When the Earth Broke

July 26, 2023July 19, 2023 ~ Nina D'Arcangela ~ 5 Comments

When the meteor hit, panic ensued. Coastal regions were swallowed by the seas, volcanoes erupted, the deserts cracked. The constant grainy mist that filled the air made breathing difficult for those unlucky enough to survive. Life wasn’t life anymore, it had become something else, something different. Once the pyroclastic dust settled and the oceans learned their new tides, civilization began anew. The world was no longer a blue marble with green pastures and white clouds; our new spectrum consisted of dingier, more sedate hues. The air took on an amber haze, the sky never as bright as it once was again. All water was now a sickly green, and crops, the few that remained, ripened to a less than appealing umber. People learned to live in trees with dense foliage. They built cities of wood that spanned the rainforests that overtook the planet with a fierce vengeance. Horses, cattle, pigs; most livestock faded from memory, seen now only in books. But humanity has a way.

Soon, we began to co-exist with and utilize what nature allowed. We befriended spiders that spun webs of safety below where we slept in exchange for small offerings – mostly females that couldn’t bear children, or men too weak to carry. We employed ants the size of creatures once known as bulls to till the meager fields and carry the food that still grew. Perhaps our greatest achievement, taming the flies that once annoyed. We saddled them, rode them to and fro. And for those fortunate enough to bond with a dragon, the ride that much sweeter. Their carnivorous nature allowed for a small portion of protein when one of their legion fell. The dragons, you see, were kind and giving, as long as man did not try to take.

∼ Nina D’Arcangela

Once Upon a Time with the Dead

July 19, 2023June 29, 2023 ~ Charles Gramlich ~ 6 Comments

Alkali dust under the white blaze of a Mexican sun.
Riders are coming. To a village standing idle on a ghostly quiet day. Or so at first it seems.

Then, from the bell tower of the adobe church a lone guitar chord rings out. Quick fingers pluck a haunting tune. From one blank window comes a wink of silver. From another a click-click snap. Men are waiting: good, honest men who are aware only that an old hatred is sweeping across their land.

The riders drift into the village square, long gray coats flapping in the dry wind that moves the dust. There are five of them. Known men. Wanted men who covet what doesn’t belong to them. Men with strange, dangerous names like Doc, Clay, Jesse, Ringo, Sundance. Their eyes are black, colder than the single-action Colts at their hips. The leader is Jesse. He dismounts, spurs chinking on the paving stones that mark the square.

Jesse’s movements are a signal. The guitar clashes, strings shredding with sound. From the windows of the town rifles speak smoke, and the rolling crack of gunfire hammers the brilliant sunshine. Bullets tug at gray dusters. A horse drops, and another, their riders leaping free, hands diving for pistols, coming up belching fire.

Jesse takes a shotgun slug to the chest, a .44 round through his shoulder. But his own guns are banging. Splinters and glass fly from the building above him. A man tumbles through a broken window, crashes through fleeing pigeons to the street.

The villagers are outmanned. This is not the predictable evil they had expected. Their bullets tear holes in flesh and tattered gray, but it is only the defenders who fall, until they all lie crimson and still against a canvas of light and stark shadow.

But the gray riders? They do not bleed. They will not lie down. Though dirt has been their friend before.

∼ Charles Gramlich

Open Doors

July 12, 2023June 19, 2023 ~ TheDamned ~ 3 Comments

In the centre of my back I feel the pressure of something start to grow, like a hand sending me one way and not another. My skin has started to peel back, and white feathers peek out. I see them in the mirror, feel the stubble of the new ones when I lie down. I try not to toss and turn in case I disturb my feathers.

My wings are growing every day. As spring is approaching, I stare out of the window, willing for birdsong, for greenery, for the sun, to hear the rustle of my fully-grown wings. There is an ache in my bones when I see the sky: a calling, a compass growing on my back, wanting to take me home. I worry my heart fluttering inside my ribcage is too heavy for my wings to carry me, so I try to think about beautiful things like butterflies and birdsong, and sunny parks, and the swell of the sea.

Open windows.

Open doors.

When my wings are fully grown, I’ll wrap them around me to keep me warm; they’ll shield me, so all I will see is white light and purity.

In the nest of my single bed, I dream of my new body making friends with the air, the sky, stroking it with the beat of my wings. I glimpse myself flying between the trees, touching the tips of canopies, my white plumage trailing and pure in the dappled light.

In the half-light of the early morning, though, I see only my thin shoulder blades casting shadows onto the wall. In the mirror, I see that my face has grown fierce and hard. There is no rustle of feathers or beat of wings. Ashes from my lost years and lost loved ones scatter around me; they keep settling. One day, I will be buried under them.

The pencil, a quill, a feather, a weapon. Only my pen writes compassion. Who or what will save me?

~ Louise Worthington