[           ] | Ken Farrell | The Piltdown Review

[           ]

[           ]

The custom is to sit

next to another when you enter

a dining hall or theater

alone, to fill each empty seat

as close to another as you can.

It is only a custom.

Sometimes a woman

enters a room,

a man enters a room, takes

a lone, far-off place

and thinks I am keeping my self

to myself. The burden becomes space

stretched between them.

Each person who enters

thereafter must choose:

am I of that kind or this?

whose custom should prevail?

And some of us who enter after

have doubt and seek a space

to claim, or we seek a place

to dispose of all that came before.

Some of us find we are not

of a kind; we self-displace.

We find no room within rooms.  



More Remarkable Finds


So we go out, our descent reconnaissance for the collective. We perform experiments with swirled words, crescent-moon eyes, and report.
Expedition Notes to the Surface of a Heart

Expedition Notes to the Surface of a Heart

The south-east patch of heart is rough, very calloused, almost scales. She tried to pluck them off. They turned to dips, then pock-mark fields.
Space Coast

Space Coast

Water whispers over bone, and salt air pulses like blood in the Florida night. When you’re the only one of your kind, why resist the call?



  • Donald Trump’s Toe Tag
    a poem by Roger W. Hecht
  • What an embarrassment, what kind of grace
    a poem by Rose Auslander
  • Funeral Practices of the Flooded Valley
    a story by Matthew Talamini
  • What a Wonderful World
    a poem by David Mills
  • Care and Feeding of Your Piano
    a story by William Shunn
Track your submissions at Duotrope