by James Tate
Every five minutes or so, a police car drove by telling
us not to go out through its bullhorn. I said to Amelia,
“I’m dying to know what’s out there.” She said, “That’s why
they’re doing this, don’t you think?”
by Dustin Beall Smith
Naturally the queen of the tribe sees great significance in this. The Mud People abandon their sacrifice and follow the mysteriously rolling object—a croquet ball as it turns out— through the woods, until it leads them to a well–manicured clearing in which sits a huge colonial mansion. The tribe cautiously enters the mansion, led by its youngest member, a girl. You can see the wonder in the girl’s eyes as she takes in the wide central staircase and the huge chandelier, and you can imagine her thinking, Wow! This is a happening place!
by Albert Goldbarth
We can rig a supernova in a single laptop jiffy.
Ditto werewolf transformation: every feral hair
is given its credible gumption and its little jacket of oil.
As for aliens summoned from out of the holes
in space itself . . . we’re crackerjack on aliens; . . .
by Matt Donovan
Jimmy Forrest, sax man in the bandstand’s back row,
tipped the tenor’s bell, let his spit puddle out, and knew—
just months with Duke Ellington’s band—he would pawn off
this riff as his own. . . .
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