Hours, Later

I’m thinking of them, those soft-lipped women, sitting side by side like litter-mates. They yawn simultaneously, then settle their curly-haired heads against each other; closing their eyes for just a moment. The smell of vanilla lotion is thick in the air, and smooth as honeyed kisses. Nothing is wasted; yet, their story is full of unanswered questions. A string of pearl-sized love bites ring their necks, making it hard to disguise the plum-colored bruises on their golden skins that glow above the soft folds of sundresses. Do they ever sleep? These pure and chaste women who lean on each other.

From Guest Contributor M.J.Iuppa

M.J.’s forthcoming fifth full length poetry collection The Weight of Air from Kelsay Books and a chapbook of 24 100-word stories, Rock. Paper. Scissors. from Foothills Publishing, in 2022. For the past 33 years, she has lived on a small farm near the shores of Lake Ontario. Check out her blog: mjiuppa.blogspot.com for her musings on writing, sustainability & life’s stew.

The Taxidermist

He stuffed his victims, then mounted them on his wall. That's why they referred to him as the Taxidermist. His arrest, and subsequent conviction, was thought to be the end. No juror would've signed off on an insanity plea. He was locked away and, by the time his appeals were exhausted and he finally met his fate, the story had become more legend than reality.

But he was more than just a serial killer. He wasn't just preserving their skins, but also their souls. Now, with his death, those souls have been released. May God have mercy on us all.