The Darkened Room
By Kurt Luchs
The room is made of sighs and gasps
and audible kisses, some of them on lips,
we pull the curtains not to hide from the sun
but to live these few stolen moments
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The room is made of sighs and gasps and audible kisses, some of them on lips, we pull the curtains not to hide from the sun but to live these few stolen moments
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You've Been WarnedBy Kurt Luchs  Long as I had been searching for it,
I was taken unawares by love when it finally came for me, like one struck in the back of the head by a leg from a solid oaken desk. The sensation was not unpleasant, accompanied as it was by shooting stars, comets, bolts of lightning, small musical bluebirds and other signs and omens from the heavens. The Other World TreeBy Desmond White  The tree that grew from the other world was gray and spiderlike. Mary said its apples were black and tasted like chocolate. I wouldn’t know—I wouldn’t touch them, wouldn’t smell them, wouldn’t nibble. You can’t trust apples from the other world. All we knew was the tree grew in three days, and Mary said sometimes its branches moved on a windless afternoon, like a spider twitching a leg.
The Widow Price The Widow Lilith Price worked over the fire, stirring the potash. It was only a milky brown, and it needed to be dark by midday if she was going to get it right for this year’s soap. Her soap was the best in the village. The other wives often asked her how her soap was always hard, it always smelled faintly of flowers, and it never went rancid, even in the worst heat of summer. She did not tell them her secrets; instead she smiled. If they wanted her soap, they could buy it at market. She knew that her refusal to share secrets made her an object of gossip, which bothered her, but she was not going to give up Gran’s secrets.
WordsBy Mario Fenech  Deep underground where there were many plastic and metal sheets that had sections cut out by lasers for various industrial components.
WishesBy Annika Rao  I. Dirt is the crimson spill of Riding Hood’s hood and laughter the hot lupine stink of breath across fleet calves. Brambles catch like whetted teeth on Jane’s sleeves as she tumbles down the rise over the pond, her mouth acrid with the rust of soil, the bitter-crimson of blood flooding the cavern beneath her tongue. The surface of the pond ripples foul and tenebrous, slashed by sunlight like the blade of an axe, like buried treasure beneath. Her reflection is a bleeding sepia smear.
AuroraBy Douglas G. Cala  Touching down on high mountain cliffs,
Despotic alien enemies to your right and to your left, Field of vision crowded behind your Spartan visor, Don’t give in to the bombardment, the onslaught, From My MountainBy Kurt Luchs  Today I climbed a mountain, which was quite a feat
considering that there is no mountain, and if there were I wouldn’t have the strength to climb it. The Warehouse ApartmentBy Rogan Kelly  A cyclopean not-yet-ripe jackfruit dominates the old oak
New EyesBy Don Tassone  Betsy Mitchell heard her doorbell ring. She twitched and sunk lower in the sofa. Could be someone selling candy bars or those Jehovah’s Witnesses, she thought.
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