concīs is finished! We appreciate your time, attention and support.
Please enjoy the archives of work published by so many amazing authors over the course of our seven seasons!
min words | max heart
concīs is finished! We appreciate your time, attention and support.
Please enjoy the archives of work published by so many amazing authors over the course of our seven seasons!
The concīs Winter 2017 Season anthology (PDF Download or read online) is out! Featuring: Alicia Cole, Amy Holman, Ashley Kunsa, Brad Rose, Cassandra Farrin, Daniel Y. Harris, Darren C. Demaree, David Bankson, Glenn Ingersoll, J. Mulcahy-King, Jane Huffman, Jennifer Wortman, Joshua Gottlieb-Miller, klipschutz (Kurt Lipschutz), KB Ballentine, Karen Stanislaw, Katy Chrisler, Kevin Dunn, Lorraine Schein, M. S., Mark Budman, Mark Cunningham, Mark McCutcheon, Mark Young, Matt Dennison, Matthew Schmidt, Meg Eden, Megan Collins, Michelle Chen, Philip Arnold, Robin Walter, Sarah Gridley, Sarah Sloat, Sonja Johanson, Soren James, Theodore Eisenberg and Christopher Lee Miles.
Sarah J. Sloat
Mark A. McCutcheon
Very very very very very small
Billion miles recalculating
We don’t know details well at all
The direction we were last going
Calculable but undetectable
Earth would be the one-yard line
As bright planets are invisible
Now does not exist in space-time
Outer solar system missions
With the winds from other stars
As in trigintillion years never
But please do send invitations
People might think there are bears
To hear from you by tomorrow over
Robin Walter
When something
in the dark
begins to shift:
I move into it.
I gut the fish.
I split my own wood.
Kevin Dunn
Peeled away, there’s Pi:
constant, irrational,
repeated to infinite
places. The bedrock
of this stew.
Kevin Dunn
In the beginning was the woad,
spackling a firmament cracking.
St. John’s solder, nailing the world
in between, tacks the word to water.
Amy Holman
He measured the pattern to be cut bias
cherry-coloured snippets
that will serve one single button hole.
He talked to himself little twittering tunes his greatest triumph
but there was no one there
He was vexed like a cat that expects
cream on the dresser
No more twist!
Throstles and robins sang
His badness hunted and searched house to house
and secret trap-doors without any keys
merry voices an echo
ravelling that wonderful coat
Never were seen such flowered lappets
And he talked to himself: do not lose that last penny!
We shall make our fortune shut out the light
David Bankson
but keep the fingers from severance, from severity of assumption, from a neighborhood of sheer glass in gravel, peeling out pickups like boars roaring and squealing, the crash of running out of antipsychotic healing, pirates reading poetry for the ultimate in democratic experience, an intermezzo existence, a stone’s-throw through a solid state, culture as a surface of water trickling through cracks, one hand in the hound’s mouth
Jane Huffman
I knew straight away,
like a rabbit darting across traffic
knows the extent of its quickness.
I had wanted to emerge without
emerging. A private debut,
no needling.
What happened, of course,
was threefold, like a Chekhovian
drama. First, I gave in
as some might give birth. Then,
I made the decision. Last, I stayed,
which had the staying power
of an image, a hook-handed man.
A rifle in the umbrella stand.