An abscess on the town’s reputation–an isolated cinderblock bungalow smothered in greenbrier where the tumultuous and ceaseless tears of unnamed kids pound indoors through cracked tile and broken windows to rock to eternal rest their souls’ residue of half-grown bone.
Ms. Time wrought with dryer lint and snail slime a golem hippopotamus with olivine eyes to wash her aprons and brush her hats. On visiting the city and incensed by the papier-mache elephants and origami cranes delivering for Amazon she backpedaled her broom a millennium.
Deemed inaccessible but for puffins and guillemots, the fissure gapes wide during a seismic shift. The zawn was a grave for extinct sea wizards given to such elegant desiccation their salt-dust bones predict the exact hour of the final flood.
On the stereoscope of indifferent fortune / A slideshow of our futility.
We remember him in his glory: rapier wit, persuasive oratory, and juggler of fragile intergalactic relics. That Martian mummy rendered a cloud of dust. We don’t see presidential performers of his like these days. Since the Martian invasion, we don’t see anything.
The ubiquity of youth’s arrogance inspired the baby planets to revolt. They shrugged off the old god’s enslaving orbits and raised sail to the cosmic winds. Lawless chaos blew some into eccentric new galaxies and dispatched the unlucky into black holes.
After the cataclysm, the fabulist of happy-ever-after arrives each spring in the tiny hamlet. In a sylvan glade, she spins yarns on love’s secret pleasures to our young until laughter overwhelms the gravity and flushed coyness, and their carnal embraces promise increase to our declining numbers.
Relentless wind buffets a free intelligence scouting in advance of the invading army. It needs heft like the xyloid beings resisting the onslaught and sails a current to a giant redwood. It infiltrates the vascular tissue and barks: Walk! Centuries-old roots rip through the soil.
We remember him in his glory–rapier wit, persuasive oratory, and juggler of fragile intergalactic relics. That Martian Mummy! A cloud of dust. We don’t see presidential performers of his ilk these days. Since the Martian invasion, we don’t see anything.
She leans on the kerfed end of an enormous felled walnut tree stripped victim of loggers and growing hunger for new homes after the wildfires. Nothing lasts–entropy rules. Only the basking salamander at her shoulder will be reborn when the world burns. (Vulnerable.)
In those days, revenge was limited to retaliation in the space of the malefactor’s or her blood kin’s lifetimes. So the slaughter of the clan’s work dragon–without which no one survived for long on the Kuiper Belt–was taken for genocide and its retribution swift and condign.
Campfires surge into flame beyond the city wall and watchers in the turrets trigger the cacophonous alarms. Presently, there’s a rush of defensive activity but it’s too late. The wind blows hard for the city and cyborgs always attack from the air on their dread steeds of smoke.
Gloomy days when the forest on the edge of time wears no fine leaf or bud and silence is stuck to the resinous wounds of maples, lost souls filter into the sweet sticky baskets of hand-fasted twigs, and the sylvan fogs disperse in the risen sun. (Pic.)
Hexed and alone, she went away from her village drawing behind her a vermillion sky she’d inked with her clansmen’s blood. She requested aid from a tribe of were-women who clamored to dye themselves in her color and punish her persecutors with tooth and claw.</p>
Paws of witches’ familiars left shadowy scars on the alley cobblestones, a tense script of satanic deeds in this marketplace of cruel spells and noxious potions. The crumbling walls resist their monumentality and now beg grace to bury what was done.