From Neon14:


Crows
Curtis Smith

  I glanced back into our pickup’s bed.  Light was fading, and I couldn’t fight the urge.  Don’t, my father said.  An unanchored end of our tarp rippled beneath the faces of Mr. and Mrs. Hammond.  The Hammonds had worked the land alongside ours for five generations.  Mrs. Hammond sang first soprano in the church choir.  Mr. Hammond often helped plow our drive in exchange for fresh coffee and one of my mother’s biscuits.  We sped toward town, my father’s foot heavy and the roads our way deserted.  Just over the creek bridge, we hit a bump.  Damn squirrels, my father spat.  The Hammonds convulsed, once, then again, before settling back into their rhythmic trembling.  Hideous bruises circled their bloated necks, testaments to their pained, internal strangulation.  
  Son?
  Yes, sir.  I turned back in my seat.  Think we’ll make it?
  We’ll do our best.  He squinted at the setting sun and stepped on the gas.  The engine chugged and complained as the speedometer inched higher.



Dream IV: Forgotten
Jenn Koiter

The others tell their dreams at breakfast,
luring wakefulness with coffee, buttered bread.
But all day, something hovers
just beyond sight – you start
at a touch on the shoulder, a tap
at the door. At the park, at lunchtime,
you hear schoolgirls whisper
gravely to each other: You dreamed
you were falling? You know,
you die if you don't wake up.