Tag Archives: David Henson

Planetarium Janitor

The projector’s clicking eyes hold the only dust he’s not to touch. Powdered soap clouds the water bucket like the Milky Way the sky as he mops the aisles. Ten years have taught him which levers to pull to starlight … Continue reading

Posted in Fiction, Reprint | Tagged | 6 Comments

An Exercise For Limbering Up The Right Brain

Picture seven red things that aren’t painted. Discard any not round. Add three that would shiver your bare toe. Next, bucket your hand in rainwater, leave it till you can describe how morning smells different from evening. Return to the … Continue reading

Posted in Poetry | Tagged | 3 Comments

Dying Breed

“I know how you feel,” Elan says to her husband as they sip morning coffee. She reaches across the table and squeezes his hand. “I knew it was a matter of time before they eliminated my job, too.” Elbart says. … Continue reading

Posted in Fiction | Tagged | 1 Comment