An interesting selection of new poetry for you now from Wesley Gray, Mary Soon Lee, and Herb Kauderer – everything from Imperial China to Doomsday Clocks by way of Charles Darwin!


​23:59:57
by Wesley D. Gray

Tick tock tick tock purrs the Doomsday Clock.
Gears turn, we're about to chime.
Twenty-three fifty-nine – time to shine.

Three seconds to go in this final hour.
Two seconds to live your life.
One second to be forgotten.


* Wesley D. Gray is the author of Come Fly with Death: Poems Inspired by the Artwork of Zdzislaw Beksinski available now. Visit http://WesDGray.com


THE IMPERIAL WAR: ONSET
by Mary Soon Lee

King Xau's declaration of war
sped by pigeon and courier:
a day to signal his border posts,
two days to alert his nearest ally,
three days to notify his enemy.

That enemy, the Emperor Tahj, 
feasting on figs soaked in syrup,
bespoke the beast who shared
his thoughts; the beast bespoke
their aides, spies, puppets.

Before Tahj finished his dessert,
before he licked his fingers
and lounged back on his throne,
his orders made known
across two thousand miles.


* Mary Soon Lee grew up in London, but now lives in Pittsburgh. She won the 2014 Rhysling Award for best long poem for Interregnum.


The Ways of Murphy
by Herb Kauderer
 
Overconfident
he punched a black cat
& threw a horseshoe
through an antique mirror.
 
Then he burst in on the villain
somehow forgetting
as they always do
that Murphy keeps

a falling anvil in reserve.
​

Darwin’s Nightmare
by Herb Kauderer
 
The peacock’s tail
drove Darwin to the edge
of a breakdown because,
like most men,
he did not understand

what attracts women.


* Herb Kauderer is an associate professor of English at Hilbert College and holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Goddard College in Vermont. He is the author of ten books of poetry, most recently The Snowstorm of '14: Poems from the Front Lines. More about his writing can be found at http://HerbKauderer.com

​Two new poems – Failures of the Clown Proscecution Service and My Happiness is Past its Sell By Date – for you now from Ian Hunter. Ian is a children's author, short story writer, poet, editor and occasional book reviewer. He's a member of the Glasgow Science Fiction Writers Circle, a director of the Scottish writers collective Read Raw, and poetry editor of the British Fantasy Society Journal.
http://www.ian-hunter.co.uk/home


FAILURES OF THE CLOWN PROSECUTION SERVICE
by Ian Hunter

It was all over the news
The collapse of the Hooter Heart Attack trial
when the lead witness admitted
all clown make-up 
looked the same to him in the moonlight

Crimewatch tries its best
Have you seen this clown, a policeman asks
Carries a plank and goes by the name of Blumpo

CCTV footage shows a custard pie assault
a plastic flower scooshing
someone getting a bucketful of glitter all over them

Outside, I hear the sound 
of an alarm
from a house, or a shop, or a car
then the slap, slap of giant, oversized shoes
hitting the pavement

Quickly, I draw the blinds
Check the door is locked
Go from room to room with a big stick
Come out, you clown, wherever you are
No jury would convict me


MY HAPPINESS IS PAST ITS SELL BY DATE
by Ian Hunter

Happiness used to be just that
Then they did what they did
with Marathon Bars (now Snickers)
and Opal Fruits (now Starburst)

Happiness became Cheerfulness
Re-named
Re-branded
Re-packaged

Soon it disappeared from the shelves
only available from specialist shops
then not at all
as EC Directives were implemented
concerned about the effects
flavours, colours and additives
might have on
your mind
your heart
your soul

I kept a little bit of happiness
in the freezer
wrapped in cling film
but it was there too long
chipped out of shape
trying to get the polythene off
its flavour gone

​We kick off the New Year with two new pieces of flash fiction: Ascension by Laura Alexandra Hunter and The Gods' Tree by R.J.Jacobs. One story from a New Zealand writer and the other from Namibia however both share an air of magical realism.


Ascension 
by Laura Alexandra Hunter

Monday
Amy could feel the throb of her new tattoo on her thigh. A navy blue pencil skirt covered the anchor adorned with a carmine climbing rose. A light gauze dressing kept it clean and although the pain was continuous, it wasn’t intense.

The meeting was interminable. Something about who was allowed to take the reception flowers home on a Friday. Amy’s mind wandered back to Sunday afternoon. Her jeans lying on the ground. Her legs open, the tattooist, big and hairy, leaning close. His gun beating out a rhythm on her skin.

Wednesday
Before her shower, Amy looked at her body art in the full length bathroom mirror. It seemed different. The edges of the crossbar curled down. She was sure they were straighter before. As per the tattooist’s instructions, she showered in cool water.

Friday
The tattoo started peeling. As the skin flaked away, it revealed an unblemished heart. The roses had disappeared with the remainder of the anchor. She called the tattooist.

“They can fade - if you don’t look after them.”

He was abrupt as if there was another client in his chair waiting to be punctured.

Monday
Three bulldog clips were in a row on her desk - blue, red and yellow. The stationery clerk only bought black ones, but occasionally Amy was able to recover coloured clips from incoming documents and she kept them, even a pink one from an ad agency. But she kept that one right at the back of her drawer so nobody could find it. She hadn’t looked at her thigh for three days.

Tuesday
Amy woke up to find four turquoise spots on the heart.

Thursday
The stall door was open so nobody entering the bathroom could see her when Amy showed her colleague. Her pantyhose pulled her ankles together, her skirt bunched up against her virtue

​The heart was now split down the middle; the two halves morphing into butterfly wings. The butterfly looked away.

“It used to be an anchor”.

“You should get your money back.”

Friday 
Amy stood outside the parlour during her lunch hour, watching the tattooist work on a sleeve. His head bent in concentration, his own skin surprisingly free of ink. Her fingers fiddled with a bulldog clip in her pocket, her mind willed him to look up. To see her.

Sunday 
She went inside. All her courage caught up inside her.

“I didn’t ask for a balloon.”

“You still have a tattoo, don’t you?”

Amy put her hand on his forearm, holding him back or drawing him closer. She didn’t know which.

“But what if it bursts?”


* Laura Alexandra Hunter lives in New Zealand, has a degree in English, and has had pieces of flash fiction published in http://everydayfiction.com. Follow her on Twitter at @LauraLxHunter



The Gods’ Tree
by R.J. Jacobs

There is a tree at the end of a forest you never heard of. Its leaves are polished silver and there are living flames in its branches. Faces are carved into its trunk, and they stare at you with interested eyes.
     
The woman who looks after it is pale and sickly. Her head is bent over her lap, her mind wrapt in her needlework. You may pass her freely, for a while.

You do. You creep through the undergrowth, your mind set on the tree. You have travelled through mountains and dragons' caves. You have battled nightmares and slept with dreams. Your tongue can still taste the Moon's milk.
     
But there you are now, three years of adventure almost drawn to an end. You have come to the place the gods' leave their years and you see the faded skins that are fallen on the ground. There is prize waiting for you when you return to the Kingdom, that was never named. They are waiting to marry you, my sweet.
     
You pass the sickly woman and she looks at you once, for a moment. But she smiles and you are bitten by those pale lips, the colour of curdled cream. You pass her silently.
     
You reach the Tree. A face - that of a beautiful young man - watches you. He is giggling, softly. You reach for the carver's knife lodged in the silver wood. It comes out red, as if covered in blood. You run your finger along the dry blade. You are about to put into your bag, when you think of the place you came from.
     
There you see your Mother. She is sleeping in front of the fire, her cloth spilled on the floor. Your father is reading a book, his forehead furrowed at the words. You see the neighbour yelling at her children, and the butcher is crying out about his wonderful meat. The candlestick maker is lounging in his shop's doorway, yawning. A few ladies in pale dresses walk by and giggle at a gentleman watching a shop window.
     
Then there is the King and your prize. They both look so sad and miserable. You know you are signing yourself for the same fate.
     
You move the knife back into the wood and it slides in without resistance: the Tree knows you are not leaving. You turn back and smile at the sickly woman. She doesn't look up but she is nodding and making happy sounds.
You turn back into the forest and walk into the dawn, never thinking of what you were there for, again.


* R.J. Jacobs is a writer from a largely unknown country (sometimes he suspects even the people living here don't know about it) called Namibia. Look it up on an atlas. It's in Africa. However, despite the lack of bookstores, he loves science fiction and fantasy and eats, no, reads, a lot of it.