Brian Kenneth Swain

Deep in the throes of moonless sleep, the beat of cicadas syncopate with the sough of midnight wind. From far down in the well of my dream vibrations rise up, and, like anyone, I weave those first few tremors into the fabric of my dream story. It is only the sway of a lover’s dance, the tremble of a restless herd.   But it is a sound that awakens me at last, the shriek of my brother’s daughter. She who sleeps so fitfully on even the most silent night, she of the night terrors, who this night saves us all with her waking cry. It is the night her oft imagined horrors are become real, for this is no dream.   It is our mountain sprung to life, dancing, cavorting, tossing us about like playthings. By the mercy of Allah, ...

In which are revealed fragments of a written account of the incident, retrieved at some peril from an operative within the clandestine service   Detective Hidalgo was called to the scene on a bleak ______ing evening, the thirteenth of ______. One witness declared that as far as he knew the two men were engaged in a _____ of pure _____. Having heard this, Hidalgo then set to the task of determining motive, which led him to ask Mrs. _______ if perchance she had seen from her room any clear indications of ______ or of _______. She denied this but flashed him a smile that suggested his thoughts on the case were soon to be tested. Which proved all too true, for that very same night the two suspects were seen neath the _______ Station ...

The tiniest of aviators, scarcely more than a bumblebee, darts fast now and frantic between the beams and oil cans, the stacks of boxes, racks of tools.   The double garage door gapes open against the day, the sun and sky and trees beckon, there in plain view.   Yet the tiny creature lights on an overhead beam above my head. Stares down imploring, tiny iridescent chest rises and falls with the exhaustion of fear.   Only then, as I draw a ladder up underneath, there shines acceptance in those pin prick eyes, and understanding.   I raise a gentle hand and he, tiny and defenseless, taught by nature to fear everything, lights in my palm, his body no bigger than my thumb, heart beating like a blur against my skin.   I ...

When I stand before the glass, I see me standing before the glass. When I gaze down at the page, there I am, looking back up at me. Both reflections, of me, and yet… the image on the page, drawn with a pallet of just twenty-six monochrome characters, reveals so much more than that full-color rendition in the mirror, not only more detail, but more enduring as well. For when I step from before the mirror, I am gone. But that me upon the page is a high resolution snapshot of me in that moment, one that will never fade. It is forever, no matter where I go, no matter who I ...

How do you write a poem? she asked. It’s like going broke, I replied— gradually, them suddenly.* Which makes sense, almost, at least in certain stories. Maybe not so much in poems. I have had some that came fast, almost violently so. And others labored over like childbirth. But only rarely is there a spate of hard work, crushing effort, and then a sudden rush, like an old toothpaste tube that’s stopped up so that you push hard, only to have it all come out at once. Words splattered upon the page, and no way in hell they’re going back in the tube. *Apologies to Ernest Hemingway, The Sun Also ...

I back out from the garage, and there he sits, bigger’n life, perched in the middle of my windshield. Six legs, carapace the color of molasses glistening in the evening sunset. But, rather than brush him off, send him on his way, I opt for blood sport.   At five miles per hour he is unimpressed, walks mockingly from one side to the other, a sprinter stretching out before the gun fires.   At ten it’s still just a joke. He lifts two legs at me, defiant, stares through the glass. Is that all you’ve got?   But at twenty, suddenly the game is afoot. All six legs, now firmly planted, bow in a bit, lowering his body into the narrow safety of the boundary layer.   At thirty he hangs on with verve, though to what is a ...

I was born at a very young age, so I cannot be expected to remember all the details. I recall a loud noise, though that may have just been me, come to think of it. There were several quite rough hands. And then an acrid taste, which I didn’t much like, but went for anyway, no menu being offered. I remember glass and lots and lots of staring eyes.   After that, everything is a bit of a blur   until ...

There came at last a day when, exhausted and utterly fed up, Sisyphus just walked up the hill, clear to the top without stopping. Once there, he took a seat, wiped his brow, gazed about at the view, then looked back down the hill at the rock lying there. And, grinning smugly, he said out loud, Yes, this is better. This is much ...

The light blue convertible Mustang with the bondo on the left rear fender speeds through the stop sign at the corner of Elm and Baker and nothing much happens as a result.   There comes no shriek of rubber on asphalt. No exploding bicycle parts or flailing bloodied bodies. Nothing at all but Mrs. Dickey clicking her tongue disapprovingly as she sits and rocks on her porch.   The sales executive takes a long lunch to go and buy spaghetti sauce and Milk Bones at the Kroger a few blocks from his office. He forgets the coupons his wife gave him and has to pay full price.   This causes a wry look later tonight, but nothing either of them feels is worth fighting over. So he gives the dog a Milk Bone, she cooks the spaghetti, and ...

  In the latest of hours, once the moon has set and all is stars and velvet, I lie alone and turn the radio dial to see who’s still up.   Between the static murmurs come the all night talk shows with their ghosts and aliens, or the basso jazz DJ spinning Miles of Coltrane.   But sometimes everyone is asleep but me, and I just lie still with the radio tuned to nothing at all, letting the hisses and crackles of far off galaxies carry me away, beyond the cusp of the hemisphere, all the way back to the start of ...