Rats abandon a sinking ship Cows have no business in horseplay Tigers die and leave their skins If you chase two rabbits, you will not catch either one Noble dragons don’t have friends Snakes follow the way of serpents A horse may stumble though he has four legs A goat
Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
Curled into a ball on the bed.Better off dead. Better off dead.Relentless mantra in my head.Better off dead. Better off dead.Turn on back and before my eyes,life’s report card flashes by,a bottomless column of F and I.Better off dead. Better off dead.Too tired to cry. Too sick for why.How should
“We should get a cat for Cole,” said Brad to Alice. “A pet would do him some good.” Alice looked to Brad from behind her “#1 Mom” coffee cup. She pulled the muffin he was about to grab away from him. “Remember what the doctor said?” Brad’s face fell, but
The Deer I They would fire on three. Red leaves, yellow leaves, green leaves. The shot—like the birth of his son. The leaves. The animal. The son cowered in the bushes. The father took the son’s gun and counted. One through six bullets. The son had not fired the gun.
Toads are unlovely: plump, bumpy, gawkward. But I’ve been fond of them since I was young. Their inoffensive, comical dignity amused me. Gaze into a toad’s lovely golden eyes and you quickly become its friend. Why, then, did I shoot a toad in my backyard when, age twelve, I had
The trees are old in the forest of Arden. They hold many secrets. The greenest grow at the border of the tame world. Supple firs and bendy pines peak above sprawling hardwoods. Tall, wide oaks dot the perimeter charming the senses with song birds and the fluffy-tailed squirrels. Lush moss
the sky was there distorted at the edges but there clear crystal blue his wings burned his mind locked he battled the Plexiglas sky over and again his head bumped hoping for an improbable escape I was afraid his death would stain
Venturing fingers among the tangle of blackberry thorn canes, questing their dark elusive prize, plucking each plump bundle, then easing it from the labyrinth of defending claws, I discover one gleaming berry ridden by a petite beetle, her flat, yellow shield an extravagant contrast against the obsidian fruit’s glistening bulb.
Kenya made space in my heart for love. Before her, there was only me and vague words. We think about hearts being a specific size or shape. In fact, they are intentionally flexible by design. They have a purpose. They hold space within us. We condition them to extend our