This issue boasts of the diversity of voice and style. We open with two love poems. Michelle Mogannam’s “The Garden,” speaks to ecstacy and heartbreak, with surreal undertones, and allusions suggested by the title. In “Keeping Room,” by Ann Thornfield-Long, imagery and surrealism punch into the symbolism of a deeply rooted love. The astronomical references […]
Narrated by Michelle Mogannam It was the beginning of the beginning When love tasted its skewed self And the chimes began to clang; You appeared fast like lightning, And I jumped in. We muddled in our joy. Blinding light exploded into pieces Entrenching us between time And the pool of liberation. Feeling every atom make […]
They drowned her
in the River Magnus
that winds through
the city like some
great mottled snake
Listen in the third watch of night when the moon
blares full and ghostly in the little country graveyard
Tuesday, April 9—My name is Solomon. I am twenty-eight years old. I write to you today from my home four miles northeast of Nuuk, Greenland. About every five minutes, the person closest to me dies. I don’t mean the person I love the most or the closest in relation. I mean this quite literally. Proximity […]
My dear forest friend, How often have I thought of you in my ramblings upon these mountains for the last week! I am sure you have heard the awful stories about you. I must make it clear that I had no joy in it. And if you thought I did, you cannot be a friend […]
Choosing stories for this issue of Liquid Imagination was both challenging and rewarding. I was able to read thirty to forty excellent pieces, but only had the resources to choose six (readers and writers alike can help in this regard by clicking here; donate to Silver Pen Writers via PayPal). Having sent back all those great […]
Robbie was making Zandra a cup of hot chicory when he heard her scream. In the dining room Glenn stood over her, the pale sun marbling his face. “What’ll it take to get the princess out of bed?” he asked Robbie. “Pico needs help with the water.” “You can ask her,” Robbie said. “She’s right […]
They came in early spring, when a threadbare blanket of snow still lay on our patch of the southern Himalaya. Their burgundy robes told me they were monks, a fact not in my original neural networks, but learned from experience when local monks conducted a house blessing ceremony for us every year.
Peter vowed to stay with me, in sickness and in health, forty meters from his dead wife’s grave, on the steps of his dying manor. The dying manor lay at the foothills of the dying village, kissed good-night by the dying sun. This Droste effect of deterioration and decay is my wedding portrait.