Spilling Ink


caught in moments

we theorize new reflections

arithmetic in strange places

empty subway stations

and park benches


strangers collide in ever-

limbo spaces, for never

do you know the next

encountering that changes



time un-thought will

likely reach you, each

echoed beat and pulse

vibration, rattling like

the rattled station


and thoughts un-certain

will probably break you

but passing lives will

make you stop and softly

laugh and cough and think

and who we were will in

that moment, mingle

as if spilling ink.


by K.C. Bryce Fitzgerald


Immortal Moth


a daring V

a twitching silhouette

draped like Halloween cobweb in

lines too invisible to comprehend

a minute, then cacophony of


valiant, triumphant this


unfettered by the fears that chain

circumstance to mortality.


Brushed clouds, like clotted cream

unpasteurized, provide soliloquy to

this impressionist scene

somber joy framed by dusk and sky

and trees

the foreground: moth, finally learning how to die

no tears, just knowing that behind

are butterflies.


by K.C. Bryce Fitzgerald


Old Timber


clock ticks into day grown cold

old timber sings inside the lull

pulled by thoughts and things unseen

alone with aging memories.


the staircase circles candlelight

an iron pendulum clock keeps time

perpendicular parallels intertwine

like cords of shredded fishing line.


on balcony a girl in white,

drunk, darts her head like clock ticks time

and warm and comforted she seems

in feeling what the fireplace brings.


it darts and dares your eyes to weep

or scream but never both, you reaped

your choice like words reap written wrongs

your miles wail like country songs.


and in the corner a piano pings

its umber cadence harmonizing

with the wood and the warmth and

the girl who, like the clockwork, sings.


she echoes through the empty hall

a timing ticked inside us all

its passage calls in chains above

the room, the way old timber does.


by K.C. Bryce Fitzgerald




I have to screw my head back on

it’s grown unkempt tonight

it rushes like water from a

bleeding fountain and bristles

like crabgrass getting ready

for a fight.


the minutemen parade inside

a pessimistic blight

a painful deep thrombosis pulls

and pushes like a tug-of-war

and complicates what it means

to be right.


for sanity comes surgically

like diamond ember lines

a twisted belief that raps at

your window like a pregnant

mosquito drawn towards peeling

empty light.


but I have to screw my head back

on, and screw back on my sight

it falls like leaves so red and

crisp and rattles just like

skeletons whose heads are screwed

too tight.


by K.C. Bryce Fitzgerald

K.C. Bryce Fitzgerald has been writing stories since he learned to read. A native of Los Angeles, he is inspired by the daily truths of the world around him. Currently unpublished, he is hard at work on a debut novel, countless short stories, a book of poetry, and several screenplays.

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