Yearning to be Like the Gods (flash fiction)

Here’s a piece of sci-fi flash fiction about the hubris of humanity and the pursuit of super-powers. It’s about 625 words and has an estimated reading time of 2 and a half minutes. Let me know what you think!

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The Moon-Ruler (a poem)

The moon in his palm
He thinks himself a god
How can he be so calm?
Our feelings, he disregards

He can crush the moon
In an instant, just like that
Leave fragments strewn
Floating like acrobats

The moon-ruler must be stopped
Or it’ll be darkness for us
On earth, we feel mocked
Our beloved moon could be
Gone with just one thrust

(Photo by jasper benning on Unsplash)

City of Dogs (a poem)

Stray dogs rule this town

on other sides of rusted tracks

where train-cars no longer run by,

and broken needles litter roads of

utter urban hell –

hear dogs howl at nasty nightfalls

under black canvases of iron skies,

smell my rotten soul,

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Wormwood (flash fiction)

The gods often come in disguise. I know this, I know it all too well. But I forget sometimes. The slick salesman didn’t look like a god – far from it. He was a wheeler-and-dealer, a card shark. He told me so.

Jet-black hair slicked back, greasy with gel. White dress shirt, dark red tie that screamed “power!” and “too much testosterone!” What a bore this guy was. He tried to sell me a used car, something that wouldn’t get me very far, one that would creak, moan, die by the side of the road.

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American Shrine (a poem)

Traveling through America, in search of the Shrine

you know the one, mister, the place that encapsulates

our nation’s fears, dreams, triumphs + loathing –

some say the shrine is a shopping mall

Mother Church of Consumerism

but you know better

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The High Priest of Saturn (a poem)

The Hight Priest of Saturn tends to his parish –

you didn’t expect to find him here

hidden in this Rust Belt town

a town eager for rebirth

a town that’s lost its youth

who’ve fled the flaking steel mills that die

on the banks of the purple river –

The High Priest of Saturn expects a successor

someone to continue the cleansing

the vicarious pleasure of standing

before Saturn, our merciful Maker.

(Photo from sciencenewsforstudents.org)

Note: This poem was inspired by High Priest of Saturn, a musical group self-described as in the psychedelic doom genre. I’ve been listening to more groups like them lately, so I guess the cool band name was caught in my head!

The Poet’s Curse (a prose poem)

You humiliated the Netherworld Poet + now you must pay – the only way to avoid his curse is to sacrifice your first-born son. The Poet cackles like a hyena on arid plains of this sun-soaked frontier – you dared question his knowledge of tribe + kingdom that’s your birthright to lead.

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