Plans For Departure

This feels like the worst place one could possibly be – insurrectionists on the front steps, an unkindness of ravens in the yard, a side door that requires a sign explaining how to open it. I’m leaving for. . . I don’t know where. Maybe somewhere bombs would only ever kill the bomb makers. You can come if you wish. I can’t promise there’ll be roads and buildings made of spider silk or that lakes will gently bubble to the dreams of sleeping fish, but light will reach us even a million years after the source of light has gone out.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collection, Gunmetal Sky, is due in February from Thirty West Publishing,

Peter And The Whale

Everywhere Peter went, the whale was lurking. It wasn't just the ocean he must avoid, but lakes and rivers as well, any body of water large enough for the whale.

Some days, Peter would stare out his window at the pond across the street. Inevitably, the whale would be staring back at him. Peter never understood what he had done to make the whale so angry, but by now he understood that nothing but his own death would quench the leviathan's thirst for vengeance.

For the rest of Peter's life, even drinking a glass of water was fraught with dread.