Issue 71 – Lost Halls of Ancient Mountain Kings

Postfuture King
By Harris Coverley

atomic bunker
very core of the mountain
the walls all whisper:
“our genius has survived!”
“all hail the King of Nothing!”

New Myths
By Aeronwy Dafies

In hidden bunker
Men made of metal slumber
Awaiting the call
Like Arthur in his cavern
Turning old myths into new

Vault
By DJ Tyrer

Down damp corridors long devoid of light, deeper into the antiseptic fortress. Grey walls revealed by flickering torchlight, no guards from an elder age, no insects skittering, no strange monsters, just emptiness sealed for centuries.

Reach the vault, further heavy doors to prise open. Success. Strange white lights return to life, resume an unnatural, steady glow. Pause to marvel at the tomb.

Sword ready, yet still no threat, guards or demons, enter the vault, untouched by the ages, seeking treasure of such great value.

Locate it. Seeds. Tiny repositories of life, with which to rebuild the ravaged world. Perfect. Priceless.

Ends

Originally published in Drabble Harvest issue 15 (February 2020)

The Hall of Mt. Rushmore King
By Mark Hudson

With America’ famous faces,
sculpted to the wall,
ghosts haunt these places,
the mountain king’s hall.

A gravelly road outside of Keystone,
leads to Mountain View Cemetery.
In a rotting grave of dead bones,
drift ghosts that are rather scary.

People see apparitions gliding at night,
ghostly workers rising from their graves.
The ghosts have given people a fright,
most people cannot be brave.

The mount was completed Halloween 1941,
and people stood there under a full moon.
Washington, Roosevelt, Lincoln, Jefferson,
their spirits guard over this ghostly ruin.

And although the spirits are tossing and turning,
The presidents spirits guard as if kings.
Will these spirits ever be returning?
It’s just among the world’s strangest things!

Hidden Depths
By DS Davidson

In the hall of human-originated
Mutant bloodline ruler, far below
The recovering world, aeons on
Short and stunted beings plot
In concert with their computer god
“Resume the war! Resume the war!”

Through ancient, lost chambers crawl
Expeditions seeking the magic words
To resurrect weapons of the gods
Send forth a second rain of fire
Scour the surface clean of life
Begin the cycle over anew…

Computatrum Regem
By Harris Coverley

beneath the mountain
megacomputer awaits
the final soldier —
broken he at last arrives…
but he’s forgot the passcode

the best laid plans of
men and machines — in the hall
of the mountain king

Issue 20 – Empty Planet

lockdown’s final cough
planet home to skeletons
no more suffering

By DS Davidson

 

No hands left to tend
those turbines making the light
slowly going dark

By David Edwards

The Empty Bottle
By Mark Hudson

After the war I wore a frown,
everything was like a ghost town.
Somehow, I miraculously survived,
but somehow, I feel deprived.

I go into a gas station,
a skeleton sits in meditation.
a dead cigarette in his hand,
did this happen across the land?

I walk into an empty bar,
where the front door remains ajar.
A skeletal bartender is frozen, posing
You no longer have to worry they’re closing

Skeletons passed out on the floor,
“you can have another drink, but only one more.”

Thousands of bottles of liquor to choose,
what would it hurt if i had a little booze?
I open the cash register and there is cash,
I greedily add it to my stash.

Below the counter is a 44,
I take it; he won’t need it anymore.
The gun just might come in handy,
if I get too wasted on this brandy.

Am i really the only one left?
Is the world that I see it really this f’d?
Well for some reason, i’m, the last man,
I think I better come up with a plan!

cosmic wave
irradiates Earth
empty shells
silent streets echo
life reduced to dust

By DJ Tyrer

The loudest sound, I wonder,
on a planet empty of
human civilization…
possibly rolling thunder?

By David Edwards

Apocalypticana
By Harris Coverley

the sun is a dot
a fragment of senseless light
meant for nobody

seas are but puddles
ammonites poking up through
those fatal waters

the dirt rolls listless
the last weeds wait for primping
that will never come

full skeletons bleached
their owners have fled by wind
the land is their grave

the grey dust gathers
in the corners of the Earth
the hourglass is turned

Sunrise on another
of its humanless dawns,
casting forlorn shadows
upon lifeless homes, their
vacant windows reflect
(futilely for no one)
mountains of unraked leaves…
jungles of unmown lawns.

By David Edwards

probe returns to Earth
humanity’s descendants
images of dust

By Aeronwy Dafies