This music box you gave to me,
the prettiest one I’ve ever seen,
a song to move the birds
from a city
that overlooks the sea. She sang
“Remember when we were married?
Speak of it like dead and buried,”
while I spill revenge on a yellow dress…I swore it an accident.
I pledge my love to you,
I’ll shine like gold when you feel blue.
On a night like this it’s hard
not to howl
at the moon.
Working on a book of poetry, unfortunately. Sample, about Ice&Fire:
Dany Wants Her Dragons Back
When I crossed the Narrow Sea
the septon said a prayer for me.
I just wondered if you’d wait
but you said nothing of it:
“You’re just a boy of ten-and-eight
stealing flowers.” Well, that’s great.
So unloved, I’ll take the black—
you blow the horn that brings me back.
You’re like fire, you’re like ice;
let me take you out to lunch.
Lannister red, the way you blush…
you are the other continent.
The wolves are showing us their stuff,
the dance has made you upset.
These are the knights of summer—
you thought the wolves would be your friends?
I heard yesterday that a poem of mine will be published in an anthology released by Steady Moon Press. In celebration I will share this piece of semi-flash fiction/semi-landscape description called “The Narrow Sea.”
“The Narrow Sea”
Chapin Beach resembled the end of the world—so said Matt Gooding.
The sun-baked beach slanted steeply for a few yards before white sanded molted to a field of barnacle encrusted rocks. Hardly a beach at all. To soldier on seemed foolish, especially barefoot, but a keen eye could trace the flexed arm of sand stretching through the shallows, wound between vast piles of rock, plunging into a tide pool and crawling out the other side like the first trilobite born with legs.
If you persisted along this haphazard path the rocks and crushed molluscs sunk beneath the sand and you could look in any direction but back and see only ocean—it surrounded you, lurking in clean pools, threatening to swallow the sandbars at the slightest suggestion from the moon.
Further out still—where the drowned armor of horseshoe crabs roved like zombies on gentle streams and seabirds congregated around banks of driftwood, where the surf amassed in white wreaths along the shore (a mile from the beach now) and where, above in space, no smart phone satellites hovered—Aleks and Matt pressed their foreheads together and whispered tactics, slapped each other meaningfully on shoulders burned red, then came apart. Read the rest of this entry »
Zach Bissett graduated with a BFA from the RWU Writing Program in 2011, where he served as an editor of fiction for the literary magazine “Roger.” Since then he has published fiction, poetry, entertainment articles, sports journalism, movie reviews and more. Stahr Magazine intends to become a home for writers ... Continue reading →