Semaphore-Jimmi Campkin

We build sandcastles just to destroy the pure, wet sand, dreaming of pineapples, messages in bottles and California.  Suntanned toes and blue lipstick, red dyed hair that runs in the rain and streaks your shoulderblades with plastic blood.  Lights twinkle over the harbour like your teeth in the sunlight.  You attract men, flies and trouble, and all three irritate you and spoil your fun.  You ask me, why can’t we burn down the local chapel on a Sunday morning?  And it isn’t rhetorical.  Hell hath no fury like an ex-Catholic.

Later that day, we conquer the sea.  You remove your red panties and pierce them with a shank of driftwood, plunging it into the oncoming tide in the name of Us… and what a concept that seems to me sometimes.  There is no Us, just You, hurtling around the Earth like a cannonball in the Hadron Collider, which you call the HardOn Collider whilst squeezing the blood out of my stiff cock, leaving it sore and limp like a dead chicken.

Today the sea is a flat plane of blue glass, and in the quiet the echoes are louder.  Clouds rumble overhead, keeping watch but never staying long enough to enforce justice.  I’m lying on my back as you fondle my balls with one hand and grip my neck with the other, asking me over and over again why I keep breathing.  It’s boring, apparently.  Breathing is boring.  I should just stop doing it.  My friends say you aren’t healthy for me.  But one by one they are going out, like Christmas tree lights, and soon it will just be Us again… or maybe just You, rubbing powdered glass into the slice you made in my arm with a fish-gutting knife, because…. well, just because.

 

Born in November 1983, I have been writing in some form or another for most of my life, but I began to take it seriously as a career around 2003/2004.  Since then I have produced a novel, a novella and a series of short stories some of which are loosely linked into an overarching anthology.
Most of my stories come under the wide umbrella of ‘general fiction’, but I have experimented with genre pieces.  My short stories tend to be bittersweet, nostalgic, sometimes melancholic and (on occasion) examine the darker side of human nature and obsessions.
I welcome you to my site Jimmi Campkin, and I hope you find something here to please you.  If not, below you’ll find a big picture of me to scream obscenities at.

Widow’s Rock- Allie Nelson

The waters are like a widow’s hair, black and lustrous

with lost foam of tears salted to rime, the ocean weeps

for her husband sky, now blackened with the rot of

night, for it is only when his sun is a coin in the sky

that mourning waters light with warmth, each day

the seas cry for sky’s death, and hang the moon up

as a gravestone resplendent for his yellow eye.


Allie is a rather bubbly blonde that currently attends grad school for science communication, has a rather useless degree in biology, and works in the environmental field. She can usually be found hugging trees, eating green curry with tofu, or exploring the wilds of D.C.. Allie is an avid poet, aspiring author, meme queen, speculative fiction enthusiast, and alien centaur aficionado. She also has about 600 lipsticks.

You can find her at Dances With Tricksters

Slick- Kindra M. Austin

Running on midnight, oil

peels ‘neath my flit feet—

heel to toe, heel to toe; but

toil and tarry with nary a mile made distant.

 

Sluts like me are always found

out, cos spouses see the webs of deceit

weaved with widow-like legs wide open—

not as stupid as we

pretend. Oh!

 

We do pretend our husbands’ best friends, or

brothers-in-law, or bosses all have hearts

appended to their throbbing dicks.

‘And that dick’s heart beats only for me.’

(Swoon!)

 

Slut found out

living in a small town,

sucking on spoils—

I’m gonna fucking die here,

defamed.

I’ve defiled my own name.

 

© Kindra M. Austin


Kindra M. Austin is an indie author (her books can be found here), a founding member of Indie Blu(e), and a writer/managing editor at Sudden Denouement, Blood Into Ink, and Whisper and the Roar. A Sagittarius Valkyrie from the state of Michigan, she likes craft beer, and classic big block muscle cars. You can find her filing through the souls of the slain at poems and paragraphs.

Like a Storm – Sarah Doughty

 

“And I wanted to believe in fate —

I wanted to believe in us.”

 

You said there was no such thing as beginnings and endings. Nothing came into existence or disappeared like a puff of smoke. Matter changed shape, becoming something new — never beginning, never ending. Always changing and evolving. Like ice to water. Water into vapor. Vapor into rain. You said the same thing about us. You and I didn’t become we. Somehow, we always were. I thought it was romantic. That you could think fate brought us together.

And I wanted to believe in fate — I wanted to believe in us. I did. But then everything changed. Just like you said. How could we have been destined — as if we were always one — if we could be pulled apart so soon? Was it some cosmic lesson we both needed to learn? Or was it just you? Playing me for a fool. We were like a storm, you and I. Blowing in from the sea and ravaging the coastline before fizzling out into nothing. It may still be an evolution of change, but if that’s not a beginning and ending, then I don’t know what is.

 

[Sarah Doughty is the tingling wonder-voice behind Heartstring Eulogies. She’s also the author of The Silence Between Moonbeams, her poetry chapbook, and the acclaimed novels and novellas of the Earthen Witch Universe. Good news, they’re all offered for free, right here! To learn more about how awesome Sarah is, check out her website, stalk her on Goodreads, or both.]

A Walk on Good Friday-Lois Linkens

The path’s wet with rain and trodden blossom.

Crushed petals in hot hot pink looked funny

In the downpour. A box of plums, deep red

Were left on a stranger’s garden wall. Odd,

I thought were they forgotten fruit or just

A simple spring gift for the passer-by.

They had not gone bad yet. Either was fine

For a Good Friday walk in the grey rain.

I pondered to take them. But I feared it,

The trembling lip of a child, whose favourite

Plum tart, fresh pastry lined with marzipan

And segments like jewels in their almond bed

Could not be. I could not steal the joy

Those purple fruits would surely soon deploy.

 

[ Lois describes herself as a “confused english student,” though one quickly finds a polished, charming poet in her work. She has an elegant style that compliments her keen insight and whimsical sensibilities. It is a pleasure to present her work, and you can find more of it at Lois E. Linkins.]

Those Days – Jonathan O’Farrell

Her attention wandered from the raised dais, momentarily.

‘So what, give me this moment, life is precious’.

He had come up, a little chilled,

but otherwise mostly un-nibbled by scaly denizens, of the deep drowned land;

and now found himself, sat next to her

back seats, the theatre of life.

During a brief interlude they slipped out,

Perfection, just long enough, out of whatever character currently portrayed.

Stood, still dripping a bit, at the bar she had previously raised

he held not the next shows’ programme, nor blueprint, or deed of ownership.

None, but a mug of steaming cocoa,

cradled, supported by bones

and simple, vulnerable flesh,

but that now warmed and alive.

And at sometime he pulled out an imaginary blank sheet of paper,

kept carefully dry

and unwrapped that idea, from within a fold in his soul.

Thus, the interval minutes turned to hours.

Hours of maybe sitting in the sun, basking in wordless skies.

Or little trips out to look and listen to the land, breathe, a tale or two, of two.

Seemingly, the sun moved

into the awaiting skin of that land.

Apparently it always does that.

Undistracted, during a firefly inspired, yet otherwise unscheduled meditation

he and she must have noted, that,

‘Oh, night – where did that evening go?’

No answer that time, to give,

other than ‘night, sleep well – perfection’.

As a result to this easy sum of planetary rotation

who knows what they plotted

and scrapped happily in a hungry waste basket,

ready, as ever, to receive

the scrunched up brown paper, a new world of map making.

There may have transpired crumbs of toast in a bed, or beds,

a copious number of kettles boiled,

little rocks rearranged, card games.

Wildly predictive texts read with mirth, at their late

and multiple arrival, like buses.

Car washed, paint brushes rinsed.

At times, horrors – a gaggle of unwashed coffee cups,

negotiated  by poised but gently flicking tails.

We can deduce very little my students of life

from what remains;

other than to say, games and fun played a very large part

in these lives.

Hello Miss Dreamer, at the back, yes, ha hum!

Perhaps it may have been inscribed in a journal

by one or other of them at the time,

in those uncounted days.

But the bee waxed birch bark tube

may not have survived well the consequent flood.

So we cannot know, for sure,

but we can piece together a few possibilities and imagine . . .

to our hearts content, the rest . . .

of what their bodies reveal.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Woman- Aurora Phoenix

she wept

and the coliseum

crumbled in the wake

of her long -pent

anguish.

in her tears

she relinquished the burden

\rough-hewn marble headstone\

in the dammed ducts

of all the sisters,

daughters and mothers

who carried on

\dutiful and diligent\

when by all rights

bequeathed by Minerva

hard fought battle earned

they yearned to carry on

\keening and lamenting\

in disharmonious distress.

 

she raged

and Pompeii, lost

no longer, rises

from Vesuvian ashes

in riotous inferno

fueled of righteous

fury.

in her uproar

she releases the ghosts

\literary, literal and liturgical\

who, catlike, stole

tongue and very breath

of women on whose backs

\on their backs\

stripped and striped

cornerstones were planted

when by virtue

of their labors

they should be upright

\ranting and raving\

from birth to birthing

 

unleashed in the tempest

Eden’s serpent

for whose perfidy

she took the fall

\oh! how far she fell\

rises

and they dance

samba with the mamba

celebration of cerebration

until the snake is spent

and woven, powerless

\mainstream Medusa’d\

among her seething locks.


Aurora Phoenix is a wordsmithing oxymoron. Staid suburbanite cloaks a badass warrior wielding weapon grade phrases. Read more of her confabulations at Insights from “Inside.”