by Josh Pearce

Richard Sandler                        



Isnít it enough

(without believing there

are fairies at the bottom,

said Adams

without thinking that the

flowers will talk to you,

Alice asked

the strawman said, without

expecting trees to throw apples,

without needing a God

to walk it alongside

you, asked Adam)

to enjoy a garden?

Queen of Blades



takes a full


to finish her fan



fourteen days to unfold

its pleats

into a white round disc


fourteen more days

to hide it away again


don't be fooled

by her coyness

for she is

the Queen of Blades


and her crescent knives

flash out in the soft



to carve away

entire coastlines.


she is poison

to the men

who pull off their helmets


and fall to their knees


to kiss her


face on the far


side of that mask.

Frk. Holm, Childhood Home                                       

The Attic



A telegraph wire

runs through your skull,

a steel cogweb


made of moving-picture

memories and

phonographic conversations

with mechanical




and other Edisonian



The hum of pneumatics

(the tickerchatter

of teeth)

dimly heard in the attic


where are stockpiled

careful hordes of lightbulbs,

some dusty,

or cracked,

some blacked,

others freshly acquired

and gleaming.


It is a crime to die

with money to your name

but a sin to die

with thoughts in your head


Josh Pearce is twenty-six. His writing has been featured in Analog, Asimov's, and Andromeda Spaceways. Find him on Twitter: @fictionaljosh or at fictionaljosh.com