Ken Farrell | The Piltdown Review

Ken Farrell

Last Friday Evening

Last Friday Evening

Something terrific has happened, my android manservant, HE, whispers, a synthetic peal HE thinks soothing. I stop chopping scallions.
There’s No Place

There’s No Place

Four walls of high red brick: this is a house. Hides stretched taut over posts: this is a house. Earth and straw plied between timbers: this is a house.
Communion

Communion

Soon you will speak to an empty room, calmed by the weight of echoes, of space. Alone you become a snowflake of grief.
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The custom is to sit next to another when you enter alone, to fill each empty seat as close to another as you can. It is only a custom.
Mothership

Mothership

So we go out, our descent reconnaissance for the collective. We perform experiments with swirled words, crescent-moon eyes, and report.