The Death And Life Of The Avant-Garde

When Franz K. was taken off the train in the middle of the night, he came to on a street of futuristic glass towers that, from an architectural perspective, were already passé. “What are those buildings?” he asked his keeper, a tall, thin, priestly figure who emanated an aura of gentle authority. “You’ll find out,” the keeper said, smiling. He never did. By the time the sun rose, he was tied to a post, watching in terror the firing squad assemble. It was sort of like avant-garde cinema where a series of incidents doesn’t necessarily add up to a plot.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie Good is the author of more than a dozen poetry collections, including most recently Gunmetal Sky (Thirty West Publishing) and The Bad News First (Kung Fu Treachery Press).

New York Strong

I climb the subway steps into the abundant sunshine. The weather is warm and it’s just another September day. Or so I think…

Paper is floating in the air; the sky darkens and desks tremble. Nearby buildings disappear in clouds of smoke. I watch wide eyed from the fourteenth-floor window across from the World Trade Center. Screams are unbearable and angels fall with a thunderous thump to the ground. My heart pounds and I can’t breathe. I don’t comprehend the horror; the fire, blackness, death.

The towers collapse, but eighteen years later we're strong for the victims and their families.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Innocence Lost

Robyn watched the memorial for an hour before shutting the television. The numerous innocent casualties grieved her. Eighteen-years-later and September 11th, 2001 remained visible. The screams and falling debris echoed, and the blackened sky that had been full of abundant sunshine before the tragedy, frightened her.

She took a deep breath and poured herself a steaming cup of herbal tea. The warmth soothed her stomach.

Robyn had left her 911 operator job that very evening. The towers collapsing had brought her over the edge and the voices of people pleading for help still haunted her.

Tears formed and tea spilled.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Bachelor Keep

Roger surveyed his creation. It truly was the greatest castle the world had ever known, with impregnable walls and towers on a scale that previous ages would have found miraculous. And unlike the architects of the past, who built at the command of their liege, and using his resources, Roger had built his castle on his own.

The location was perfect too, in a remote landscape that lone travelers found hard to navigate, not to mention an army. He had not seen a single visitor during its construction.

Now, all Roger had to do was wait for someone to attack.

The Castle

The castle has stood at the top of the hill for one thousand generations. Legend says that it has never fallen to enemy attack. Certainly, it never will.

The walls, seven men tall at its lowest point, thicker than two elephants nose to tail, seem to grow out of the Earth itself. The towers loom above the ramparts, from which you can survey the entire valley. The moat stretches three horse lengths across. A stone facade forever impregnable.

The villagers to the south look up and whisper a prayer every morning. Please protect us from the ghosts of empires past.