across the screen.

Slowly, the faceless crowd turned toward me. They weren’t watching the movie.

They wanted me to stay forever.

From Guest Contributor Ivan Ristic

The Death And Life Of The Avant-Garde

When Franz K. was taken off the train in the middle of the night, he came to on a street of futuristic glass towers that, from an architectural perspective, were already passé. “What are those buildings?” he asked his keeper, a tall, thin, priestly figure who emanated an aura of gentle authority. “You’ll find out,” the keeper said, smiling. He never did. By the time the sun rose, he was tied to a post, watching in terror the firing squad assemble. It was sort of like avant-garde cinema where a series of incidents doesn’t necessarily add up to a plot.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).