Alien's and Booze by Brenton Booth
John sat on the back porch of his house in the western suburbs of Sydney, drinking from a can of Fosters and looking at the stars. Nothing out of the ordinary up there tonight, he thought (not that he really knew anything about astronomy, though he did spend a lot of time drinking in his backyard and watching the night sky). Of the two he would make a far more professional and efficient drunk than an astronomer. He finished the can and started another. He had already drank half of the carton of beer he bought a few hours earlier.
It was a mild summers night. There hadn't been a drop of rain for months. / It had been a dry summer (for the earth, that is). There was not a cloud in the sky and the stars shined at their most brilliant. John was in a trance. Drinking and looking at the sky. It had been a long day—a very long day. A bright light then came out of nowhere and blinded him. (added 07.20.12)
The Beastly Parchment by Jenean McBrearty
"Why do people always die early?" Marshal Marquette wondered aloud as he and Armando St. Germain sped through the damp, steamy streets of Calais at six AM. / "They don't. They die at night and are discovered in the morning," St. Germain said, trying to keep a cardboard tray of coffee mugs steady as Marquette took out his frustration on the car's gas pedal. "Imagine Mademoiselle Francine. We're used to gruesome scenes. But that petit fleur?" / "She's still Mademoiselle for a reason," Marquette cautioned, "Perhaps working for Countess Blanchard drove her mad and she killed the 'ol Bavarian Fledermaus. Did Mademoiselle Francine have Slavic relatives?". (added 02.12.13)
Bros Before Hoes by Chris Wilkensen
I wished I’d never picked up the phone. But obeying drunken friends was a familiar formality so they wouldn’t swing or cry. Listening to inebriated chicks I’d never met turned out to be a different situation altogether. Unfortunately, it was second nature for me to follow instructions. / I ended up driving to meet her, that drunken girl in my phone. Somehow, when the texting spree began, my morals caved in. I forgot about Rinko, the girl waiting for me across the Pacific. I had to seize the day by the skirt. And my friends would not let me forget it. Sometimes, I couldn’t tell the difference between advice and threats. (added 03.19.13)
The Bubble Gum and The Bullfrog by Louis Marvin
Dandy Wharton and his son had put the boat on the trailer and were heading out of the lake. / “Dad, I see that frog again!!” / “What? Where?” / He stopped the car, and the two guys saw a raccoon struggling with gum all over it’s head and paws. The frog hopped off into the water. / Peabody had some licorice and a few bags of peanuts and sunflower seeds to toss to them. He called them by name when they went in to the store. He slowly rocked and waited for them to come out on the porch. His sons had rung up the last kid and they were settled all around him. / “Did I ever tell you the story of the bullfrog that got a hold of Jimmy Wharton’s bubblegum?” / They all looked at Jimmy. He looked back with a surprised stare and then narrowed his eyes at Mr. Peabody. (added 12.10.12)
Celestial Gaze by Anant Hariharan
If ten years of staring up through the atmosphere had taught Quince Skine anything, it was that a truly cloudless sky was a miracle. / His nights were all the same; they began with him shoving a ragged and reddened eye into the end of a long, rectangular device. He scanned the cosmos with reckless abandon, dreading the eventual moment when the first steak of gold crept over him. Not that he was complaining, of course. Without the surprisingly generous grant he had received from the government, the stars would have forever remained smiling twinkles in the night to him. The construction of his observatory had been a long-contested matter, rebounding off layers of permits and red tape for more than two years. He would have been more precise, but getting lost in the sheer volumes of blackness every night had played havoc with his sense of time. (added 10.26.12)
The Cherokee Log of Time by Susan Dale
The Cherokee son was wondering where to go next when a thundering surge of water hit him full force. Pushed backwards, he was knocked to his knees. Before he could know what hit him, the waters rushed on him again. / This time, he fell flat out on his back with waters splashing around to over him, ‘as though I am but a pebble in their path.’ / Expelling water from his mouth, simultaneously, he shook water from his hair. ‘What the hell?’ He managed to right himself while wiping water from his eyes, even as he struggled to catch his breath. ‘Whoops, now something is hitting my shoulder.’ / Looking into the waters, he saw a hollow log bumping him. Surges of water repeatedly shoved the log into his shoulder. ‘And after the log hits me, it rolls back, as though to gain momentum to hit me again.’ (added 10.07.12)
Chocolate Fate & Pinball Circumstance by MH Clay
OK, I’m sitting in a restaurant at Trudeau Airport, Dorval (My ignorance abated by the patronizing smile of the bus driver who informed me that Dorval was Trudeau—how am I to know these things?). An enormous piece of chocolate cake, on a large white plate, criss-crossed with drizzles of chocolate syrup, is before me. The syrup drizzles are surely arranged to convey a secret message. There is no coincidence or chance to the pattern. Concerned with the potential for chocolate syrup to stain my jacket cuff, I methodically scrape the fringes of the secret message from the outer rim into the safe zone, plate center / Here I consider the possibility that my unconscious reply, through my compulsive plate scraping, will perplex the dishwasher in the scullery... (added 08.31.12)
Cockfight by Jenean McBrearty
I loved my cock. El Pollo Diablo. He was a quiet cock most of the time. None of the hens could make him screech. Proud and strong, he'd swagger 'round that barnyard, and if any of the gals got in his way, he'd peck 'em to death. With or without his silver spurs, that ol' blood lust would kick in and he'd be ready to kick ass. / People say chickens are stupid, it ain't true. Diablo knew we were a team—the best there ever was. For all of 1935, anyway. We'd head out from Calexico 'bout 9 o'clock and pull into Algodones 'round ten thirty. I'd drive my Chevy pick-up up to Los Tigres Del Sur's back door and haul my crate inside and down the stairs where hombres from every cattle ranch and hay farm, from Mexicali to Nogales, brought their fighters every Saturday night... (added 09.07.12)
Confession by Arma Benoit
I think the worst part of this whole story is how few details I remember about the guy. I don’t remember his name, but he worked as a bartender where I was a waitress. He had a real job, too, somewhere in an office. I remember that part because one year I needed my tax return postmarked on the 15th of April and he was able to do it with some machine at his job. I also remember he wanted me. Once, I went to his house, or apartment (it’s foggy), and we watched some awful movie. It was about this gang of homeless guys who lived in some weird complex and they ended up raping some hooker to death. Worse still, it was supposed to be some kind of semi-funny B-movie. And I remember that his apartment smelled like a guy’s dorm room-feet and beer... (added 09.14.12)
The Decisive Moment by Kim Farleigh
“God,” my grandmother once told me, “what an ugly thing you are!” / Before the black-and-white television, (speech forbidden), she jerked, the expression left her eyes... / A stray cat, once owned by previous tenants in our block of council flats, its upkeep shared by the remaining occupants, was in the room observing the urinating woman’s tormented memories spiraling into the abyss, cat and adolescent perplexed by the growing wet patch on the woman’s lower-abdomen region, her gasp-whispers like a suffering bird’s, this undignified departure from life’s stresses symbolic of the shambolic existence that had preceded it, cat and adolescent colliding, the room seemingly possessed, Puss smacking a table leg in terror. / Downstairs, gripping the public phone, I pleaded: “Get here fast.”... (added 08.16.12)
The Garden of Paranoia by Mel Waldman
It returned every night for months and frightened the middle-aged reporter, aspiring novelist blessed and cursed with an uncanny imagination. The haunting dream swept across his unconscious psyche and implanted the eerie seeds of terror in his battered flesh, the pounding and thumping of his heart, the crushing blows of death, profuse sweating mixed with the stench of a thunderous storm of evil. /
He wandered in a vast labyrinthine Garden of Paranoia. Although he appeared to be alone in this bleak dreamscape, he believed that someone or something had followed him into this alien place. He turned around, but saw no one; behind and around him, above and below, nothing. Yet his frenzied eyes continued to dart and flit across the infinite garden. (added 03.05.13)
The Gateway Arch by Addie Soaraki
No ride to the top for Louisville. /
Nope. Not enough money. He and Burt stood right on the cusp of going under the St. Louis Gateway Arch, this 630 foot tall monument that the better folks proclaim is the Gateway to the West. Yeah, right. Some gateway. Too expensive to reach to the top on the little elevator that all the Homer Simpsons of America and their families flock to like the pigeons they really are to just plain get high for five to ten dead presidents. / “Hey, dude,” Burt suggested, “we could walk to the top.” /
Louisville was quick to quash that superfluous suggestion: “But you’d be in the magic arch. We’re gonna go through it, like in Stargate. /
“What the f— How?” /
“It’s magic, dude.” /
Louis, named after this very city, St. Louis, called himself Night Train, mainly because that’s what he is all about. (added 04.16.13)
Goddamn You! by Jim Meirose
She liked to let the bird out. She liked to let her out and watch it fly free from room to room of the house, from windowsill to windowsill. She liked the flurry of the wings and the mild brush of air that wafted over her when the bird flew by. Nothing should be caged up all its life, she knew; nothing as beautiful and innocent as this bird. It came out of the cage like a baby being born each time, its joy obvious as it flew gracefully around the perimeter of the room. It reminded her of a happy child—and she imagined the child growing through the years as the child she’d always wanted would. (added 02.25.13)
Happy As Is by Jack Miller
Hendrik Mogul lives in a box and is happy as is. /
Natural, box-making materials are his horizon. The four corners give Hendrik direction and order. /
Choices. Send a toe into the west corner, thinks Hendrik, and he has new ease. (added 02.18.13)
Instructions for Making Instant Coffee by Kate Cipolla
1: Get up in the morning. It’s definitely tricky, especially because she always used to wake you up in the morning, and now the side of the bed is cold where she used to sleep. She was always a morning person. But you’ve got to get up in the morning, nonetheless, and morning is technically before noon, so that’s a decent time frame. / 2: Go to the kitchen. You’ve always hated the color of the walls—stark white, blank white, there-is-no-hope-snowstorm-white. She always used to say that the white wasn’t blank, but full of invisible possibilities, could-happens and maybes that only became clear later. These days it reminds you of hospital rooms. You remember those all too clearly these days. (added 09.21.12)
It Begins by Lewis Gesner
It begins in the present. A man sits to write letters. He finds his pen has no ink, but continues to write. This solves the problem of his fear: it frees him. So he writes the letter, puts it into an envelope, addresses it invisibly and prepares it to be mailed. Satisfied, he begins another. And he is freer with every stroke of his pen: there is no fear left. Invisible letters, he can write everything he needs or wants to say. / So he writes love letters. (added 09.28.12)
Jaybird on Crack by Addie Soaraki
Perhaps Tex, standing out in front of what was known as Crack-Donald’s, a local MacDonald’s downtown where all the shorties hung out and sold rocks for a couple bucks, didn’t really mean to drop a small, two-centimeter nugget of some really good crack cocaine onto the sidewalk. But by the time he realized what he’d done—just digging in that pocket, pulling out stone after stone for the pretty girls and high school kids—the jaybird was off and flying, rock of crack in beak. / “Da-a-amn!” Tex laughed. That was gonna be three bucks he wasn’t gonna see. But what about the bird? / It wasn’t too long before Tex and his partners discovered how crack affects the bird-brain of a rabid, blue-winged spitfire shooting fire out its ass. (added 10.19.12)
Janie by Phil Lane
Janie was this girl I knew when I lived on East 29th Street near the FDR Drive. I remember her best the night the ambulance came. We’d spent the afternoon drinking and her skin had had this grayish tint like spoiled milk. Her wiry arms were a network of pinholes, a junkie’s connect-the-dots. The apartment was three monastic rooms in the basement of a brownstone. The little windows were like portholes on the steerage deck of a ship. All you could see were people’s feet hurrying by and in the summer, you could pick up snippets of the yuppies’ and parvenus’ inane conversations. / She smiled and blew me a kiss as they strapped her to the gurney. I wondered if her underwear was clean. My mother had always considered this a cardinal requirement for living in the world. (added 02.04.13)
Looking For Clues by Nathaniel Tower
Most people thought our house was haunted because my brother killed himself in the attic. The police said it wasn't really a suicide. It wasn't neglect either. No one would've thought Grandpa's old war guns could've been loaded. I guess I shouldn't have told him what was up there. But no one would've guessed they still worked. / I haven't been to the attic since the police left. I've always wondered if they cleaned everything off the walls and what they did with Grandpa's guns. / Most people say something evil must've caused it. Little boys just don't go and shoot themselves in the head. (added 06.20.12)
Maybe It Was Sleep Apnea by Donal Mahoney
Zenobia Jackson told Officer Murphy that her husband Rufus was 73 years old and a wonderful man when he was awake, but for the past year he had been jerking. Something terrible during his sleep and had kept waking her up. He'd swing his arms, she said, like those martial arts men he liked to watch so much on television. When the bouts were over, he'd give her a big kiss on the forehead and go to bed. / "Oh, he was just a doll," she said, "when he was awake." / In the last month, however, Rufus had fallen out of bed three times, fighting in his dreams. Sometimes he dreamt he was shooting at burglars breaking into their house in the old neighborhood. (added 07.01.12)
Morning of the Friendly Dead by Rupan Malakin
That morning, I felt as miserable as a vampire with a toothache. Sure, no one forced me to watch an Evil Dead triple-header until four a.m., but equally the world had to be a fault for making me get out of bed, let alone go to work. I crawled into yesterday’s shirt and trousers, ate toast and stared vacantly at the grouting between the kitchen floor tiles. On my way out, I glanced in the mirror and shuddered. I looked like an extra from Day of the Undead Office Drone. / Late, I cut through the cemetery to get to the subway. It was already autumn, the air damp, the sky like old dishwater, and as I hurried between the graves I got a bit spooked out, imagining mouldy hands sprouting from the muddy ground and half-eaten vicars lurching from the rectory doors. (added 08.07.12)
My MFA College Application by Nina Hart
Dear Mr. and Mrs. School Monger, / I am an important figure in the history of writing here in the United Republic of the State of My Apartment’s Swimming Pool. And I will be a very important figure in literature. Especially after the global-enfolding tornadoes hit and all the people on earth are gone. / My purpose on earth is to get through writing this application. I am very happy to provide you with recommendations from people who think I am wonderful. You can talk to them about the reasons you should hire me as a student into your gracious program. I am like a genius or something. You should recognize me as gifted and special and like the second coming of Hans Christian Winston Salem the 3rd, because I am, Hans Christian Winston Salem the 3rd. (added 04.30.13)
Nothing Seems to Ever Get Better by Shawn Macrae
I can no longer look at them. They make me sick: the kind of nausea that a sheltered catholic school girl gets on her first night at the university. They're very white and very dreadfully boring, but there's nothing else to do. At least I can say that they're strong enough to barricade all of the hideous things from which they currently protect me. But I'm not safe. I'll never be safe, and I'm in dire need of some sleep. If only I could maintain an hour or two then perhaps I'd be somewhat strong enough to keep my mind from soaring. It's like a bird in the early autumn breeze only it perches on the barrel of the pistol from which it beckons me to bury it point blank between the brows of my eyes, and paint those very white and dreadfully boring walls with the back of my head. (added 07.30.12)
On A Monday Morning by Shawn Macrae
He casually looks around, and his eyes begin to swell with a sort of impatient madness. He begins to fidget, leaning from one leg to the other, grinding his teeth, as an infant howls throughout the confined corridor. He hates himself for having become one with the many who thrive on the caffeinated concoction of original blend with milk and melted sugar. Even more, he hates the strange faces that stand before him in a line that seemingly doesn't move. He attempts to persuade himself to leave. Missing his morning appointment can cost him his job, but outside awaits the cloud that will follow him throughout the day should he choose to procrastinate his currently desperate situation. (added 04.09.13)
One Day in November by Mike Lafontaine
Where to begin? / I guess it all started one day in November. I had recently extracted myself from a relationship that I will not mention to spare myself any embarrassment that I might have brought upon myself. I was a fool to think that anything would work with Linda. She wanted to settle down to a life of banal necessity. I played the role I thought she wanted me to play. She talked about Sunday mornings, hot coffee and newspapers. She talked about summer picnics and eventually she talked about marriage and children. I went along with all this, encouraged it even, until finally I could not keep up the charade any longer and my despondency with this life reached its apex. I extricated myself from Linda without even an explanation. (added 11.16.12)
Only Dictators Win the Lottery and Have Private Planes
by Michael Aaron Casares
Neville had always told me that he pictured himself from a very young age as the type of individual who was very successful and powerful. He dreamed big. He said at the age of five instead of playing Ninja Turtles with his friends, he was El Capitan, the commander of a vast army, busting down the doors of citizens and exerting his force. Fortunately, Neville had no military experience and probably never would. There were other things about his aspirations that were more humble, opening a business or something that would generate net worth or fame, or both. What he hadn’t told me, as he explained on the way to a private airfield, was that he had won the lottery. I was stoked for him, and could certainly understand why they had insisted on paying for the trip. (added 11.02.12)
Paddy Murphy's Wake by Donal Mahoney
The priest had been there earlier and the rosary was said; relatives and friends in single file were offered condolences. "Sorry for your troubles," one by one they said, bending over Maggie Murphy, the widow silent in her rocker, a foot or so from Paddy, resplendent in his casket, the two of them much closer now than they had ever been. / A silent guest of honor, Paddy now had nothing more to say, waked in aspic, if you will, in front of his gothic fireplace. / The moon was full this starless night and the hour was getting late, still the widow hadn't wept. Her eyes were swept Sahara deserts, and the mourners wanted tears. (added added 01.28.13)
Payback by Carl Kavadlo
Out in Brooklyn, they wore fedoras, but their mouths sounded different. / ‘The problem I have is that he’s fucking lying.’ / ‘I have a problem with these cocksuckers, too.’ / ‘Sartre would be turning over in his grave.’ / ‘Yeah, he hated when a man disguised the social for the personal.’ / Frankie called Uncle Paulie, 718-258-1212, at the Boston Road Lounge, Bronx. A gruff voice answered. / ‘Hullo. Vito, lemme talk to Paulie.’ / ‘Izzis Frankie?’ / ‘Yeah.’ / ‘Hold on.’ / The big man got up. He had a lead belly. He had been sitting at the bar, nursing an Anisette. Vito had been talking about the horses to Big Frank, the bartender. He was another Frank. / Paulie got on the line. / ‘Yeh.’. (added added 01.01.13)
Pretzel Jacket by Rob Dyer
I went for a walk the other day. I stepped out with no place in mind. I was tired of seeing the same old things, and needed some fresh ideas. Sadly, each corner had old branches hanging over stop signs, bent from vandals. That 76’ Sedan Deville, still hanging on to chromed spoke wheels, was as stuck to asphalt, as I to chaos. / Ms. Waters looked nice today, her years only visible in her words I seldom heard. I happened upon a couple of mongrel dogs, locked in a distorted moment of passion that bordered on the grotesque: He pushed, thinking in; she pulled, wanting out... (added 06.03.12)
Reason to Buy a Toothbrush by Alun Williams
You never invite the women you sleep with into your bed because she’s the one you’ll eventually marry. The couch is for the girls you pick up, and while they aren’t always prostitutes, your luck with women usually mean they are. / You can’t recall her name, but nameless is better. The woman lies on the couch where you’ve both done the dirty and you notice that she’s still wearing her stilettos. You afford yourself a little smile because you know that it’s a sign that she’s a professional... (added 10.12.12)
The Ruin by Carl Kavadlo
‘Well, when you put “I” in the story, it doesn’t mean it’s about you?’ Harrison asked in an empty bar in Red Hook. / ‘How’s that?’ Jameson asked. / Harrison repeated the question. / ‘No,’ Jameson said, ‘because it’s a fiction piece, even if it’s based on something that’s true.’ / ‘That gives you a chance to twist it around a little bit, huh?’ Harrison said. / 'Right,’ Jameson said. ‘That’s why this is called creative writing.’ / ‘So, that piece wasn’t about you?’ / ‘That doesn’t matter,’ the mentor said. ‘You’re missing the point. As soon as you’ve got a character going somewhere, doing something, having a problem he has to solve, meeting resistance, it’s a story.’ / ‘Well, what about that trip to Philly?’ / ‘It wasn’t about me.’ / ‘But I know it was.’ / ‘Again, it’s not about “I” once it enters the story zone. It’s just a way to say something. “I", “He,” they’re the story’s narrative mode.’... (added 07.08.12)
Santa’s Viewpoint by Bonnie Ogle
Don’t cry to me about your shopping stress in December when parking lot surveillance cameras are capturing men with white beards who only look like me breaking into automobiles and mugging people in mall parking lots, while local news outlets vie for coverage, reporting on Santas pretending to collect toys for charity, or worse, rampaging in red-clad mobs like those dozens of New Zealanders, running through the streets of Auckland stealing merchandise from stores and assaulting guards with beer bottles, prompting legislators everywhere to enact laws governing my behavior, such as the Florida legislature prohibiting sex offenders from working dressed as me, or my pal the Easter Bunny... (added 04.02.13)
Sex Machine Metamorphosis by Johnna A. Hammerman
We’ve all most likely read Franz Kafka’s story about Gregor Samsa turning into a cockroach. We tend to remember the poor young man as he squirmed, legs-up in his bed, worried like all of us from time to time whether or not he was going to be able to get to the labyrinthine confusion of his daily workaday experience. / Unlike Gregor Samsa’s story, Jimmy's story is real. All told, evidenced by his almost ridiculous position as a mid-level manager for an IT corporation, one in which he practically genuflected before the “true executives” even as he wore expensive suits, Jimmy was really nothing much. Like many who suffer anomie due to our yoked position as a white-collar pack animal, he did long for more, and often “more” ended-up as overindulgence of various hallucinogens and, of course, alcohol... (added 01.15.13)
The Sky Looked Like Cotton Candy by Jake Grieco
The light turned green and I pressed softly on the accelerator. The beginnings of a post-rainstorm sunset sat painted the sky above the streets we’ve both driven on for years. The only difference between the nights in this town is the way the sun decides to disappear. / He turned to me. “My mom’s really been on me to spend more time with her. Her friend’s son just died.” / “That’s horrible. Is she okay?” / “Suicide is just so stupid.” / “Shit. He killed himself. God, that’s horrible.” / “I blame it on religion. If people didn’t believe in that shit nobody would want to kill themselves. Because someone created the concept of an afterlife people don’t realize this is the only life they’re ever going to have.” He was getting worked up. This had been sitting on him for a while, I thought as I admired the sunset once more... (added 03.26.13)
Sprinklers by Eric Suhem
Do what you love was the message of a self-help book that Sam was reading on his lunch break at Acme Mega Corp. He worked in the sewage billing division, processing invoices for plumbing fixtures and toilet components. Sam was not doing what he loved. / Looking up from the book, Sam gazed out the window at the manicured lawn of the corporate office park. His eyes were drawn to the lawn sprinkler jets about twenty-feet away. One sprinkler jet was situated in such a way that its angle in relation to the oleander and juniper plants nearby triggered something in his brain chemistry that felt like a religious experience. He had a vision of a group of men riding bicycles on the edge of a cliff, each of them wearing a long, white lab coat with a big black question mark on the back... (added 04.23.13)
Still Life by Philip Kobylarz
Somebody get me out of here. I have no idea what is happening and if you’re reading this, you’re an American (maybe) and you must, by the law of culture, help me out. We do have only a little control of our lives as we know in our lizard brains that life itself is totally out of control. If any of this rings true in any sense, let me spill the details of my personal circle of hell. Yes, you should have read Dante if even as a twenty-something while you lived in an attic of a German woman’s apartment who was studying to be a nun, and who you saw in her underwear (plum-colored) during your student days in the humid fields of Iowa at that famous school that is really famous for being famous and not much else. When you flinched she called you a “prude” and you didn’t even know what it meant. What follows is worse, so much worse that it feels like it happened and will not stop happening. Like a memory stuck on On in the brain... (added 11.11.12)
Tuesday by Jon Cor
It’s snowing brass under orange lamppost night, shrapnel, the slow motion petals of an exploding Eden. Somewhere out there Mommy’s feet work like pendulums; a kind of guided meditation to see her through the cold and the dark and the poor that, like her, will do anything to take care of their own. / Anything. / Still, “He’s safe,” she tells her trembling self. “He’s in his crib. He’s c-c-crying and that’s what the pediatrician c-c-called a good sign.” / Squinting behind the icicles forming along her eyelashes as she passes, she pretends not to see them scratching in and out of the shadows in search of everything from a penny to a cigarette to God’s for-better-or-for-worse attention... (added 12.04.12)
[Untitled: nouns and unnouns] by Edward Wells II
I watched a bird jump from the side of a building, rising for a moment with a gentle arc, like some fucked-up angel dust fiend; then beginning to move up and forward less and less, then downward more and more, beginning to flap its wings that angel dust fiends do not have, and flying away. And I wonder what did it carry away? / You sway minutely with a breeze, gently shuffle just half a stride away from my side. / "We used to have something," you say, and I can't quite grasp where this is going. / "Yes." I speak the word quietly. "Did you see what that bird was carrying?" I half-point at the dark blot floating toward the rooftop of the old cinema on the next block that has been undergoing renovation. / "No," you say back. "Now, we are constantly giving to each other." You look at me. For a moment the wind blows your hair out over the edge of the roof. "We just give and give and it isn't even to get what we want now."... (added 08.24.12)
What We See by Kim Farleigh
Ice chunks flew at people dashing prematurely into the ring. A worried woman shielded her face as icy, Roman artillery pellets flashed around heads as the crowd chanted, “Sons of bitches. Sons of bitches...” / A New Zealander looked on and said, “A crowd of heroes.” / Entering the ring safely to avoid paying to sit in the stands was taboo. / A man, screaming “Arsehole”, hurled a glass bottle at a smiling runner, as the New Zealander said, “What a hero.” / Bodies filled the alleyway between the barrier and the front row as bodies swarmed over the barrier as the bulls charged across the ring and into the pens as the ring was packed with people in white. / Cows were released into the ring so that the runners could test their dodging skills. (added 03.12.13)
Where Poems Come From by Bud Smith
Lee wrote a poem every day. Sometimes two. He’d done that since he was fifteen. Now he was sixty-seven years old and retired. / Friday night, he decided to walk to a small bar that had a monthly poetry reading. Lee had been to absolutely no readings, so he wasn’t sure if he would like what he saw. Inside, there was a small stage. Four poets ambled up one at a time and mumbled into the mic. Sitting at a little table in the corner, he thought he recognized a line. “Ordinary life glows hyper violet and becomes a staircase leading into the unknown on payday”. / He couldn’t place it, but he thought he had written something very much like that. (added 12.18.12)
Wisteria Island by Lilly Penhall
In the small backyard surrounding my parents’ crumbling house that might be foreclosed in a week, mother wishes we could be the pallbearers for the Weber grill that is rusted to shit and falling apart, to relocate it out of the walking path, and since the five foot chiminea is in the way, to relocate that as well. “Let’s do it,” I say, and she looks at me with slight surprise, because in all of my 29 years I don’t think I’ve ever volunteered for manual labor outside in the sun, especially not involving their backyard. As a child I grumbled while weeding their organic garden and picking fruits and vegetables that my dad grew with some kind of magic that made the largest, juiciest, most delicious produce I’d ever eaten. (added 11.25.12)
A Pint Short of a Full Load by Gene Fehler
...He often wished he didn't have Type 0 Negative blood. He must be the only person in town with Type 0 Negative, else why would the Red Cross call him every few months and say, "Could you please come out today and give us a pint of blood? We're in desperate need of Type 0 Negative." / They always talked as if his blood alone would save humanity. He imagined rows of hospital beds with dying people calling out, "Where the hell is Howard Pentock? I need his Type 0 Negative right now!" / But what the hell, it was nice to be needed. Those Type As and Bs and ABs and whatever else there was were probably not as much in demand as he was. Every once in a while—not all the time, unfortunately—he'd have a pretty nurse like this one to touch his arm... (added 01.07.12)
At His Funeral He Still Looked Like Johnny Cash by Tyler Malone
“That sounds fine. As long as the Lord Jesus Christ doesn’t come back before then.” / This was the first response I got from my grandfather, Pawbe, when I told him I wanted to draw. / “When does Jesus want to come back?”/“We don’t know. No one does. But it’s soon.” / I didn’t respond. I just slid down the humorless, black, Star Wars slide in his backyard. In seconds I reached the bottom where Pawbe stood. He looked immense and dark, like he should have been smoking. But he never put sin to his lips. / “Why would Jesus come back before I grow up and got to go to school?”/ “Because you are a sinner, and so am I, so is everyone. We need His saving grace, so He’s coming back to destroy the earth.” (added 10.24.10)
Bad Trip by Carl Kavadlo
Leslie decided he really was going to kill her. She was resting in the bedroom to some Oprah re-run. So Leslie removed from the inside of a shining, brown leather briefcase containing a number of forms and instruction manuals, a long-handled gun with a muzzle and blew her brains against a wall silently. / He went down two flights of stairs with a ringing echo into his own place. Three rooms, second floor. It was 8:30 P.M. / One half hour passed. / There was a knock on the door. Leslie had been lighting a cigarette with a gold lighter and his hand remained stable. (added 03.27.12)
Bake Up by Erik Knutsen
She had imagined once that love was soft and squishy like carrot cake or banana bread. With Claude, it was at first, if not a little moister than she wanted. But as the initial passion wore off, she found it to be a little more light and flaky– croissants, cherry pinwheels; she found the portions bigger but less filling. / Three years of her life had been given to Claude, and she could no longer pretend that she even liked him. (added 09.01.11)
Battles Into Sunset by Susan Dale
...The Cherokee son kept his eyes to the ground searching... until he found what he was looking for; a fat log on which to sit. He plopped down on it with his shoulders and head hanging forward, and his long legs bent in v-shapes. Yanking off his socks, he unrolled his poncho to the powder that he shook on his feet. And after unrolling a pair of clean socks out from his poncho, he wiggled his feet inside of them. Then he swallowed an orange pill and several white ones; they had been rolled inside of his clean socks. But as he was tying his soiled socks around his belt in preparation of moving on, he felt the thumps of steps pounding the ground. And when he smelled the cordite of firefights, he knew that soldiers were coming... (added 04.19.11)
BRAAAAPhooooooo! by Jim Meirose
The car goes BRAAAAPhooooooo-- / Let's see. A Remington 870 would do the job. That's a good compact shotgun. / Need an Optima Red Top Battery. This big engine takes a lot of cranking power. / The car goes BRAAAAPhooooooo-- / Or maybe I should use my Remington 1100. Nice and light, well balanced shotgun. / Need an oil filter relocation kit, with this big engine. We just barely shoehorned this monster in here. / The car goes BRAAAAPhooooooo-- (added 03.20.10)
The Cage by Mel Waldman
I live in a cage ten stories below Grand Central Station. My master used to lock the cage and disappear for days. He left no food or water. Now, each morning when I wake up, I find food and water and discover he’s left the cage unlocked. What shall I do? Perhaps, he’s poisoned the food and contaminated the water. But I’m starving to death. I must eat. And my thirst is unbearable. I must drink to survive. After I satisfy these needs, a distant voice inside my head whispers to me: “It’s time to leave.” I cringe and shrivel up and crawl to a corner of my dark home. I close my eyes and travel to another time and place where I’m human again. (added 06.15.11)
Collision by Sara Rebecca Zarzycki
“Shit.” The words escape my mouth as the headlights roar towards me. My seat belt tenses across my chest, and my car lunges into fast turning circles. / The lights outside are blurry against my window, like someone smeared soapy watercolors across them. The air inside my car stands still. I relax against the headrest and feel the figure eights deep inside my stomach. My car must be going sixty, but I let go of the steering wheel and let it pull me. I breathe out, letting myself sink into the vinyl chair. I inhale and the smell of incinerating rubber lingers in my lungs. (added 05.15.12)
A Dead Vampire by Madeline Dyer
...You've no idea how incredibly guilty I feel. I should have learnt to fight my own battles better. I can't always be relying on you, my wonderful big brother. / It’s all my fault. They’ll kill you if they find you. Mum and Dad keep telling me not to blame myself, but I can't help it. I don’t know how they can be so calm, they just sit there talking, with their mugs of ridiculously-sweet frothy coffee and their plates of sugar-coated chocolate biscuits. They must be in shock. I am, or at least I was - I don't know anymore... (added 10.16.11)
Entropy by Edward Wells II
...A wrapper spun at the base of the hallway's wall. A piece of string swung at the top of the stairwell. He pointed the toe of his shoe at the spinning wrapper, then across a seam with a thump. Another thump against the angled concrete above the stairs. Another fainter down the hall. The light grew brighter and brighter. He reached the bottom step. The last on the left. The door was the end. Light streamed and spread around the darkened concrete wall. Light from above and up the steps on either side of the wall ahead at the end of building. (added 03.12.12)
Eugene’s Crayola Will by Kevin Ridgeway
The children’s screams were completely deafening and were centered within the plastic ball pit of Buck N. Ear’s Pizza Joy Palace. Every single tot ran to the sanctuaries of skirts and mom jeans, their heads being massaged by manicured hands. Cory was the assistant manager on duty for the night, perplexed but determined to define the cause of this strange disturbance. He clumsily tumbled through the open net and dived into the sea of multi colored balls. Cory instantly felt a human body at the pit’s abyss. (added 11.21.11)
Flight by Django Gold
It was not the New Zealander who took me up, a tan and talkative strider of a man who spoke passionately of the region’s farming system on the drive over the mountain, weighing forth on irrigation and cold-weather storage. Not he, nor the gregarious German lug who took my friend away, clutching him between his meaty thighs in much the same way as I would have pictured a mother bird carrying her hatchling to level ground. None of these, but a stone-silent man who fetched from the roof of the van the bulky roll of gliding apparatus and immediately set to fanning it out on the sunned matting that covered the slope before us. (added 05.17.10)
Good Morning, 26 Degrees by R.E. Samson
A slight chill wakes me from the deep, hard sleep; the cracked window, which has never been fully closed since May, directs a breeze into my nostrils. The air is salted from the nearby ocean, accented with the smell of a dying onion patch across the street. The cold makes me jump to immediately. Flipping the baseboards on with my toe I run downstairs and boil up some tea to soak my Clif bar in. The uniform slides on quickly and with comfort before I step out of the hundred year-old shack. My Texan bones shiver at the sight of my truck’s thermometer, but the past five years of hearty DC winters keep my blood pumping warm and strong. (added 04.17.12)
Home by Shonna Gillis
...I knew peace wasn’t permanent. I just wanted it to last for a little while longer. Nothing lasts, and when that reality sets in harder than before, I head to the coast. To the water and sand, waves breaking hard and settling slow, a salty whisper at its lip.
/ I was fifteen years old the first time I truly experienced the absolute pacification of what I now call my Realm of Serenity.
/ The beach welcomed me into its arms that day. A day I searched for solace like never before. It was my savior. I wish my love for the beach was still that pure. Now I’m in one of Jay’s old t-shirts, a broken sandal kicking up sand, and I’m looking for the only thing that brings me peace... (added 06.13.10)
The House by Suvi Mahonen
Just checked out the window. Robert’s still sitting there. Wish he’d get out of that suit and tie, he must be so hot. But there’s no use wasting my breath. Sunday’s always suit day. / He looks so lonely. I don’t know why they don’t house him with someone else with Down syndrome. At least he’d be able to talk to them. Feel like ringing up his parents. Giving them a what for. Something like: Get your arses down here right now. You know he expects you every Sunday. Surely you can spare a measly hour a week? Yeah right. I’m full of shit. Still, it would get some of the tension off. Me that is. Robert’s been tense all day. (added 02.27.10)
I Imagine Her Reaction by Suvi Mahonen
‘So have you two decided on a name for my granddaughter yet?’ / ‘Mum. You don’t know it’s a girl.’ / ‘Mmm. Maybe. But our family always seems to have girls born first. Aunty Emma was born first. You were born first. And your cousins Shani and Nina are older than their brothers.’ / ‘What about Brett?’ I say. / ‘He’s on your dad’s side.’ She raises her cup. ‘I’m so happy to finally be getting a grandchild,’ she says. ‘Let’s go have a look at the baby shop next if your legs aren’t too tired.’ / I take the lid off my cup to get to the last of the ice. I think of what the obstetrician said about my nineteen-week ultrasound. (added 08.10.10)
If You Bleed, It’s Your Own Business by Tyler Malone
Already the second Friday of school, seniors had yet to punish a single freshman boy for his classification, so that night, girls still filling out would be baited by bottles of Boones Farm, and freshmen boys, testicles freshly dropped, could only enjoy beer if they consented to a match in Josh’s hand-built, backyard boxing ring. / Though Josh had never beaten anyone up, he had spent all summer constructing the ring, and this would cleanse him of what he assumed was shameful blemish of non-violence. (added 08.17.11)
Just Another Juggernaut In Texas by Tyler Malone
To this trucker, 9:17 in the morning feels the same way as 9:17 in the evening. But unlike the night before, my rig’s gas gauge was nearly on E outside Vernon, a town that makes the Great Chihuahuan desert a little less bearable. The terrain seemed to be bursting with bulbous water towers, and hotel signs poked out of dead, desert soil. The gauge slept on its side in my dash -meaning empty -as I went through the town and hit the last gas station just to do it; just to go to a station a bit more out of the way and a little less busy. This place I found was full service: a rare animal. Yellow construction machines warmed unmanned on the September day in an uncompleted ditch by the filling station. (added 01.24.11)
La Loquera by Emily Riggert
Chicharras, I think, was the last word you taught me. Cariño was the first. The other day Erica told me cochinada and I’ve asked her several times to repeat it, same way I did with chicharras and you. Chingao was the very first, back, back, back when still living in that little hovel off N. St. Mary’s St. with Teresa and her window-bashing inter-lopper, Neal. / I remember that cariñosa morning. In my bed one of those early days when I’d leave for class and come back, you still asleep and so handsome in my dark pink sheets, cold emanating from the tile floor of our heat-less house. Holding onto the pink fuzzy pillow as if it were me. I still sleep in that same bed, under the same sheets, in a new house now. A new city, alone. (added 11.26.10)
The Legend of Bo Grass by Shawn R. Misener
A pretty long time ago, when perfumes were new, there were perfume factories, and behind a particular perfume factory rested a toad named Bo Grass. He was a goddamned giant animal, the size of a boisterous shrub, or a small school bus. / Bo ruled the city by suggesting new scent formulas in a booming croak of a voice that shook the earth for acres around, and as a result everybody in town smelled like fairy breath. Or, on his BAD BREATH DAYS, all of the people reeked of rotted sushi from an elk's ass. (added 12.26.11)
Long Shot Chance by Roger Real Drouin
The truck’s front all-terrain tires hit the concrete curb stop. He shut it down, stepped out and carried in the bloody bundle of blankets. Carried it gently. She met him at the door and took the bundle, a Rough-legged Hawk shot through the wing. With her foot she pushed open the door to the back area of the wildlife animal hospital, and she was gone. / Back out in the cold rain, he shut the truck door and realized how much blood had spilled on the seat and the carpet, a streak of deep crimson from when the truck sank into a sippie hole, and the frightened hawk tried to get free. (added 06.30.10)
Looking Forward by Joey Da'rrell Cloudy
Nathan and Mona both were looking forward to Aaron’s arrival. Besides the fact that they both enjoyed his company, his presence kept them from fighting. Things were becoming difficult between them since Mona had stopped having sex with Nathan around the time she started pursuing Trevor. Aaron was coming over to watch movies with them. It had evolved into a sort of a ritual for them by now, his arrival after work with a small stash of bud concealed in some hidden compartment in his ALICE pack. There was this organic quality to the way things had been going. (added 07.25.10)
The Marquis hates his cell by C. Goodison
The Marquis hates rotting away in this cell but has decided to make the best of it. Servants provide rich food, oysters and asparagus tips, and once a week I present myself for him to do as he wishes. For a token sum, I submit to a dozen mice gnawing at my feet or patches of bloodsuckers at my hips. He’s creative in his punishments which last until there is blood, or I am in tears, begging to be relieved. (added 03.19.11)
Michael Jackson Stole My Career by Anthony Malone
...Michael Jackson: rich as Croesus, loopier than a sack of polecats and served glasses of chilled Pepsi Cola by roller-skating monkey waiters. I make do with pork brains in milk gravy most nights and if it hadn’t been for an act of altruism on my part five years ago it'd be a fat T-bone steak for me every night, and no mistake. Fact is, I taught the King of Pop how to defy the laws of physics; and if this was a fair world that would count for something, but it isn’t, so it doesn’t. Pork brains it is. (added 07.10.11)
Peace by Chiranjibi Niroula
My darling / Sweet remembrance! / You left me many years ago. I have been searching you since then but all in vain you might have been in dark or in galaxy or some where else. I have been facing each second different. God, how many seconds have I faced without you? I’m so excited to share my hard movement, happiness and sadness to you. Some people say you are there in acme and I tried to triumph over there, but I was unproductive! Some one said, you had gone to abyss. I tried to excavate the earth but I was in enigma. Alas! Many say I am barmy now. May the Almighty defend me! / I had rummaged you around the hills, gorges, glaciers, hurricanes, Tsunamis, in winds and water, in the stars and every where... (added 10.11.10)
A Photo Snapped Shortly Before I was Lifted Aboard the Alien Space Craft by Chuck Calabreze
My ex-wife took this photo. If I seem distracted, it’s because I was. I was just leaving the Museum of My Perpetual Despair. I wore a white shirt and jeans. The bronze-buckled belt is lost to history, as is the single gold earring. I carried a sheaf of papers, though I cannot recall anything about them. Perhaps they concerned my then-recent divorce. Perhaps they documented my mortgage, the foreclosure, my lengthy illness, my three surgeries. I recall the museum and the exhibition clearly, though. (added 02.18.12)
The Polygamist in Me by Tracie Skarbo
I wonder how much time I will have to write, free of the others droning on about how much time I spend without them. How much of my time has been taken from them to serve my fingers and thoughts with no regard for their feelings and desires? This is the constant bicker of the three spouses that I could do without... (added 07.29.11)
Separation by Prashant Das
Perhaps their separation had begun long before they met. What one lacks is what he seeks in others, they say. They both lacked the same thing—the ability to look out of themselves. They were lost, so lost within themselves they never quite saw each other clearly and never realized they weren’t meant to be together. / Or, perhaps, they began to part when he first saw her standing in front of a painting he couldn’t understand and smiling to herself. Those thin lips painted in red lipstick parted slowly and she moved her tongue over them to keep them wet. She didn’t have the finest set of teeth but that didn’t matter... (added 01.30.12)
The Shell of Mariette by Sheree La Puma-Watson
...Mariette wakes in absence-no hangover-no headache-no parched sweet pea breath. Just lack of want or need or hunger. This is fresh uncharted territory. This has never happened before. She has never felt human. An inaccessible womb cut off from life by razor sharp blows, she has never been anyone’s daughter, wife or mother and she is tired of being everyone’s girl, bitch, and whore... (added 12.06.11)
The Sound of the Cars on the Bridge by Len Kuntz
Overhead, vehicles cross the great bridge at astonishing speeds, racecar fast. Their collective echo shrieks like audible horror trapped in a jar, the noise bouncing between girders. The concrete joists shudder as if the bridge itself is suffering a seizure, convulsing weak-kneed. / He’s late but not really. He’s been watching her for half an hour from the west end while his conscience battles a flight impulse, a survivor reflex. / He’s not a brave man and he knows it. (added 04.10.10)
Sunset At Mallory Square by Mel Waldman
In ancient times, I watched the sunset at Mallory Square in Key West. While I gazed at the exquisite, surreal dreamscape that engulfed me, I felt the heat of the glorious sun, my spirit moved by its majestic beauty. But its red sunset drove me mad too. Couldn’t bear the pain and agony of its beauty; couldn’t witness its celestial metamorphosis without dreaming of G-d and eternity and my unknown mission on earth. / Now, I remember those unreal nights that fed my soul. I watched street vendors and performers fill Mallory Square with a magical and hypnotic ambience. (added 02.17.11)
Taking Flight by David Meuel
...At first, Melissa didn’t like being alone with Grandma. She felt awkward and didn’t know what to say. She found Grandma hard to look at, too. She was so pale and skeleton-like that she reminded Melissa of death camp survivors from a Holocaust documentary she had seen last year in world history. And now Grandma was almost always in bed with a catheter attached to her. It was sad to watch... (added 09.29.11)
They Run Hollywood by Jim Meirose
Wildman stood on the soapbox on the corner crying out words from the great handwritten book open in his arms before him; he had worked writing the book for weeks on end, he had planned this day carefully. Hair flying atop his tossing head, he stood screaming. /... / Among the restlessly gathering crowd two men stood talking. / He’s good, said Rumson, watching. He’s very, very good. / I know, answered Vanslyke, scratching at an ear. / The murmur of the crowd about them slowly increased as Wildman went on. (added 09.10.10)
Vampire Mote and Victim Punte by Chiranjibi Niroula
He was working as the khalansi, a helper of the driver. It was about six in a foggy morning of winter. The boy was in unbuttoned single cotton shirt and a half pant. His bare feet had several desiccated cracks. His dresses were old, torn and shrivel and almost all filthy, grimy and messy. His curly hair was long and unmanaged. It hung in a disheveled mass around his head and shoulder. He looked like never bathed. The effect of the cold was conspicuously seen on him. He was constantly quivering. He sometimes looked towards the sky. Perhaps, he was hoping to witness the rising sun but the sky was murky along with substantial mist. (added 12.31.10)
Velvet Skies and Paper Storms by Robert D. Lyons
The velvet summer sky hovers above the forgotten suburban street light, the orange glow lighting the car like a blazing chariot from the inner depths of hell; hitting the sharp curves at seventy, side streets calling our name, just whispering all the depraved pleasures the night has yet to offer in our half deaf ringing ears. Now up to seventy five, feeling the wind sweep us away; the whirlwind coming through the sunroof. Strategic highs and hung over lows; Cody is a surgeon while high at the wheel, guiding our scorching fireball of a hornet like a scalpel through this sleepy plastic surgery city... (added 01.11.12)
A Wild Gallop Across The Heavens by Susan Dale
Through a hollow darkness, the Cherokee son traveled. He looked up to see a moon riding the skies and stars, galloping across the heavens. Carrying the searching song of his soul, he journeyed until he came to a mountain that he looked through to see another world beckoning him; this was the world that held the spirits of all things. / He walked through the mountain to come to a strip of sand that lie between the boulders of his rock solid loneliness and the turbulent waters of creation. On the sand grew the sacred tree blooming with blue and yellow blossoms. / He threw his poncho over the edge of a cliff and jumped onto it, then sailed off in the skies. (added 05.05.12)
