Tag Archives: Literary

Flight Pattern

Posted on May 25, 2017 by John Biscello

He has peopled the world outside his window with decoys and delegates. They go where he cannot, they climb and scrabble and perch where he can only watch. The cage, you see, is more than just a symbolic prop. He … Continue reading →

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Cinema

Posted on May 25, 2017 by John Biscello

Framed, the naked, unabashed glee of a littleboy protected by the fact that she, the blind girl, cannot pin nor freeze him as a tramp; ennobled by faith and feeling alone, he has matched his character to the white flower … Continue reading →

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Cakewalk

Posted on May 24, 2017 by John Biscello

The day the plastic bride and groom came to life and climbed down from their three-tier wedding cake, tracking footprints of vanilla frost onto the carpet of the living room, which came with a matching couch and recliner, floral-print curtains, an … Continue reading →

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Volume by White

Posted on May 23, 2017 by John Biscello

The staggered trajectory of the cicada’s voiceprints, a slow clean fade into reprieve and lasting fugue.

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TV

Posted on May 21, 2017 by John Biscello

Light, a beacon in a fish-bowl. It was the only channel Bobby received at night after his parents went to sleep, after his vision adjusted to the warning signals arraigned in silence.

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The Chairs

Posted on May 21, 2017 by John Biscello

Stiff-spined, hammer-headed, squat-bottomed, rubble-flecked alternates to the chairs that once stilled motion and held human life; the people lost, the flights canceled, the chairs a stirring musical memory, a ghostly paean to the dashed dreams of a grave new world, … Continue reading →

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Mannequin

Posted on May 19, 2017 by John Biscello

After countless years of mind-numbing routine, strolling up and down the avenue where she shopped for groceries and clothing and listlessly scavenged storefront windows with vicarious pleasure, on October 13th the housewife experienced a foreign sensation, astonishment, freighted with terror, … Continue reading →

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Fallout

Posted on May 18, 2017 by John Biscello

The Rorschach pulse of ink in the ruptured veins of cityscape– angels, disguised as fallout, move unnoticed through an inherited smear campaign.

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Boy

Posted on May 17, 2017 by John Biscello

At the time he didn’t know it, but stalking the radiant specter of morninglight as he sprinted down a cobbled alley, he left part of himself behind in a jigsaw piece of puddle that later, years later, he would reflect … Continue reading →

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Next?

Posted on May 15, 2017 by John Biscello

A dancer’s sad dream– flight, short-lived, returning to earth, sharp teeth.

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