Sentinels

With the heavens above, eyes perceive blackness below. The silhouettes of lonesome silos dotting a barren landscape gives way to perceptions of ancient obsidian obelisks, sentinels erected by the offspring of some long-forgotten civilization, sating deities of seasons past.

Against a moonless night, one can appreciate the unencumbered band of the Milky Way, glorious gold and white light from hundreds of thousands of stars, blues, oranges and reds, sparkling beacons of potentialities adorning the night sky.

I repose beneath a blanket of starlight, and the encircling melody of coywolves lulls me to sleep as I long for dreams of you.

From Guest Contributor J. Iner Souster

Night

Floodlights dancing over the facade of D.C.'s skyline, lurid swirls of white illuminating lifeless constructs. Helicopters flitting, sound of thwift-thwift, fiery arcs followed by rifle's boom. Jamie clasped his fingers between chain link and watched. Behind him, scattered over a lightless tract of dirt, the naked dying, bleeding from eyes, cries of pain a muted keening of metal. Above: C.D.C. in masks and Hazmat suits, brandishing assault weapons. Washington was long dark—indeed, the entire country. Jamie gazed upwards. The milky way had manifested like fever dream, ephemeral and monolithic, a terrible Prince awaiting its prize's return to benign jungle.

From Guest Contributor John Webb

This is a repost of a story from 2014 that accidentally got deleted.