After A Painting By David Lynch

He said to me, “I am dying.” I said, “How is that my fault?” but sat down on the bed and held him and rocked him. Somewhere out there the lake was being strangled. I was frightened the fish would die, and that this would instigate the death row shuffle for everyone. The sound of endless wars in far-off places is still buzzing in my head. I stop, I look. The boy and the car are gone. It’s just crying and anger here, and farmers who make less than a dollar a day having an arm or leg blown off.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of Stick Figure Opera: 99 100-word Prose Poems from Cajun Mutt Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

The Taxidermist

He stuffed his victims, then mounted them on his wall. That's why they referred to him as the Taxidermist. His arrest, and subsequent conviction, was thought to be the end. No juror would've signed off on an insanity plea. He was locked away and, by the time his appeals were exhausted and he finally met his fate, the story had become more legend than reality.

But he was more than just a serial killer. He wasn't just preserving their skins, but also their souls. Now, with his death, those souls have been released. May God have mercy on us all.

100 Words

They've given me 100 words to either make my confession or damn my soul for eternity. It makes me want to stop all together, not give them the satisfaction. I'd like to take Hell over their smug superiority.

But that's the kind of attitude that got me in here to begin with. You'd think all the time alone would have given me a chance to mature, but it's always the same. I can never yield, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

So it's time to make a decision, but it seems that 100 words wasn't enough and now I've run out.