Dear Mr. Poe And his lover, Amontillado, What did it mean When it killed Fortunato?     Sad Mr. Poe And your friend Melancholy, Did Virginia know That you bathed in violent folly?     Miserable Mr. Poe, You lived awfully close to panic. Your grotesque imagination Left you steps away from manic.     Tormented Mr. Poe, You withdrew from red society. Is that because

It was late in May when I traveled alone to a family gathering out West. I didn’t know my relatives very well, but I knew them enough to view the visit as a treat. They were always welcoming and effusive. I had not been there long before something changed in our circumstances that revealed some tension I would not

I waddled down the narrow hallway, huffing as I clutched my Justice League action figures in my left hand. Careening around the corner, I shouted, “Dad! Wonder Woman and Batman set up a date on their invisible jet! You gotta come, or you’re going to be late!” He shooed my plea away with his hand in the air, asking

On a bustling college campus, you encounter many people. When you pass someone on the sidewalk, do you try to make eye contact and smile? Maybe say hello? Imagine that you look up from the concrete and spot a face you once knew, but much earlier in time’s sculpting process. What if this familiar face stares back at you

I sit. I sigh. I watch the faces, None the one I wish to see. My eye erases The scene; the places Phase and swirl. Instantly I'm where I want to be. Blue air. I fly, But far and high Where I might die . . . All I have to do is blink And leave the air. The face is not there,

“Enunciate, please!” “You’re talking too fast.” “Quit slurring your words.” “We’ll break you of that.”   These are the voices Others put into my head. How can this part of me Be so easily misread?   When I speak, I see my grandma; Her words like honey pour As she shells peas on her back porch, Telling stories of the

Sunlight glittered on the liquid streets— Like a sea of diamonds, Michele thought as he ran to meet His darling at the Shining Islands, A restaurant they were fond of Since the beginning of their love. With a quickened pace, he bounded Inside and up the staircase To the balcony he reserved And ensured everything was in its place; Complete

I’m stuck in the middle of drama that isn’t my problem anymore.   The walls are caving in, and my escape isn’t through a door.   Only a few could break out with me, and the others are forgotten—   But I thought I already escaped from the rooms that I fought in—   It must have been a dream, because

Ancient as the knotted oak, He is the wisest of all his folk— White his coat and beard and tail; Keen eyes glowing without fail. His memory is deep; his knowledge, vast; His foresight, long and anchored fast. The wise old Centaur of Kimpor A legend is in myth and lore.   In the forest he abides, Deep amid hoary, stooping

Walter Stevens had finally stacked all his paperwork into organized piles when a whirlwind of brunette curls came barreling through the door. She marched straight up to his teller window and slammed down a crisp white envelope, which sent his neat stacks into disarray. “Look, Walter!” she exclaimed. “It finally came!” “Miss Cole,” Walter smiled. “I wasn’t expecting to

I hunch forward in the uncomfortable vinyl chair, pull in a deep breath, and hold it. The waiting room around me is a bright, sterile white from floor to ceiling, and it smells of antiseptics. Lifting my paper cup to my lips, I take a small sip of cafeteria coffee. It’s cold. I should be at work, enjoying the

Alone isn’t such a lonely place to be. Not when there’s acres of intriguing island to explore and worlds of possibility. I’ve seen at least three different ecosystems already, which is both unusual and great for business. A flat plain bridges the northwest cliffs (where my helicopter landed) and the verdant forest lining the south rim. The

The place I want to go to              is blustery and wild.                          It is where no car   has driven before,              no man has walked                         before. It is starry,     silvery as sleep,              dainty as dreaming,                        gentle as a death.       And I’ll sleep until                I dream, and dream                         until death, in a     pale, a corpse-like,               tender repose. And at                          morning, I will