This is the wall of his memory
A photo to his disappearance
Pale, washed out with years
Yet, still, there he must be found.
His laughter haunts the echoes;
Not too far, she too remains;
A moment so long ago, outside
Of the time they both knew.
There, I will stay, searching
The nooks, the crannies, the seams,
For a signature has been apposed
Perhaps only a sketch of a life.
Palimpsest, the scientist
Will uncover every layer
Of the story finished too soon;
Unshroud a death only in rumors.
His skin reddened by the attacker
Weather of all seasons,
A shirt wearing spots of inks
And many chapters untold.
He laughs into the thickness
Of an unfathomable fortress,
Only from time to time, to
Emerge and wink at finitude.
It is his wall, the cover he built
Upon which his portrait lasts
Author of his biography.
The First Day We Met
She found words running loose in the Strand,
fit them for goofy hats
corralled them into a corner
and conducted them into photographs.
She knew how to assemble them.
You kiss like you are,
as I sat stumped on eight across,
Then you’re not.
If Love Felt Like the Water Cycle
Drift out the window
Land in a puddle of silk
Float skyward, unbound.
I wish that my jealousy
Would stagnate like a dammed river.
Jealousy rages on—swelling, overcoming.
While the only damned thing
Tiffany Firebaugh is a freelance writer and poet, but by day she works in the non-profit sector. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Rogue Agent Journal and The Fem. If you like, you can follow her on twitter at @tifficaltiff
Diane Arrelle is one of our Halloween contest finalists.
by Diane Arrelle
It had been a cold, windy October and the trees shed their leaves a few weeks earlier than usual. But today the wind was still and the crisp bite in the air tasted like Halloween. It promised to be the perfect evening for trick-or-treaters, the sun would set by late afternoon and as it grew darker I imagined the clouds would skitter across the crescent moon, casting eerie shadows that would cause the costumed youngsters to both shiver in terror and giggle with false bravado along with their friends.
As I sat at my desk and looked out the window, seeing at my reflection, I wished I were a kid again so I too could travel door to door, with my identity hidden and my greedy lust for sweets worn proudly like a badge. But I am an adult, almost 30 years old, so the most I can do is open my door to those junior ghouls brave enough to ring my bell and then share in their fun vicariously.
I guess it was about three thirty when I had the urge to leave work a little early. I decided I wanted to go to the store for Halloween candy, just in case some kids showed up before I had to go out to dinner. I know I romanticize trick or treating and Halloween but I live alone in the gray duplex at the end of Downy Street, the last house right next to the woods so I almost never get anyone to ever come to my door. I don’t blame them, not a lot of kids will brave a spooky street for some cheap candy, so while I was out I stopped by the party supply store because I decided to get some Halloween decorations too. I thought maybe plastic pumpkins lit with eerie colored glow sticks would attract more trick-or-treaters.
Click here to read Sojourn No More, a short play by Eric Duhon.
Eric is delighted to have his work featured in The Furious Gazelle! He graduated from Northwestern State University in Natchitoches, LA with a degree in Performance and Directing in Theatre. In the last decade, he has had the pleasure of working at several theatres across the country as an actor and writer in areas including Memphis, Minneapolis, New Hampshire and Chicago. Produced writing credits include: I Know (F.U.D.G.E Theatre Co.), Master Class (Fury Theatre), Meet the Tweedles (Curious Conversations, ECT) and Garcon (The Arc Theatre).
The curved lip at the bottom of the
Coffee pot saves the white tablecloth
From a tiny drop traveling down the
Body of the pot with malicious intent.
Nothing saves the waitress or the meal
As food tumbles from the tray to the floor
In a violent crash of humiliation.
Cry for the poor fish sandwich, cut down
Before its prime, and decide not to tip.
Jon Bredeson is a gay poet, fiction writer, and English major at the University of Minnesota Duluth. He is an MFA applicant, and currently at work on his first chapbook. He is likely to be found reading poetry, fiction, and/or comic books at any given time of day, and has no plans to seek treatment for his literary addiction.