by Chris­t­ian K. Mar­tinez The weeds I touch fade, dust in a dust­bin scat­tered on the wind. The flow­ers I seed bloom, sun­light blos­soms on a hori­zon. Brod Gar­ris, Da's eldest, says I got good mag­ic. Run strong through the bone, from the seed. 

Filed under: Jabberwocky 8

by J. C. Runolf­son He walks the searoad, though he knows bet­ter, stops and watch­es the waves move closer.

Filed under: Jabberwocky 8

by Megan Arken­berg At any giv­en moment, there are almost five thou­sand paint­ings in the House of Unright­eous Images. They hang on the rough-plas­tered walls, or stand in uneven stacks on the water-stained floor. 

Filed under: Jabberwocky 8

by Wendy Howe And so my sea­son comes ear­ly, hills all pol­ished with its glaze, caul­dron-pour of heavy sleet. They gleam like the skulls I will scour and stack along the garden's landscape. 

Filed under: Jabberwocky 8