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..:: CONTENTS ::..
   Volume VIII, Issue I

..:: POETRY ::..


..:: PROSE ::..

..:: ETC ::..
   Contributor's Notes

..:: ARCHIVES ::..
   Volume I, Issue I
   Volume I, Issue II
   Volume II, Issue I
   Volume II, Issue II
   Volume III, Issue I
   Volume III, Issue II
   Volume IV, Issue I
   Volume IV, Issue II
   Volume V, Issue I
   Volume V, Issue II
   Volume VI, Issue I
   Volume VI, Issue II
   Volume VII, Issue I

 
Poetry


The widow and the secret funeral for a wanted corpse
J.D. Mitchell-Lumsden

 

These men's disciplines were sour in the heat. There were too many misalignments not to concern her. She wondered how some of the girls even saw with their loose masks covering their eyes or through all the dust they kicked and rolled up. One must be careful to cull the sense from it.

My sentiments were clean. There are so many words in a newspaper that when you stack them atop each other the numbers are dizzying. These places those men deliberate on are not so. There were intuitions from the future to warn us of ourselves.

The man filed a plastic spoon into a shiv and stabbed the other unsuspecting man in his eye. The plastic stuck into his frontal lobe. One man's conditions changed while the other's did not.

She made her death wishes with theirs. Another man had made his millions. Some had names. I considered them all. The man's concerns were dangerously pointless. My presence at his would-be funeral would have been was it not for my already missing it.

 

 

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