“Harlequin”

B.Dani West

I spend my free time
ducked in four mastheads of plaster,
looking at the wooden canoe on my dresser—

floating, stagnant

in a layered stream of opaque paint,
upon the weed deposit of a sock-gargling dresser.

There are 108 lotus seeds, a heart-shaped rock, prayer beads,
a pendant—an invention of imagination.
Someone’s face I’ve never seen before,
making gestures I am unsure of;
someone named God is laughing at His pen-tip—

suddenly I’m feeling woozy in the middle of Paris—

            Please God, don’t murder my lover.

                        But Brittany, it would make such a great story.

You’ve done enough:
there is nothing left for Lent, nor bread.
The skin sags with the tethers of time,
twirled in jasmine as the hair once was,
tempestuous and has-been as the heir once was.

You could’ve replaced the beads with a pendulum,
taken a trip to Morocco to swill grapefruit mojitos under an umbrella—
Instead, you’ve stayed,
pen-tapping,

your face stuck in everything.

“He Blinks Twice”

Ben Sloan 

Down the aisle he sees great round

cauliflower heads of smoke that reach

the last rows just as they begin to twist

to the right like a roller coaster, then back to the left,

nausea clouding everything except the clear black

thought that the plane is now in a state of free fall.

Watching the press conference on CNN, she falls

in slow motion to the airport floor, perfect round

trombone notes forming in her throat, black

hair over her eyes, the camera reaching

down so we can get an up-close look at what is left

of her, a broken doll in a heap, arms and legs twisted.

Looking straight into the camera, the reporter twists

and points out the doll where it has fallen,

one of the few recognizable objects left,

it and the nearby engine, its round

fish mouth and gills prominent in a debris field reaching

up a hillside, everything scorched, sheared off and black.

Approaching the podium, three men dressed in black

carefully step over a twisted

bundle of wires that reach

up to the bouquet of microphones. Silence falls

over the room as the journalists scribble, their round

faces grim at the news that no living person is left.

Wearing a white shirt with wings pinned to his left

pocket, he imagines his voice being heard on the black

box recorder. The precise and carefully rounded

jargon will be his only afterlife amongst the twisted

wreckage. He has work to do, so falls

deeper into his routine, but knows that hope is out of reach.

As the man in 39E reaches

for his plastic cup to drink the one swallow of wine left

in the bottom, his eyes move to the window where they fall

upon an unusual sight: a black

trail forming behind the engine. He blinks twice then twists

to face the aisle, hoping to order more wine, one final round.

But no one reaches down to help her. They see the black

mascara streaks left on her face, clothes and hair twisted

into knots. Seeing her fall, the gawkers race to gather ‘round.

“Blood Pacts”

Beatriz Fernandez

We all make them, bargains most obscene—

for our time in the sun, our essence trade.

And why question the price if we glean

riches, fame, beauty that never fades,

and move among the creatures of the night

as one of them? To know youth without end,

to surface like angels deprived of flight—

how far would we go to make time our friend?

While life flows true, let the last words rip

from your wounds—for what awaits, alusts,

thirsts for fresh blood, smacks its inhuman lips.

Mawing god, demon or succubus

will follow your scent, pick up your track.

What it once gave you, it now wants back.