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Reginald Blisterkunst, Ph.D.
Among the Remembered Saints: My Life and Subsequent Death
Pluto Wars

Greg Chandler
"Bee's Tree"
"Local Folk"
"Roland's Feast"
"Pond Story "

Doug Childers
"The Baptism"

Gene Cox
The Sunset Lounge

Clarke Crutchfield
"The Break-In"
"The Canceled Party"
"The Imaginary Bullet"

Jason DeBoer
"The Execution of the Sun"

Deanna Francis Mason
"The Daguerreian Marvel"

Dennis Must

Charlie Onion
"Love Among the Jellyfish"
Pluto Wars
"Feast of the Manfestation"

Chris Orlet
"Romantic Comedy"

Daniel Rosenblum
"A Full Donkey"

Deanna Frances Mason
"The Daguerreian Marvel"

Andrew L. Wilson
"Fat Cake and Double Talk"


Sad Vespers
Christopher Voigt

Here we are, my child. Free up the mind after the breezes of evening

have stopped wafting through our mutual window. Down below, the cars

on the thoroughfare signal with horns. My treasure. How do you sit so

still? Can you not see my eyes watering as I think of a lost garden and time?


But perhaps you will return to the convent, so I can stop being sad. You will

leave the morning commuters to rejoin Pan in the weavings of trees and leaves.

Say an occasional prayer if you've the time. A train from Bordeaux will arrive

shortly and on it the friend who will replace you. He will sing a bright little


ditty when he sees me standing in my traditional place on the quai. Train from

the southward, yes. The black figure will descend and announce the end of time,

lips will be a shade of red. The last time the mountains descended, a baptism had

taken place. They thought time would be redeemed. Boy, will they have a big


surprise! Ladies with black veils and red shoes will take to their beds. Maids will

have to chip in for the afternoon. Of course, they will be rewarded accordingly

with fresh toffees and new corset laces. But again, I shift out of time into some-

thing new. Always something new while innovation promises to provide the


fastest replacement. The problem lies in what to call it. Cows return

to their barn. Kittens space each other out on the way to the nipple. My son

will tread the hot beam of the sun on the way to the blazing hay pile. What,

ultimately, we make is a witch-headed women on the summit at sundown.



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