Brian D. Morrison

Frankenstein’s creature tried sincerely to be
machine but could be only problem. He wind-
milled his arms tilling dirt, rocks and clumps
flying. Seed from his hands fell perforce.

The creature sliced an ancient septic tank.
A repugnant blob from the gush, he ran,
a nightmare dripping into town. A warning
like any relic sprung to breath and panic,

he was fear become reality. A storm swept in,
lightning snagged his bolts, and his hulk
arms flailed. He was a marionette from hell,
howling, and the townspeople came at him;

clubs and knives, mace and gunfire —
one woman threw a pumpkin at his face.
He took it, all of it, because he was trying to
remove lichen from rock, rage from knowledge

he couldn’t break. And his wheat, his dream,
miles of life, gone because he was now a known,
no longer the silent enigma at the back
stretch of the county where no one dared

plant. A freakish reek in grunts and ragged hitches,
he ran back to his field, fast and so alone.
He buried himself piece by piece between
the rows: An arm here, a leg there, his

heart and head together. Time carries the farm
over him. He sleeps in pieces, hopes for firm
ending of shivers at oddity, the black in the world
that compels a person to break what doesn’t.

Brian D. Morrison completed his MFA at the University of Alabama, where he was an assistant editor at Black Warrior Review. His poetry has appeared at West Branch, The Bitter Oleander, Verse Daily, Copper Nickel, Cave Wall, and other journals. Currently, he works as an Assistant Professor of English at Ball State University.

Anton Rose

She deals in alchemy,
elbows drawing the slice of a knife,
parting meat from sinew and bone,
butchered death becoming new life
in her hands.

She finds instructions, tested
guides for culinary spells, becomes
a pyromancer with kitchen blowtorch,
eyes of light, flambéed mussel shells
in wine.

And then she brings cheesecake
on ceramic plates with ceremonial blade,
a perfect construction, mystical circle,
biscuit foundation and made
by the goddess herself.

Anton lives in Durham, U.K. He writes fiction and poetry while working on a PhD in Theology, all fueled by numerous cups of tea. Find him at antonrose.com or @antonjrose.

Jessica Wiseman Lawrence

Sand is more than time
or walks parallel to oceans, or sunsets.

I won’t make this poem about sinking
or drawing in wet sand with one finger.

Sand is speckled in her hair, on her scalp.
Sand is pouring out of her sneakers onto the bathroom floor.

I found a grain of it a week later beneath my fingernail,
and a surprise wealth of sand between my sheets.

I’ll never forget the sand in my mouth. I bite down,
and remember that it is not a fragile thing, at all.

JESSICA WISEMAN LAWRENCE is a graduate of Longwood University. You can find her recent work in Silver Birch Press, Zoomoozophone Review, and Third Wednesday, among others. She lives in rural central Virginia, where she is an office manager by day.