memory Archives - Elephants Never

memories of snow

Andre — Mon, 27 Jan 2020 13:00:40 +0000

by Lisa Reily a blur of trees, branches thick with snow,bent with the weight of white. chocolate mud as we step from the businto a flurry of snowflakes,skidding our way to the café, passing fat stray dogswho know the food is bad enoughthat scraps are on their way. back on the bus to eat sesame bars,to sip hot coffee from Read More

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Visitation

Andre — Mon, 20 Jan 2020 21:25:47 +0000

by Tiffany Belieu Rainfall of tires on asphalt. Subconsciously,a count begins, un-mourned graveson the side of the highway. Guts the consequence of quickness.Creatures who leapwithout looking, spindly leg blown glass fragile, mar the pristinemourning gown of our drive time.Tragedy is an unfolded map in lap en route to an open casket.Lilies, a dozen ghost brides trumpetingmournfully from the backseat. In Read More

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Winter Olympics

Andre — Mon, 20 Jan 2020 21:25:18 +0000

by Ashly Curtis My best friend and I ice skated on the kitchen floor,twirling off wooden chairs, gliding across tilein our pink ruffled socks. Salchows, Lutzes, evena rare triple axel or two. It was 1998. Olympic season.We held up handmade signs in the living room,blocky marker letters cheering on the figure skaters;Tara Lipinski etching beauty with her blades, carvingballerina. My Read More

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Rock Paintings (2)

Andre — Mon, 23 Dec 2019 21:23:56 +0000

by Don Thompson Oblivion carries out its briefagainst color, relentlesslyturning the past pewter or dunso that once vivid eventscome back to us insipid,wrapped in spider silkand sucked empty. Yokuts memories are shards, basketstattered like abandoned bird nests—grave robbers’ leavings. But some murals must endure,sequestered in caverns no one ever found,unfading chalk and graphite pigments,cinnabar and volcanic ochre yellowimported from the Read More

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Seers

Andre — Mon, 23 Dec 2019 21:22:39 +0000

by Narmadhaa Sivaraja They observe,from the sidelinesbehind human boundariesmutely. Ghosts of past,felled by hunters,now shed skins, peeling,naturally. Wheels pass by,not unlike time,in twos, threes, and sixes—boundless. Fiercely defiant,owners of the land,masked in ashen white—eucalypti. Narmadhaa (or N) writes haiku, free verse, opinion articles, and flash fiction on The Chaos Within. N has a self-published travel haiku collection on Amazon Kindle, Read More

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Relevant Elephant

Andre — Mon, 28 Oct 2019 11:30:34 +0000

by Pax Morrigan Picture yourself on a steppe cast in starlight withElephants gathering round the bone pitSaying goodbye to old matriarch Amba whoLed them courageously, brimming with grit Time repossesses her pachyderm carapaceTaking the ele and letting the phantOut of the bag to rove omnidirectionalHaunting all continents, ghost gallivant Waltzing through air on a jumbo safari sheArdently travels on slipstreams Read More

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My Grandpa Knew Mr. Parkinson

Andre — Mon, 14 Oct 2019 11:00:27 +0000

by Bojana Stojcic “Let me help you, Grandfather,” said a voice to the old man as he stumbled walking away from the table. Grandpa nodded back, put on his hat he wore with style and, with a profound mistrust of anything new, left the room, unsure about where they had met. “Even elephants forget,” Grandpa joked. What he didn’t see Read More

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Squirrels

Andre — Tue, 24 Sep 2019 10:00:48 +0000

by B F Jones Squirrels. Rendered malevolent by the distortion of a cubist dream. A murky forest, somewhat tilted, humidity emanating from the ground, dark trees towering above. And the squirrels. Their rustling. Their twitchy accusing stare, ridding me of sleep. Night after night, trying to understand the sudden fear, trying to remember. – Those squirrels, do they do Read More

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The Last Waltz

Andre — Mon, 16 Sep 2019 12:00:49 +0000

by Steven John We found each other late in life, in the most fateful way. Two lonely people. Paths crossed. ‘The Last Waltz’ she called us. I’d meet her off the train once a month. We’d go to the station hotel for tea and toast to settle jittery tummies. I carried something stronger in a hipflask but she never needed Read More

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Paragraphiti On The Cusp Of Living With Olives

Andre — Mon, 09 Sep 2019 12:00:49 +0000

by Gerard Sarnat You walk into the room With your pencil in your hand You see somebody naked And you say, “Who is that man?” You try so hard But you don’t understand Just what you’ll say When you get home.– Bob Dylan, Ballad Of A Thin Man i. I don’t remember when The Pilgrim’spork pie hat & suit bobbed Read More

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