Tag Archives: Prose

Shard

Posted on November 21, 2025 by John Biscello

In a house of mirrors, every reflection is an indirect representation of an illusion, as misperceived recognition of the source.

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Screen Test

Posted on November 21, 2025 by John Biscello

Memory. How we amass and compile what equates to an archival collection of footage which constitutes an identity, a life … in private screening rooms, we view ourselves, scenes, episodes, and settle ourselves into what comprises identity. Yet there is … Continue reading →

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Metrics

Posted on November 20, 2025 by John Biscello

Dust is time’s response to dreaming. Dreams–desolate, unmade, spectral—wafting as winds carry out the ceremonial twitch of pallbearing.

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Last Picture Show

Posted on November 20, 2025 by John Biscello

   Does time-resin sting our eyes? Does desolation call forth our most solitary angels? Our loneliest most homesick angels? Desolation allows to become a vagrant, rooted in blessed nobody, divergently attuned to an original script. The wind writes in the … Continue reading →

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Interior

Posted on November 20, 2025 by John Biscello

   It was a town caught in the pinwheeling stasis between living and dying, between chrysalis and mortuary. I want to examine why it is I am drawn to places like this, why I always return to this specific feeling … Continue reading →

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Niche

Posted on November 19, 2025 by John Biscello

   Let me show you, she said.    She proceeded to open her stomach, almost as if she were made from wood or metal, something not flesh, and it cleanly opened to reveal a dark chamber.    I stood there, … Continue reading →

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Her Body, Her Name

Posted on November 18, 2025 by John Biscello

   It was a time in her life when she was not there, not inside herself or her life. And she was pregnant. Pregnant by the wrong man, so many wrong turns and wrong men, and this one, a mislaid … Continue reading →

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Plot

Posted on November 17, 2025 by John Biscello

   Yesterday I buried my mother. Two mothers. Maybe three, or four. I have had many mothers in the small hours of this modest and shrinking life. All my mothers are tassels of foam threading mighty surf. All my mothers … Continue reading →

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Winter

Posted on November 17, 2025 by John Biscello

   I say my mother’s grief was white on white … I say this, but this is not true all the time. The colors change. My mother’s grief has been pink, blue, red. Yet, more and more, when I am … Continue reading →

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Knives

Posted on November 17, 2025 by John Biscello

   My sister says she doesn’t have many memories from childhood. When she looks back, there’s nothing there: a blank screen. I never asked her if she saw black or white in her absence of memories.    One of her … Continue reading →

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