Demolition

He passed the tax building, now being slowly demolished.

“Everything’s done online these days,” he thought bitterly.

He’d been a manager there, running his section with the efficiency of a concentration camp commandant.

“Got any spare change?” asked one of a group of teenagers watching the demolition.

Giving them an evil stare, he walked on.

“Goddam!” The beer can struck him on the back of the head.

“Fuck off and die, you old fart!” he heard as they ran off laughing.

He looked at the shell of the building for a while.

Soon – like him – it would be gone forever.

From Guest Contributor Ian Fletcher

The Jigsaw Man

He would have been handsome if it weren’t for the cheeks left pitted by adolescent acne. In what seemed an attempt to distract from the scars, he dressed with obvious expense. He also carried a small black satchel everywhere. There was talk that under another name he had once been a backstreet abortionist or a doctor in a concentration camp. When he died and the satchel was opened, it was found to contain a ski mask such as stickup men wear, a Florida orange, and a book of 105 poems, all of them about the death of the poet’s child.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's most recent poetry collection is Gunmetal Sky, available from Thirty West Publishing.