Tag Archives: Prose

Moratorium

Posted on September 17, 2025 by John Biscello

I. Beckett spoke about it: the inability to keep quiet. The incapacity to not say stories, not write stories, not place oneself inside stories in which you make and unmake and remake yourself endlessly, an orgy of particles constellating jittery … Continue reading →

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The Dance

Posted on September 16, 2025 by John Biscello

Her hips began the snakedance, the spasmodic erotic wiggle. She told me to listen closely, and her hips began hissing a slow cadence, the world losing its air, the world a depleted lunar asthmatic in need of oxygen blasts. My … Continue reading →

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Hips

Posted on September 16, 2025 by John Biscello

I can no longer remember where I was when it happened, only that it happened, it must have happened. Sometimes we cry silent recordings in our bones, or guts, or maybe it is our hips that are the primary storehouses … Continue reading →

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Mirror

Posted on September 15, 2025 by John Biscello

She opened her stomach. I took out my lighter, produced a flame, and cast light into the darkness. I saw a single object, a mirror. A square mirror with a baroque metal exterior: cursive, elegant. I saw part of my … Continue reading →

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Sideshow

Posted on September 15, 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, not sure what … Continue reading →

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Old and Young

Posted on September 12, 2025 by John Biscello

In the fairy tale the young girl slept for a long time and when she woke up she was old. She saw her old self in the mirror and was horrified, but also accepting. And a little in love. I … Continue reading →

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Others

Posted on September 12, 2025 by John Biscello

I couldn’t understand why I couldn’t hear myself in my head anymore. I was hearing someone else. This someone else was older, much older than me, and tired. Her words dragged, as if part of a funeral procession. Her voice … Continue reading →

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Because I Dreamed

Posted on September 10, 2025 by John Biscello

I never say the babies’ names, because there is danger in that. I know that their names spoken, details given, things brought too much into the light, means we can be found. Their ears own so much: text, air, radio-waves, … Continue reading →

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Fins

Posted on September 9, 2025 by John Biscello

The men I have given myself to are scorching a map onto my skin. I’d say it was a map of the underworld, but I don’t know if that’s altogether true. It seems too dramatic, too much like fantasy. And … Continue reading →

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Fable

Posted on September 8, 2025 by John Biscello

I have become moonless in my grief, a paled comparison. But to what? To who I used to be? What I expected to become? I feel as if I’ve been laid out an operating table, and Time, as a methodically … Continue reading →

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