Jess was only ten when the first pods washed up on the shore. She'd been standing with her toes dug into the sand, letting the cold Atlantic Ocean swirl around her ankles, daring herself to venture ... [+]
Stephen O’Donnell's work has been published in Underland Arcana, Strange Horizons and Blackbird Journal, among others. His website is stephenmodonnell.wixsite.com/steodo "A Man Alone" is in Short Circuit #08, Short Édition's quarterly review.
Your widow came in to the bank today Waving the certificate of your suicide around; I go along by the cut glass of canal banks And the bare lots where drunkards curse your name; September is a stamped mask in the mud; And a body count rising like a fever; Frost under the bridges and in the lees; Behind the station where the sun never shines, The tent tarp withers Fiends make their beds, All seeing, all knowing. Under the canvas, beneath the trestle, Feet touch the nylon in orgasm. Everything hanging on by a thread. More life. What life. Three nights of drink and abuse. We watched your b