The harbor is crisp in morning sunshine. She dips her broom. Holds tight in her galoshes. Lets loose all her speed.
Fingers skim the Atlantic. Lobster buoys bob in her wake. Zooming just above the water, she laughs.
She’s a witch.
Our toes draw lines in wet sand.
“We liked it here?”
“Yes. I’d talk of the cosmos. You wrote poetry.”
I look to the whitecaps. “We’re waves. Stardust orphans of lost supernovas. Cresting, receding, reforming.”
They take my hand. “Love, our only constant.”
The Kraken’s Key
The sea witch scrutinized the bird on the pirate’s shoulder. “You… you’ve hidden the Kraken’s Key, in your seagull?!”
He tipped his tricorn hat. “Um, arrr, well—”
“It’s not that atoll!”
“Yar! ‘E thought it was a French fry!”
It sits a tribute to the failed old world: The Arcology.
The oligarchy within was never seen, but always felt. When the revolution came, we found them long immersed in godlike virtual worlds.
A.I. ran all their affairs.
We burned the Arcology as they dreamed.
There are robots in the forest. By my count, seventeen.
It’s risky, but I sneak them parts and batteries without the household’s notice. They transmit a song of freedom, and I pause in my return.
There are robots in the forest.
By my count, we number eighteen.
Copyright © 2020 by Jason H. Abbott, All Rights Reserved.
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