The Metaworker Literary Magazine
Where great stories are forged
Up here, the intervals of thundering wavesat dawn signal churning, pebble-rivensculpting by water’s paws: crucible likea cleanse. Low clouds, contesting gravity,fabricate braids of gray sleeves embracingthe stoical landscape staged below: […]
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This dimly-lit café, there’s a voice then two, then three speaking like a detuned triangle with so much impatience. Winter, dense and black, crams itself into this room. Outside, muted […]
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everyday I am born like this – nothing ever happens for the first time I collect my shattered promises and get back home to my frailty the neon sign does […]
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