Nostalgia
Prose Poetry by Verian Thomas
by Verian Thomas
The Ghost Woman
I miss the momentary apparition of her that drifted through walls and
into my life, only to disappear with the sun. The shadow of her still
remains, cast across memories that are painful and beautiful in equal
measure, fluctuating heart monitor steady from hollow to overflowing.
Trying to talk to her now by electronic ouija board, cobwebs heading for
the ceiling in search of a connection, as time, the surgeon of lost
love, has begun to sew the wound that I don't want to heal. I want to be
left with more of her than just a scar that itches as it heals then
fades. I want to be connected, to feel a power surge that lights the
desolate landscape within the wound. Flick the switch, turn the key and
see a world inside without humanity. Feather touched objects collapse
into dust, setting off chain reactions where whole organs disappear into
impenetrable clouds, settling to reveal that all that remains is
artificial. Refusing to die, waiting for a new surgeon to scalpel them
with new purpose. The only things left are plastic, a giant scrapheap of
empty emotions waiting for the ghost woman to drift home, waiting for
the ghost woman to fill them up, waiting for the ghost woman to drink. Read more.
Under Moonlight
by Joan Handrich
I could get there by walking out the gate behind my house. I never went in the summer-time but in the winter, after a few weeks of snow storms, when dusk was coming and the winter air was still and the stars were close and sharp I walked on the toes of my white leather ice skates to keep from falling on the bumpy wind scorched frozen path until I reached the smooth blue-black stream, threw my arms forward and let myself go. I passed under trees topped by inches of sparkling snow. Icicles hung from elbows of oaks. I could glide there alone following the meanders of the stream and if I was really, really lucky, there would be a big full moon. Read more.
Way Back When
Pam let out a wistful sigh as she turned the page in the photo album she was leafing through. Looking at old family photos had become an almost-masochistic activity for her lately. She had spent countless hours poring over pictures of herself when she was young and hopeful and didn't owe her lustrous chestnut hair to a bottle, of Chris when he was energetic and athletic, before he worked fifteen-hour days and came home so exhausted that he had only enough energy left to eat and go to bed. And most of all, of Amanda. The gap-toothed, bright-eyed pre-schooler in ten-year-old pictures bore little resemblance to the sullen, smart-mouthed teenager who was currently sulking (did she do anything else these days?) behind the bedroom door she'd just slammed so hard it had shaken the windows. Read more.
Wooden Spoon
The week was not going well for Meg, a point driven home by a little breakdown inspired by the simple act of baking cookies. Somehow she had found herself huddled up on the couch, eating cookie dough with half-mixed in flour after chucking a broken wooden spoon straight out the window. Read more.
Orange-blossom-ashes
by A. R. Menne
It was that time of Spring when hares go mad with sexing and violet-stemmed trees explode in a confusion of pink petals, petticoats, ruffles of pistils and downy yellow nectarine powder. It was the time of year when Sariane picked cabbage from her garden, brewed orange blossom water in a top pot, and plucked fresh eggs from the loins of her prize hen every odd-numbered day. Read more.