On the Eve of the Eve of the End | Josh Murray

Hushed whispers,

a quiet frantic

on this blackest night of nights.

Cold madness,

a blanket for all

Lingering thru the streets,

devouring minds

Mad disciples as witnesses,

a new coming

The final bell of doom


Josh Murray is a writer, blogger, and former news reporter. Educated as a journalist, Josh worked as a political reporter in college and as a producer for KFVS-TV thereafter.  He is a husband and a father to three sons.

Mirrored Madness: The Monster in Me

@jdm62790

Confusing Confetti | Frank Hubeny

The puzzle looked like confused confetti so I jumped right in to set things straight. No piece was totally benighted because each had a right side though some of them displayed their wrong sides up. I was grateful for those few that had edges.

With all pieces properly placed (except for those the dog ate) the puzzle displayed an image of white puzzle pieces scattered on a dark table waiting for someone to jump in and straighten them out.

And that’s all there is to this confused tale. I’m still wondering why I jumped into that mess of confetti.


Frank Hubeny has poetry published in Snakeskin and The Lyric. He regularly posts poetry, prose and photography to https://frankhubeny.blog

Detour on the Merry-Go-Round | Frank Hubeny

That detour Brian didn’t have to take took decades. When troubles knocked some sense into him, he lacked the sense to ride those blessings home. Sliding on curses he went where no one needed to go.

When Brian found his way home he told us, “If I knew how easy it would be to jump off that merry-go-round I’d have done it long ago.” Regretting the waste of life, he added, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

We were so glad to see him none of us saw any need to remind him just how often we had told him.


Frank Hubeny has poetry published in Snakeskin and The Lyric. He regularly posts poetry, prose and photography to https://frankhubeny.blog

Mother’s Last Melon | K Hartless

“Slice it, Canto,” the knife jiggled over the melon, an imperfect oval similar to his sister’s youthful face. Illuminated by one candle, the wobbly white rind acquired a cherubic aura.

“Say something first?” Canto felt the weight of the birch-wood ukelele shift against his back. This was, after all, mother’s last melon; she hadn’t survived February’s frost.

The knife split the rind to reveal matching halves of terracotta-colored flesh. Beneath nibbles and sniffles, black diamond tiles stretched; Antibes white marble arched overhead. Readying their instruments, the twins materialized mid-stage, the Sacred Music Festival about to begin, their dirge the opener.


 K.Hartless is a persistent poet and eclectic fiction writer who enjoys penning fantasy, science-fiction, and horror while traveling the world. She’s recently been published in Luna Station Quarterly and Last Girl’s Club. Check out her Yardsale of Thoughts at khartless.com or follow her haiku habit on Twitter @hartless_k.

Political Pondering on Privilege | Peter Matthews

Is he cute, is he clever, is he good or is he bad

Is he fortunate in having all the health and wealth he had

Is he ever really thankful is he ever really glad

Or does he just accept it as his right

.

Does he not appreciate good fortune all the while

Does he think he should receive a constant fawning smile

Does he take advantage with a thoughtless scheming guile

Or does he just accept it as his right

.

I think it best that others should….decide if he is bad or good!

He doesn’t care for others so….I think he really has to go!


Peter Matthews, a country boy at heart, lives with his wife in the suburbs of Nottingham, England.  His greatest achievement is that he has aged fairly gracefully but has avoided growing up.  Peter has written poetry from the age of sixteen and blogs regularly at www.pollymermaid.wordpress.com

Ever Simmering Fluid | Frank Hubeny

The heretic hunters smirked as the paralyzed man was slowly lowered through the roof to the Master’s feet. Their ever simmering fluid of righteousness popped its cork when they heard the Master declare, “Your sins are forgiven.”

Some thought, “Just who does he think he is?” They argued that only the demon possessed would say stuff like that.

The Master waited for the heretic hunters to catch their breaths. The paralyzed man waited also since he couldn’t do much of anything until he first heard words, spoken with the proper authority, like, “Arise, pick up your bed, and walk.”


Frank Hubeny has poetry published in Snakeskin and The Lyric. He regularly posts poetry, prose and photography to https://frankhubeny.blog