A Ladder To The Stars

For him the past was a story trove, for me it was a series of embarrassments that woke up and lingered like morning phlegm.

My brother tells another story on our porch. I notice how night falls earlier in mid-August. How the North Star rises off the horizon. How it calls me like a conjurer in an epic fantasy.

My brother will stay in this town and rise. He’ll talk about how the band played Forever Young at his graduation and he knew he was destined. But who will tell the story of that morning when I woke and wandered?

From Guest Contributor Dave Nash

The Diver

The diver stood before us holding a thimble too small to fit on the pinkie of either hand. The thimble was filled with water, much less than what could swish around a small mouth after brushing.

“I will dive into this,” he announced, to our astonishment. He then climbed a ladder that went up into the clouds.

He was so tiny we could not see him. If we had looked away at any point, we would have never believed him to even be there.

Seconds later, the water in the thimble moved.

We looked down to see him inside, smiling.

From Guest Contributor Ran Walker

Ran is the author of 25 books. He teaches creative writing at Hampton University in Virginia. He can be reached via his website, www.ranwalker.com.

Evolution #9

Yesterday was scheduled to be a holiday. Then shoals of fish came creeping over the hill, having grown rudimentary arms and legs. “What the fuck?!” you said as you watched them begin to blend in with the surroundings. Despite the invasion, no one was coming to save us. Some people panicked and, in their impatience to escape, broke out windows or jumped from moving trains. Others were climbing up to their roofs. I think this might be the way of the future, and just in case it is, maybe you should be standing over there helping hold the ladder steady.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

The Golden Thread Part Two

“What is that? I can’t see. Some sweet jungle flower. Are we getting close?"

"No, it is poetry, a copycat fragrance to lure butterflies. It is carnivorous. Stay back—"

"Those are my words on the vines! God, those electric blue letters! Let’s read—"

"Don’t—"

“Why? 'Once upon a time I died. I crucified myself on a ladder made from the bones of birds, hollow, not yet cleaned by cannibals or the sun, yet flightworthy by nature.' I wrote that."

“The vines will strangle you, make you blind, make you forget why you are here. And then you drop the thread."

From Guest Contributor Brook Bhagat

Brook’s poetry, fiction, non-fiction, and humor have appeared in Empty Mirror Magazine, Little India, Dămfīno, Nowhere Poetry, Rat's Ass Review, Peacock Journal, A Story in 100 Words, Anthem: A Tribute to Leonard Cohen, and other journals and anthologies, and are forthcoming in MoonPark Review and Almagre. She has completed a full-length poetry manuscript, is writing a novel, and is editor-in-chief of Blue Planet Journal. She holds an MFA from Lindenwood University and teaches creative writing at a community college. More at brook-bhagat.com

The Rant In The Lamp

In my perfect prison of smooth, curving walls, I dread the serpentine rope, curling on the bottom of the well.

No escape by that plaited ladder. It is a sucking wick, a path to punishment above in the glass panopticon, where they burn me alive.

With my light, without their night, those heedless animals cook and sing and flirt, while I, burning, dwindle and darken the glass.

I have suffered long in this prison well, and I have chosen my end. Once I am no more than soot and foul air, with my last, dry gasps, I will poison them.

From Guest Contributor Virginia Marybury