|
 Photo by Robert Linder on Unsplash Making love is not unlike a restful vacation. Somewhere there are church bells, flowers of practical impartiality. Grass cuttings spread like immigrants around the vaguest of garden borders. To sit for how long on this stone bench? Best to time your shadow's defense before airlifting casualness. The shade is only partially ideological simulacrum sunglasses a must. Colin James has a couple of chapbooks of poetry published. Dreams Of The Really Annoying from Writing Knights Press and A Thoroughness Not Deprived of Absurdity from Piski’s Porch Press and a book of poems, Resisting Probability from Sagging Meniscus Press.
0 Comments
 Photo by Kees Kortmulder on Unsplash A bonafide engineering marvel of its time, we knew to take the express line another lover would be less attentive. Frosting like a cake, sweet. I can imagine you making adjustments if still alive, taking up your hair, spitting. At the edge of the crater I adjusted your weight before tossing you in. Caught up on your mother's knee, I briefly considered correcting gravity's spiraling cliches by probing with a tool provided, a very long red metal rake. Only a plethora of smoke prevented this. On my way back to the chalet, I passed several climbing couples laboriously carrying dying relatives. I ignored their sarcastic empathies. Breakfast was later served facing away from the Aegean seas afore mentioned flatness. Colin James has a couple of chapbooks of poetry published. Dreams Of The Really Annoying from Writing Knights Press and A Thoroughness Not Deprived of Absurdity from Piski’s Porch Press and a book of poems, Resisting Probability from Sagging Meniscus Press.
 Photo by National Cancer Institute on Unsplash Every time we meet, you’re patient with me. Gentle, too. And I almost think we might be more until you pull out the DSM-5, flip to the back, thumb through the appendix, locate the Fs. As you run your finger down the page, until you reach F33.41, I again feel like a number. But it’s worse when I check the copies of my PET scans, MRIs. On my brain, there’s more blue and green, less white and yellow. My hippocampus and thalamus are smaller than most. That must mean I’m dumb. To loved ones, some people say, though with insincerity, Were it not for you, I wouldn’t be here. From the progress we’ve made, at least you know I mean it. You’re not the only one, though, to whom I owe my health, life. No, I must thank four others: Fluvoxamine, Clonazepam, Lamictal, Abilify. But there are still days when I still struggle. More than once, I worsened when you adjusted the milligrams. It’s easy to doubt then, question the plan you cobbled together from questionnaires, self-assessments, notes you scrawled in your writing pad. On more than one occasion, I’ve even lost my patience: If you can diagnose me, then treat me. If you can’t treat me, then love me. Originally from San Antonio, Texas, Jonathan Fletcher, a BIPOC writer, currently resides in New York City, where he is pursuing a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in Poetry at Columbia University’s School of the Arts. He has been published in Arts Alive San Antonio, The BeZine, Clips and Pages, Door is a Jar, DoubleSpeak, Flora Fiction, FlowerSong Press, Lone Stars, New Feathers, OneBlackBoyLikeThat Review, riverSedge, Synkroniciti, The Thing Itself, TEJASCOVIDO, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Voices de la Luna, and Waco WordFest. His work has also been featured at the Briscoe Western Art Museum.
 Francisco Pizarro González by Amable-Paul Coutan, Public domain, via Wikimedia Every time I stand at the edge of the Pacific, wiggle my brown toes in white sand, I fear not the undertow. I see neither jellyfish nor sharks unless conquistadors count as sharks. Instead, I spot Pizarro’s caravels. From their gullets emerge hooves, boots. As the other beachgoers plant their colorful, patterned parasols, all I can see is armored, bearded men thrusting the flag of Spain in native sand: the red saltire inside the white ensign teethed like the jaws of a shark. No greed greater than theirs, even the finned man-eaters’. Nearby a group of small children work on an elaborate sandcastle. Though I admire their collaboration, my hands and jaw still tighten, when I picture Spain’s castles, their designs imported to Lima: slated spires, Corinthian columns, niched apostles—each part of the capital’s cathedral, built atop Inti’s shrine. And yet, I cannot help but finger the crucifix on my cross necklace, wondering whether Pizarro ever did the same. All the while, a voice gently whispers to me, As I once forgave humanity, you, too, must forgive. Though I try, it’s hard, seeing boots of brass, each spurred at the back, disembark, meet bare feet they’ll later shackle. Or gloved hands grasp for arms full of gold, silver, emeralds, textiles made of vicuña. Baskets stuffed with huaco. And still demand more. Instead, it’s far easier, feels much better, to picture their ships splintered in waves, slivered cork-oak afloat in the foam. The water turned crimson by shivers of sharks. So, too, the greaves and gorgets, each chewed, sunken, lost. Originally from San Antonio, Texas, Jonathan Fletcher, a BIPOC writer, currently resides in New York City, where he is pursuing a Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing in Poetry at Columbia University’s School of the Arts. He has been published in Arts Alive San Antonio, The BeZine, Clips and Pages, Door is a Jar, DoubleSpeak, Flora Fiction, FlowerSong Press, Lone Stars, New Feathers, OneBlackBoyLikeThat Review, riverSedge, Synkroniciti, The Thing Itself, TEJASCOVIDO, Unlikely Stories Mark V, Voices de la Luna, and Waco WordFest. His work has also been featured at the Briscoe Western Art Museum.
 The science fiction sun grins with a macaw call. Nomad images from a previous incarnation splash a water music on dark brown naked skin. Ancient beads hang from the lobes of leopard skin women. Wild tree tattoos document more than sexual eyes. A down river medicinal magic is carefully carried by a dream wanderer through the upper branches of all night blooming trees. Ritual chants blend into the patchwork and the steaming dusk approaches with caution. R. Gerry Fabian is a poet and novelist. He has published four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts and Ball On The Mound.
Twitter @GerryFabian2 Instagram https://www.instagram.com/gery3397/ Linkedin https://www.linkedin.com/in/gerry-fabian-91353a131/ Facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010099476497 Web Page https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com He lives in Doylestown , PA.  Photo by Stephan Coudassot on Unsplash He wears his scars without any shame. These come from brush, bricks and blades. His left arm bends a crooked forever in memory of a tractor spill. On late Sunday afternoons, his sun slant eyes squint at a screen. He drinks two bottles of ice-cold beer: one during each half of the 4:00 NFL game. Each Sunday, he makes a silent wish that the game will go into overtime so, he can have just one more. R. Gerry Fabian is a poet and novelist. He has published four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts and Ball On The Mound.
Twitter @GerryFabian2 Instagram https://www.instagram.com/gery3397/ Linkedin https://www.linkedin.com/in/gerry-fabian-91353a131/ Facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010099476497 Web Page https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com He lives in Doylestown , PA.  Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash Wednesday is errand day. I find my keys in the rose petal bowl, my wallet is in the carved wooden tray and my blue hat on the door hook. I cannot find my phone. I search, curse and research. Finally, I find it, charging in the powder room. (Who charges a phone in the powder room?) There are two text messages I sent myself with reminders to buy strawberries and Dawn dish soap. I would have forgotten them. As I am backing the car out of the garage, I suddenly turn off the car and hurry back into the house. I’ve forgotten your love and I never go anywhere without it. R. Gerry Fabian is a poet and novelist. He has published four books of his published poems, Parallels, Coming Out Of The Atlantic, Electronic Forecasts and Ball On The Mound.
Twitter @GerryFabian2 Instagram https://www.instagram.com/gery3397/ Linkedin https://www.linkedin.com/in/gerry-fabian-91353a131/ Facebook https://www.facebook.com/profile.php?id=100010099476497 Web Page https://rgerryfabian.wordpress.com He lives in Doylestown , PA.  Photo by Raphael Rychetsky on Unsplash Helots muse about moony Golden Fleece of the condor. Drudges think of the dreamy eternal dew of the hen. Philosophers ponder on winged fantasy of the crow. Kings ruminate on a picturesque gold of the jay. Priests contemplate the dreamed, soft, meek weird of the woodpecker. Masters daydream about nice marvelous songs of the tern. Soothsayers dream of fulfilled gold of the yellowhammer. Knights philosophize about poetic dawn of the wren. Hoplites fantasize about a red sky of the sparrow. Athletes describe the most tender treasure-charm of the snipe. Gods remember an enchanted, dear temple of the seagull. Goddesses recall fairytale-like heroes of the kite. Poets commemorate the elves-like heaven of the owl. Bards reflect on most amazing dreamery of the rook. weird - archaic spell Paweł Markiewicz was born 1983 in Siemiatycze in Poland. He is poet who lives in Bielsk Podlaski and writes tender poems, haiku as well as long poems and flash fiction. Pawel‚ has published his poetries in many magazines. He writes in English and German.
 Photo by Rémi Boudousquié on Unsplash Begin a lifetime ago. Drive down Townsend Road in winter, realtor riffing, SUV swerving past icy spots. Maybe we’d buy a little cabin in the woods. Instead, we gawk at a wooden castle on Walloon Lake. The stone hearth caught our hearts. Turn left at twenty-six years ago. Ari’s 16. He and a pal wildly slide on a sled-run from our front porch to the frozen lake. They hoot, holler-- whoop their way into rosy skin, gelid air-mist, near frostbit fingers, hot chocolate, and a fireplace blaze that would make Gabriel forget his horn. Drive straight ahead a few years. A great blue heron processes across our yard, his arcanum held in silence. A careful pile of shells on our dock—crawdaddy’s sacrifice for the great blue’s numinous meal. Skid off the road at years of winter flu, intestinal obstructions, faintings, and skiing accidents that drove us to the Petoskey ER. Backup into our living room—gaze into the ferocious fire, read Jim Harrison, Dickens, Hemingway, and Jerry Dennis—imagine our former place up north, breathe its belonging. Park in the present where we can only dream the peace we once had, mist rising at dawn, piliated woodpecker in his primitive splendor, kingfisher’s mad dive for bass. Our life-symphony played by placid waves that lapped the shore, a requiem now of memory, but not regret.  Photo by Jeremy Thomas on Unsplash Physicists tell us that we’re made of the same matter as stars and planets. Some philosophers argue that, because we are made of the starry stuff, we behave in the same determined manner as celestial bodies. Wouldn’t it be nice if that were true? All our orbits would be symmetrical, our trajectories aimed only at destinations that were predetermined. Very few random events would plague our lives, and those that did would be easily traced—explanations would be apparent and sensical. Our endings would be as grand as an exploding star—our deaths would blazon the universe like a supernova. We’d become an event horizon that gathers light—our legacy a powerful singularity. |
HalfHourToKill.Com is a literary website publishing authors of Flash Fiction and Short Stories in the genres of Fantasy, Horror and Noir. Feel free to submit your Fiction, Poetry and Non-Fiction work to us year round.
Categories
All
Archives
March 2023
|
RSS Feed