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Latest Fiction
Guilt. A no-brainer—it's the sexiest 
thing in the world. I'd feel not just my own, but
yours, like a vice in my pelvic region, 
urging me on.

We go to Momma's room to wake her up,
but we can't find her. Her clothes are in her
bed under the blankets...
 

Poem of the Fortnight

May The Saints Preserve
                                  the electorate
by Kevin Heaton

Behold the fatted sheep,unshorn
fed on forbs
and
bulgar wheat
who sport a sullied, woven fleece
led by rams down coffin planks
willing
gleeful,
bleating,
sheared,
abattoir stunned, and gutted,
butcher-boned
sweetened
salt preserved,
mutton chopped
and
rendered. 


Listed at Duotrope's Digest


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