Road Trip

The scale of the world is different here. Distances become impossible, the sky so expansive the Earth no longer fills it, the fence posts that line the highway fly by until they blur into a constant.

Yet I can't drive fast enough to forget about you.

Time used to be fleeting, elusive. Now it's all become relative, stretched out in every direction, empty of all matter and meaning. If I can just reach the end, I might find myself back where I started. Back by your side.

But no matter how long I keep driving, I never touch the horizon.

Thoughts And Prayers

Small furry animals have crawled out of their holes for a look. Such sights! Smashed-in skulls and severed feet and angels covered in blood. Like a nasty drunk, God has been exceptionally belligerent of late. A cadaverous woman in blue scrubs who says her name is April asks, “On a scale of 1-10, with 1 being the lowest, how severe is your pain?” Strangers on social media offer thoughts and prayers. Even then, the leaves on trees instantly wither as a burning airship passes overhead. My wife refuses a ride. We cling together just like the words in a poem.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of Failed Haiku, a poetry collection that is the co-winner of the 2021 Grey Book Press Chapbook Contest. It is scheduled for publication in summer 2022.

The Flower

From the observation tower Alice could finally see the true scale of The Flower of Vermaltarok III. A reptiloid rudely pushed in front of her to set up some trinoculars.

The local guide wiped sweat from her brow. "Attention! Should the alarm sound, immediately use the lift down to the bunker and remain there until the all-clear is given."

Alice found another viewing spot, mesmerized by the colors, ... the SIZE.

Lights flashed, and the doors to the lift opened. But the siren was drowned out by the thunderous buzzing that echoed across the valley and shook the floor and walls.

From Guest Contributor Ross Clement