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,

To Her

The forest had darkened with overgrown conifers. At a fork the man made a guess taking the less trodden trail.

Raucous ravens accompanied his steps. When he encountered a dead end without seeing the landmark he sought to see, he realized his mistake.

Back at the fork sadness overwhelmed his senses. He no longer was motivated to continue the walk and returned to his car.

He raised a bottle of water to her memory, vowing to try again. He’ll find that bench. The place of memories. Where he took restful breaks and she, his retriever, would wait at his feet.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction.