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 Fathom Vol 2

Cover

 

Inside Cover

 

Poetry

Michael Bolton (2)
Paul Tyndall (2)
Shelagh Ross  
Kim Storey
Greig Dymond
Margot Tyndall (2)
Steven Gregoris (2)
Alistair Highet
Christopher Mitchell (2)
Paul Deagle
H.M. Peter Westin

Prose

Andrew Potter

Extras

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Christopher Mitchell

 

 

shes the killer

the last time she was this late she had cut her finger
     on the
first page of anna karenina and bled a thin line of
     scarlet
across the breast of her new white dress

leaving pages not turned right by candle sliding
     half beyond
going dreaded last jaunt timings curling paper on
     a knife and
grilled cheese and eating dayold left letters
     quilting the
board and grilling the lady over last nights
     indecency and
no longer going

going hardly gone she sings like a lark and ends
     jolting on
the tracks minding the time the train was early
     dreading         
falling books and she sees reasons for pointing

she arrived at the door breathless and face
     streaked with tears
winding down something delicate and charming
     about the sad
twist in her eyes and dreaming of being titled
     and having all
the things titled kids have

brisk and daring she was good and the chill
     crawled down the
same deadly feeling when the maid skates and
     slides greens in
the chowder m m good chowder

a old joke although highly effective in the
     wintering palace

 

heart broke blues

once upon a time he wrote there was a little bar down
on the
waterfront nestled a yarn warehouse on the one side
and on
the other a abandoned garage

the night he continued the fog rolled over the dirty
brick
sidewalk and the lights made the mist a yellow haze
hanging
like a single bulb marquee over the frosted windows
the bitterly cold night in february and the barmaid was
stoking the fire b bits of broken furniture the candle on
the piano was not long for the world down to a stub
mired in
its own drippings

he was alone in the shadows and the ice rolls around in
the
bottom of his glass he was seeing the single bulb tear
roll
down her porcelain cheek like he was seeing rain run
off the
end of a windshield wiper blade the tear hit her lips and
followed the red line of her mouth and fell a puddle of
ex
snow

swallowing some whiskey he sat back and drew his
hand away
off the keyboard she was now july and was heat under
his collar
like a fire under his butt

 

last updated August 17, 2007 | © 2007 Fathom Publishing
poetry, prose, and artwork © individual authours | website created by Alana Paul