By Eliot Hudson
Silly how it knows time without consulting the heavens, how buried within his pocket he still feels something of a pulse as the bones keep time, beneath shallow pockets of hillsides.But I’m not sure why, because there are no calendars in heaven, only in hell. So I hope grandmother does not know the months that have passed, but I’m sure grandfather does, he feels it lashing the marrow of his soul.
About Eliot Hudson
Eliot is a native New Yorker and has been featured as “Author of the Month” for The Missing Slate and read at their Edinburgh Reading; he’s also represented Lalitamba by reading at the Popsickle Brooklyn Literary Festival. His work has appeared in The Missing Slate, Lalitamba, Every Day Fiction, The Punxsutawney Spirit, Exploration, and his poems have been featured in the collections, Garlic and Sapphire, and Cleaves. His latest short stories, “Russian Dolls” will be coming out in Mystery Weekly next month, while “Hummingbird Suite” will be coming out in Story Of later this year; his poetry will be published in the print journal Gravitas (Volume 18.2), and Castabout Art & Literature. You can learn more about Eliot on his website www.EliotHudson.com.