Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications.
She craves the innocent and their young dreams laden memories made along many a wrong turn her tentacles lay in waiting to feed an insatiable hunger. Dark in the thick of summer days damp when the air refuses to quench her thirst no star ventures to corrupt its light with her appetite. There is that abyss in the center of an eerie trap deep into the unfathomable entrails of the kingdom glass upon concrete into a stranger tomb. Man-made peaks lost in the midst of a black mist their teeth shine as they devour the evening feast a large grin frozen in the gaping hole of eternity. All disappear as they feed the merciless beast their fears and their pains oozing to the surface like a fiery inferno they return to humble beginnings. Then again a flash falls, such an obscure curtain upon the stage where they may have once loved a void for the next hopeful performers to dare an entrance.
The monk and the anchoress
They watched in terrified awe as kin walked on bowing before the idols of a maddened century. She contemplated the loss of a father shedding a tear at the recollection of his kind soul. He attempted to refrain from the passion of hate as monsters multiplied with stealthy speed. They smiled as they shared the comforting thought at least they felt close in the wish for a distant exile. He, a monk, she, the anchoress, apart perhaps yet inseparable by their common urge. They would run to the mountain tops leaving behind the terror trail others follow. Abandoned to a pure destiny with nothing left to fear of man, free and away from a billion daggers.
Touching the wall of the temple
Dressed in a winter coat of skin and fiber I brush against the walls of a room cold as ice there will be no embracing the angels this night. Breaths of unseen souls come to invade the realm bright light through the common blueish aura blind burning to the core of the unfinished masterpiece. Taking a step perhaps to fall into oblivion an abyss echoing of multitude lost in the depths will respond in tales of what could never be. A steel gate closes thick as the fiery door of damnation to shake the foundation of what I once attempted to build the ramparts remain sterile as the fragile virgin snows. Dressed in in a winter coat made for the cruelest climes I shiver as if naked, to the intimacy of those faint bones there will be no embracing the angels tis night.