C S Hughes
C S Hughes grew up on the edges of sea glass cities and dust red towns. He has been published online and on paper. His work tends to the lurid, and sometimes to the ludicrous, but seeks beauty in all its ecstasy and artifice.
If you eat these petals, before retiring Through properties as yet unbeknownst to modern science Sight will be restored
An Endless Thread, Unraveling She asked me Will you remember to Remember me to you But I suppose if you don’t recall I must have forgot
Broke Down House
There is something red on the lawn. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn. Coarse, bristling nettles. It glistens below the pyrifolia tree. There is something red on the lawn.
I and I We crook our backs Wearing only winter Our faces bright as childhood With a jump Borne by wings Arms upstretched
Empire Of Broken Eyes
From this window the thing arches out over deep blue water, resting on stone pillars like fortifications. I could take picture after picture, but there is something despicable about the progress of the black iron beams, jutting like broken bones, the glowing rivets like Christ’s wounds, the figures crawling over it like maggots and flies and ants, rather than tearing down to its constituent molecules, spewing up piecemeal the swollen carcass of leviathan.
"May we play outside, Father?" Alwyn looked at Robert, his brother, his twin, exactly alike. Same hair, same clothes, same conspiratorial smile. The only difference was, one held the toy aeroplane with its wide wings and red propeller. Which one? They'd never tell.
Hanawa Iwo No Iro
I was reading Bashō, (if you couldn’t tell) and messing about for this piece with a Japanese translation, made by using Google Translate. I have no Japanese language skills, so can’t tell if the kanji and the romanji versions have the necessary elegance and spirit, or are clunky and poorly expressed. The title roughly translates as colours of the wreathed stone.
Hambly thought; it was a colosseum, not bruised by old blood and the accretions of millennia, but of freshly cleaned bone, refined by an aeonic process of repetition, to a pure and shadowless white, not the pristine white of Christmas, nor the phantom-white of a suddenly billowing gas flame, but the white of masks and ash and funerals, now smeared by the shapes cast under a lowering sun of men brought to a halt, and in the throes of catching from the blue air, the ghosts of their breaths.