Tag Archives: Prose

In the Catacombs of Grief

Posted on August 10, 2022 by John Biscello

In the catacombs of grief, she wandered. She wandered, without thirst, without hunger. This frightened her. Had she lost her basic humanity? Why had she created such elaborate labyrinths? Say that ten times fast, she said to herself. At least … Continue reading →

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Come Wander With Me

Posted on August 9, 2022 by John Biscello

She, from a young age, understood that she possessed an interiority complex. That, no matter where she went, all roads lead back to herself, to the worlds within.    I don’t exist out there, not really. Out there, I am … Continue reading →

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Our Lady of Dust

Posted on August 8, 2022 by John Biscello

They taught us dust. Those were our lessons. We sang dust. Sermons in dust. We ate dust. Sometimes the dust we ate was inseminated with sunlight that insisted upon the rotting wood of the windowsill, the worm-eaten wood. That sill … Continue reading →

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Girl on a Bike

Posted on August 5, 2022 by John Biscello

   I bike through the swirling dust. The dust pinches my skin. The dust is cinematic. It seems, nowadays, everything is cinematic. Novels, TV, reality, cinema … dust. We have become cinemanesthasized. We are in a trance. How long will … Continue reading →

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Cherry’s Eyes

Posted on August 5, 2022 by John Biscello

   Cherry went to the strip club just because. Just because she had heard things about strip clubs. Just because the strip club belonged to fathomless caves and Cherry was motivated to spelunk.    Cherry, new-old upon this earth, would … Continue reading →

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Balloon and Jukebox

Posted on August 4, 2022 by John Biscello

She would name the balloon Clarice. She always thought she should have been named Clarice. Perhaps in another life. Clarice was yellow. She decided that Clarice should go on a journey. She would open the window and let her out. … Continue reading →

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As Below, So Above

Posted on August 3, 2022 by John Biscello

She came to me when I was a child. When I was two. An angel with massive wings which, when extended, generated a musical whoosh and siege of air that felt like a hurricane to my small world. My small … Continue reading →

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Blue Jukebox

Posted on August 2, 2022 by John Biscello

She passed through the beads dangling in the doorway. Echoes of beads rattling, like glassy cricket bones crunched, her moving forward, stopping at the counter, men’s heads turning, as if on rubbery swivels, none say a word, wordless the men … Continue reading →

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Upon Closer Examination

Posted on July 23, 2022 by John Biscello

There is a slow burn to holy. The headwaters of holy froth and burble and fizz and speak scandalously in serpent’s alabaster tongues. Do not mistake symbols for metaphors. Do not mistake doors for exits. Your dreams need not possess … Continue reading →

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House of Mystery

Posted on July 23, 2022 by John Biscello

In the house of mystery, dreamers enter the fold. It is a world of myriads. Of what-ifs. Undulating layers. In the house of mystery, expect no answers. None are forthcoming. In the house of mystery, dreamers will experience cataclysmic inversions. … Continue reading →

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