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 Snake Tree

The forest saw it all. Less than a moon turn she lasted.

Wrapped in a shroud, he planted her in the leafy earth under the shade of birch and pine. Worms and beetles took her to the forest, bit by bit.

She called to him from the snake tree, and he rushed to her while the moon shone across the water. They lay on sheets of green. Her embrace was stronger than death. Beetles and worms took him bit by bit. The rustle of leaves and the sighing of wind.

The forest saw it all and the forest was pleased.

From Guest Contributor David Rae

David lives in Scotland. He loves stories that exist just below the surface of things, like deep water.He has most recently had work published or forthcoming in; THE FLATBUSH REVIEW, THE HORROR TREE, LOCUST, ROSETTA MALEFICARIUM, SHORT TALE 100, and 50 WORD STORIES. You can read more at Davidrae-stories.com