Hermitage

Harvest missed, starlings busy with unworked seed, overripe corn, a laugh with the scarecrow - leave toward evening. Leaves of fall turn red like the blood fingering across the green linoleum kitchen floor after the thud of the back of your head, split like a too-ripe pumpkin. A widower falls in the kitchen, no one hears it, did it make a sound? The trees in the yard mourn the wood you stacked anticipating winter, as it dries, rots, quietly decays. Equinoxes later it splinters, skips off across tan, fallow fields in a cold wind, wet with the rustle of black wings.

From Guest Contributor Craig Kirchner

Craig thinks of poetry as hobo art. He loves storytelling and the aesthetics of the paper and pen. He was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize, and has a book of poetry, Roomful of Navels. After a writing hiatus is being published and has work forthcoming in a dozen or so journals.

The Mouse

Robert and Rebecca arrived home to find a dead mouse on their kitchen floor.

It was an old building, so Rebecca was not surprised there would be rodents. Rather than being grossed out, she began reflecting on her own mortality, wondering if she were better or worse off than the mouse for having knowledge of her impending oblivion. It was a thought that often kept her up late into the night, as she listened to Robert's light snoring and choked back tears.

Robert could only think about the mess that must have attracted the mouse, and began a thorough cleaning.