By Rachel McClain
88 Words
She always slept on her side with her arms hanging between her knees and her hands clasped in reverse, in perverse prayer. She folded herself so tightly, her knees drawn up closely, that she looked ready to be bound, wrists to ankles, and put into a case.
He was forever behind her. His arm across her chest made an upside-down capital “a” with her arms, a perpendicular prison crossing her. One night, all arms and legs, her tight body unhinged. One night she sprang open, a switch blade.
Rachel McClain is a freelance writer and stay-at-home mom of the best kid on the planet (there--it's in print so it's true). She has recently been published in the Cup of Comfort volumes for Breast Cancer survivors and for Military Families and has work forthcoming in Fuselit and Mom Writer’s Literary Magazine. She was named an honorable mention in Women on Writing’s Winter Flash Fiction Contest and third place in their Spring Contest. She’s just finished her first young adult novel and would love if someone wanted to publish it. She blogs regularly about her awesome kid at http://thelaundryfairy.blogspot.com.
12.23.2008
Landscapes
By Tom Lassiter
100 words
I knelt beside her, lifted the thin white camisole over her upraised arms, my eyes fixed on hers. I took her face in hands unsteady, fluttering as they did our first time in another life.
“You make me feel beautiful,” she whispered.
She drew me closer, held my face pressed to her neck, and against my lips I felt the pressing pulse of beating heart. She lay back, revealing all, and I looked there for the first time, and with the tip of one finger traced the raised lines of her scars, touched the landscape of her doubt and pain.
Tom Lassiter lives in South Florida. His work has appeared in Tropic magazine and at Verbsap.com.
100 words
I knelt beside her, lifted the thin white camisole over her upraised arms, my eyes fixed on hers. I took her face in hands unsteady, fluttering as they did our first time in another life.
“You make me feel beautiful,” she whispered.
She drew me closer, held my face pressed to her neck, and against my lips I felt the pressing pulse of beating heart. She lay back, revealing all, and I looked there for the first time, and with the tip of one finger traced the raised lines of her scars, touched the landscape of her doubt and pain.
Tom Lassiter lives in South Florida. His work has appeared in Tropic magazine and at Verbsap.com.
Autumn Sonata
By Howie Good
85 words
When the tree, in high dudgeon, suddenly pushes through the polished wood floor, and the congregation of small scared birds disbands in confusion, when the deaf despise the hearing, and the night janitor at the Museum of Mad Ideas wipes with special care the shatterproof glass under which Hitler’s voice rages, time’s up, and I shed my coat on the ground and lie down beside her, believing, as we curl gratefully into each other, what is real is whatever is faded, or broken, or falling.
Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of six poetry chapbooks, including the e-book, Police and Questions (Right Hand Pointing, 2008), available free at http://www.righthandpointing.com/howiegood/
85 words
When the tree, in high dudgeon, suddenly pushes through the polished wood floor, and the congregation of small scared birds disbands in confusion, when the deaf despise the hearing, and the night janitor at the Museum of Mad Ideas wipes with special care the shatterproof glass under which Hitler’s voice rages, time’s up, and I shed my coat on the ground and lie down beside her, believing, as we curl gratefully into each other, what is real is whatever is faded, or broken, or falling.
Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of six poetry chapbooks, including the e-book, Police and Questions (Right Hand Pointing, 2008), available free at http://www.righthandpointing.com/howiegood/
12.09.2008
Thursday Thong & Six Word Winners
Top two Thongs (20 words each)
In the Mirror
by Matt Cummings
After the laughing gas, before passing out, he must have told the dentist he’d like the gold teeth after all.
Matt Cummings lives and writes in Oakland, California, where he is virtually unemployable due to an irrational fear of computers. He has received a B.A. in English Literature from Somewhere Someplace and achieved nothing else of note other than becoming The Most Cynical Man on Earth. He hopes to one day be recognized for this feat yet holds little hope for his chances...
Therapy’s Over
by KJ Hannah Greenberg
“My therapy’s over; summer vacation,” he reached for the watermelon.
“Never discussed and never condoned,” she reached for the knife.
This year, KJ Hannah Greenberg’s lightly pert and somewhat exuberant writing has been published or accepted for publication by: 365 Tomorrows, AlienSkin Magazine, AntipodeanSF, Bards and Sages, Bewildering Stories, Doorknobs and Bodypaint, Fallopian Falafel Zine, Flashshot, G. Stern’s Hag Samaiach Anthology, Hamodia, Joyful!, Ken*Again, Language and Culture Magazine, Literary Mama, Mishpacha’s Family First, Mom Writer’s Literary Magazine, Morpheus Tales, Parenting Express, Poetica Magazine, Poetry Super Highway, Static Movement, Miriam Liebermann’s the Best is Yet to Be, The Blue Jew Yorker, The Clarity of the Night, The Externalist, The Jerusalem Post, The Jewish Woman, The Mother Magazine, The New Vilna Review, Tuesday Shorts, Unfettered Verse, and Word Catalyst. When not writing, Hannah tends to her imaginary hedgehogs and to her not-so-small children. She does takes away their marshmallow fluff, though, if they fail to clean their rooms.
And our 6 word G-String Winner is....
Post Scriptum
by Tom Lassiter
PS The lovemaking was creepy, too.
Earlimart's Campaign to Stop the Sadness
By Daniel Casebeer
100 words
He writes her for years before receiving a reply. Then, all at once, a bundle of letters arrives on his doorstep. There is a pink one that smells like bananas, a yellow one that smells like oranges, and a beige one with scalloped edges that doesn't smell like anything. At the bottom of the bunch, sealed with a glob of black wax, is an envelope small enough to fit in his pocket. One by one, he opens the envelopes and spreads their contents on table. Then, wedging a pipe beneath his moustache, he pretends not to recognize his own handwriting.
Daniel Casebeer lives in Pittsburgh. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gloom Cupboard, Lexicon, and Ophelia Street.
100 words
He writes her for years before receiving a reply. Then, all at once, a bundle of letters arrives on his doorstep. There is a pink one that smells like bananas, a yellow one that smells like oranges, and a beige one with scalloped edges that doesn't smell like anything. At the bottom of the bunch, sealed with a glob of black wax, is an envelope small enough to fit in his pocket. One by one, he opens the envelopes and spreads their contents on table. Then, wedging a pipe beneath his moustache, he pretends not to recognize his own handwriting.
Daniel Casebeer lives in Pittsburgh. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Gloom Cupboard, Lexicon, and Ophelia Street.
Misunderstandings
By Jonathan Pinnock
100 words
On our first date, she said she was an animal lover, which sounded promising until I realised that “animal” was not an adjective. However, at least I now knew how to win her heart.
So I bought a small white mouse for her, called Benji. After a week with him, I became quite attached and I felt unbearably sad at the prospect of giving him away.
On our second date, I presented the gift to her as she opened the door to her flat. She hesitated briefly. Then, smiling, she took Benji from me and fed him to her python.
Jonathan Pinnock was born in Bedfordshire, England, and - despite having so far visited over forty other countries - has failed to relocate any further away than the next-door county of Hertfordshire. He is married with two children and a 1961 Ami Continental jukebox. His work has won several prizes, shortlistings and longlistings, and he has been published in such diverse publications as Smokebox, Every Day Fiction and Necrotic Tissue.
100 words
On our first date, she said she was an animal lover, which sounded promising until I realised that “animal” was not an adjective. However, at least I now knew how to win her heart.
So I bought a small white mouse for her, called Benji. After a week with him, I became quite attached and I felt unbearably sad at the prospect of giving him away.
On our second date, I presented the gift to her as she opened the door to her flat. She hesitated briefly. Then, smiling, she took Benji from me and fed him to her python.
Jonathan Pinnock was born in Bedfordshire, England, and - despite having so far visited over forty other countries - has failed to relocate any further away than the next-door county of Hertfordshire. He is married with two children and a 1961 Ami Continental jukebox. His work has won several prizes, shortlistings and longlistings, and he has been published in such diverse publications as Smokebox, Every Day Fiction and Necrotic Tissue.
With a Titanium Smile
By Mercedes M. Yardley
61 words
Tell me, he said, why it is that when the wind blows, your hair doesn’t. You stand straight and still like a butcher knife; I’m afraid that if I touch you, you’ll draw blood. Yellow and Orange leaves swirl around you and then clang against your skin before falling to the ground. But whenever we’re alone…
Shut up, baby, she said.
Mercedes M. Yardley specializes in beautiful tragedy. She has been published in The Vestal Review, Six Sentences, Reflection's Edge, and Kill Poet. You can learn more about her at www.abrokenlaptop.wordpress.com
61 words
Tell me, he said, why it is that when the wind blows, your hair doesn’t. You stand straight and still like a butcher knife; I’m afraid that if I touch you, you’ll draw blood. Yellow and Orange leaves swirl around you and then clang against your skin before falling to the ground. But whenever we’re alone…
Shut up, baby, she said.
Mercedes M. Yardley specializes in beautiful tragedy. She has been published in The Vestal Review, Six Sentences, Reflection's Edge, and Kill Poet. You can learn more about her at www.abrokenlaptop.wordpress.com
11.24.2008
Marlins
By Cody Johnston
100 words
I can remember one day going fishing for marlin off the Gulf of Mexico with God. We took his boat. We were drinking ambrosia before five but we were on vacation so it was okay. I remember our conversation perfectly.
I asked “Do the marlins feel pain or fear?”
He replied “Of course. All my children do.”
I; “You consider them your children?”
He; “Yes. You are all my children, and I love you all as such.”
I: “But we’re going to hook them. Skin them. Eat them.”
He:”Yes, as with you all. Finish your ambrosia, child.”
So I did.
Cody Johnston is a dandelion seed wafting ever so gently in the wind.
100 words
I can remember one day going fishing for marlin off the Gulf of Mexico with God. We took his boat. We were drinking ambrosia before five but we were on vacation so it was okay. I remember our conversation perfectly.
I asked “Do the marlins feel pain or fear?”
He replied “Of course. All my children do.”
I; “You consider them your children?”
He; “Yes. You are all my children, and I love you all as such.”
I: “But we’re going to hook them. Skin them. Eat them.”
He:”Yes, as with you all. Finish your ambrosia, child.”
So I did.
Cody Johnston is a dandelion seed wafting ever so gently in the wind.
Twelve to Eternity
By Melissa Palladino
61 words
The bullet rests lightly in his pocket. She leans into him, licks his bottom lip. The radio bleats, his thigh brushes the steering wheel, a knife edge of sun slices them into bright and shadow.
A younger girl would fabricate a vision of white lace, herself an enchanting bride. This older girl knows better. She pushes on him. Squeezes the bullet.
Melissa Palladino studies karate but her true ambition is to be a jello wrestler because then she can kick ass AND wear a cool costume.
61 words
The bullet rests lightly in his pocket. She leans into him, licks his bottom lip. The radio bleats, his thigh brushes the steering wheel, a knife edge of sun slices them into bright and shadow.
A younger girl would fabricate a vision of white lace, herself an enchanting bride. This older girl knows better. She pushes on him. Squeezes the bullet.
Melissa Palladino studies karate but her true ambition is to be a jello wrestler because then she can kick ass AND wear a cool costume.
Like Braveheart
By Robert Aquino Dollesin
100 Words
If I had on a yellow dress I’d get myself up off this filthy, gum-stained floor and race past the lockers. At the end of the corridor I’d whirl around and scream out their names. Gus and Kip and Justin and all the others. Once they turned I’d raise the finger. Then I’d spin around, bend over and lift the back of my dress just like those Scottish warriors in Braveheart. Everyone watching would laugh, making those boys feel very small. But then if I was wearing a dress, it would lend truth to their insensitive taunts -- wouldn‘t it?
Robert Aquino Dollesin lives in Sacramento, where now and then he manages to pen out short stories. He sometimes blogs here: http://robertaquinodollesin.blogspot.com
100 Words
If I had on a yellow dress I’d get myself up off this filthy, gum-stained floor and race past the lockers. At the end of the corridor I’d whirl around and scream out their names. Gus and Kip and Justin and all the others. Once they turned I’d raise the finger. Then I’d spin around, bend over and lift the back of my dress just like those Scottish warriors in Braveheart. Everyone watching would laugh, making those boys feel very small. But then if I was wearing a dress, it would lend truth to their insensitive taunts -- wouldn‘t it?
Robert Aquino Dollesin lives in Sacramento, where now and then he manages to pen out short stories. He sometimes blogs here: http://robertaquinodollesin.blogspot.com
11.11.2008
Farm Wars
By Nathan Key
96 words
Ever since Mr. Brown’s prized milk cow, Bernice, jumped over the moon there was an all out war for his attention. The chickens were determined to peck out the world’s largest hole, the pigs planned world domination, and the horses soon embarked on expedition to the bottom of the sea.
Mr. Brown put an end to the whole affair when the old goat broke his neck in a skydiving accident. With tears in his eyes, the farmer buried Fredrick’s body beside a physics lab that the mice had been constructing and considered the matter settled.
Nathan is a writer/philosopher who lives in Seattle, WA with his family. He primarily writes screenplays and magazine articles, but you can find some additional writings at his website: www.nathankey.com
96 words
Ever since Mr. Brown’s prized milk cow, Bernice, jumped over the moon there was an all out war for his attention. The chickens were determined to peck out the world’s largest hole, the pigs planned world domination, and the horses soon embarked on expedition to the bottom of the sea.
Mr. Brown put an end to the whole affair when the old goat broke his neck in a skydiving accident. With tears in his eyes, the farmer buried Fredrick’s body beside a physics lab that the mice had been constructing and considered the matter settled.
Nathan is a writer/philosopher who lives in Seattle, WA with his family. He primarily writes screenplays and magazine articles, but you can find some additional writings at his website: www.nathankey.com
The Watchmaker's Lover
By Roseanne Griffeth
50 words
They met through his hobby, an obsession with clockwork, tiny screwdrivers and timepieces. She brought him her father's gold watch for repair. In his attic, he showed her his treasures and more. Her infidelity was visiting another watchmaker then lying. He issued an ultimatum. Her gears were his. She disagreed.
Rosanne Griffeth's work can be seen in Keyhole Magazine, Smokelong Quarterly, The Angler, Writer's Eye Magazine and Six Little Things among other places. She lives on the verge of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park with her herd of goats and spends most of her time writing about and documenting Appalachian culture. She is the blogger behind The Smokey Mountain Breakdown. www.smokeymountainbreakdown.blogspot.com
50 words
They met through his hobby, an obsession with clockwork, tiny screwdrivers and timepieces. She brought him her father's gold watch for repair. In his attic, he showed her his treasures and more. Her infidelity was visiting another watchmaker then lying. He issued an ultimatum. Her gears were his. She disagreed.
Rosanne Griffeth's work can be seen in Keyhole Magazine, Smokelong Quarterly, The Angler, Writer's Eye Magazine and Six Little Things among other places. She lives on the verge of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park with her herd of goats and spends most of her time writing about and documenting Appalachian culture. She is the blogger behind The Smokey Mountain Breakdown. www.smokeymountainbreakdown.blogspot.com
The Man Whose Home is a Bench
By Eva Eliav
100 words
I know a man whose home is a city bench. I don’t know by what roundabout road of life he ended at that place, but he is established there, his scanty belongings heaped neatly beside him.
What brings a man to settle on a bench? I try to solve the mystery of a life, exposed, yet completely hidden. If I were to give him a questionnaire, "bench" would be the answer to every question: address, family, occupation, hobbies.
Perhaps he fell out of a myth, and created another one. Within it, he is held, contained and nourished. Within the bench.
Eva Eliav grew up in Toronto , Canada and has been living in Israel since 1970. Her poems and short fiction have been published in a number of literary magazines, including Room of One’s Own, Natural Bridge , Parchment, Quality Women’s Fiction, Voices Israel , and ARC Israel . Her other interests include painting, films, and finding the perfect frappuccino. Eva Eliav is married and has a daughter.
100 words
I know a man whose home is a city bench. I don’t know by what roundabout road of life he ended at that place, but he is established there, his scanty belongings heaped neatly beside him.
What brings a man to settle on a bench? I try to solve the mystery of a life, exposed, yet completely hidden. If I were to give him a questionnaire, "bench" would be the answer to every question: address, family, occupation, hobbies.
Perhaps he fell out of a myth, and created another one. Within it, he is held, contained and nourished. Within the bench.
Eva Eliav grew up in Toronto , Canada and has been living in Israel since 1970. Her poems and short fiction have been published in a number of literary magazines, including Room of One’s Own, Natural Bridge , Parchment, Quality Women’s Fiction, Voices Israel , and ARC Israel . Her other interests include painting, films, and finding the perfect frappuccino. Eva Eliav is married and has a daughter.
10.28.2008
A Theory of Motion
by Howie Good
92 words
It’s hard now to distinguish the deranged from the merely
troubled, or the entrance to all this darkness from the
obsolete exit. So why should I even bother when I can
simply subscribe to the unified theory of motion within
the rocking cradle of her hips? Oh, to hell with the
nobility of labor, the wreckers that prowl the charred
turnpike for breakdowns and chain collisions. I’ll search
her pockets instead and rush as if our suitcases were
packed and in the hallway and we always had someplace
wonderful to go next.
Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of six poetry chapbooks, including the e-book, Police and Questions (Right Hand Pointing, 2008), available free at
http://www.righthandpointing.com/howiegood/
92 words
It’s hard now to distinguish the deranged from the merely
troubled, or the entrance to all this darkness from the
obsolete exit. So why should I even bother when I can
simply subscribe to the unified theory of motion within
the rocking cradle of her hips? Oh, to hell with the
nobility of labor, the wreckers that prowl the charred
turnpike for breakdowns and chain collisions. I’ll search
her pockets instead and rush as if our suitcases were
packed and in the hallway and we always had someplace
wonderful to go next.
Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of six poetry chapbooks, including the e-book, Police and Questions (Right Hand Pointing, 2008), available free at
http://www.righthandpointing.com/howiegood/
Salty
by Meg Pokrass
57 words
It was when she loved a man with eyes like a fish everything changed. With his kisses she would swallow clear water. Fear would rest behind colored pebbles, be gone for entire seconds -- long enough to bubble inside and out. I love this, she spit, swallowing his air, his name, dancing backwards with it in her lips.
Meg Pokrass lives in San Francisco. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in 971 Menu, The Rose and Thorn, Thieves Jargon, Eclectica, Chanterelle's Notebook, 34th Parallel, Literary Mama, Blossombones, Ghoti, Elimae, Word Riot, Frigg, DOGZPLOT, Wigleaf, and Smokelong Quarterly's Fifth Anniversary Issue. She has performed with theatre companies throughout the United States and considers writing a natural extension of sensory work developed as an actor
Neck
by Corey Ginsberg
100 words
Small gold heart dangling below her collarbone, amid the tan sea of flesh. Her face—the kind of pretty you fell for, married, then realized on the honeymoon is all wrong. Her kind of pretty makes you hate pretty, makes you want to smother it until it never looks at you again.
The sand below your feet, her hand in yours. Smiling the kind of smile you've perfected—face betraying motives. Wind blows the heart to the side. You move it back. Her small neck will fit easily in the palms of your hands when you cradle it to sleep.
Corey Ginsberg graduated from Carnegie Mellon University, where she studied creative writing, philosophy and professional writing. She currently is working toward her MFA in nonfiction at Florida International University, where she serves as editor of Gulf Stream Magazine. Her favorite writer is Kurt Vonnegut. Here is the link to Gulf Stream: www.gulfstreamlitmag.com.
100 words
Small gold heart dangling below her collarbone, amid the tan sea of flesh. Her face—the kind of pretty you fell for, married, then realized on the honeymoon is all wrong. Her kind of pretty makes you hate pretty, makes you want to smother it until it never looks at you again.
The sand below your feet, her hand in yours. Smiling the kind of smile you've perfected—face betraying motives. Wind blows the heart to the side. You move it back. Her small neck will fit easily in the palms of your hands when you cradle it to sleep.
Corey Ginsberg graduated from Carnegie Mellon University, where she studied creative writing, philosophy and professional writing. She currently is working toward her MFA in nonfiction at Florida International University, where she serves as editor of Gulf Stream Magazine. Her favorite writer is Kurt Vonnegut. Here is the link to Gulf Stream: www.gulfstreamlitmag.com.
10.20.2008
A Delicious Dish
by Errid Farland
79 words
That big bad wolf didn’t belong in sleeping beauty, but he tried to get in her anyhow. As if she wouldn’t notice! He knocked over her alarm clock with his big wolf mitts, and if he did such a poor job on her clock imagine how the rest of it would go. For sure she’d wake up, and not in a pleasant way. But he couldn’t help himself, for she was lovely, and he’d had his fill of pork.
Errid lives in Southern California and writes at a cluttered table where a candle burns to create an aura of serenity. Sometimes she accidentally catches things on fire, which turns the aura into angry yellows and reds and sort of wrecks the whole serenity thing. Her stories have appeared in Barrelhouse, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot, storySouth, Pindledyboz, GUD, and other places. One of her stories received an editor nomination for storySouth’s Million Writers Awards. She owns www.ShowMeYourLits.com, a website which sponsors a weekly flash contest.
79 words
That big bad wolf didn’t belong in sleeping beauty, but he tried to get in her anyhow. As if she wouldn’t notice! He knocked over her alarm clock with his big wolf mitts, and if he did such a poor job on her clock imagine how the rest of it would go. For sure she’d wake up, and not in a pleasant way. But he couldn’t help himself, for she was lovely, and he’d had his fill of pork.
Errid lives in Southern California and writes at a cluttered table where a candle burns to create an aura of serenity. Sometimes she accidentally catches things on fire, which turns the aura into angry yellows and reds and sort of wrecks the whole serenity thing. Her stories have appeared in Barrelhouse, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot, storySouth, Pindledyboz, GUD, and other places. One of her stories received an editor nomination for storySouth’s Million Writers Awards. She owns www.ShowMeYourLits.com, a website which sponsors a weekly flash contest.
The Edible Bachelor
by Georgina Bruce
100 words
J. Blood Ulmer has been saving the secret of his initial J for someone special. He has loved many women, and wanted them badly, but his fat red face, his sausage fingers, his jelly roll, his milk bubs, his lonely, secret letter J: all these things have saved him from love. For who could be special enough to love J. Blood Ulmer, to taste all his virgin parts, to sink her teeth into the sad, sweet, fat flesh? Who is brave enough to press her smooth delicate ear to his mouth and hear the wet whisper of his secret name?
Georgina Bruce's stories can be found at http://thebeardedlady.wordpress.com
100 words
J. Blood Ulmer has been saving the secret of his initial J for someone special. He has loved many women, and wanted them badly, but his fat red face, his sausage fingers, his jelly roll, his milk bubs, his lonely, secret letter J: all these things have saved him from love. For who could be special enough to love J. Blood Ulmer, to taste all his virgin parts, to sink her teeth into the sad, sweet, fat flesh? Who is brave enough to press her smooth delicate ear to his mouth and hear the wet whisper of his secret name?
Georgina Bruce's stories can be found at http://thebeardedlady.wordpress.com
Out on the Drag
Out on the Drag
by Giuseppe Taurino
99 words
That afternoon, after I got laid off, I went down to Dirty Martin’s for beers and a burger. As I waited for my food, an old man wheeling an oxygen tank waddled toward the counter. He bumped his way past tables, sat a few stools down from mine, and ordered a Budweiser. We made eye contact and I nodded politely. The aluminum tank stood beside him like an obedient dog, and I wondered what it felt like to wheel your life around, handle and all, to walk about knowing that your next breath was literally in your own hands.
Giuseppe Taurino lives in Austin , TX where he works as an Education Programs Coordinator for Badgerdog Literary Publishing. His work has appeared in Gulf Coast.
by Giuseppe Taurino
99 words
That afternoon, after I got laid off, I went down to Dirty Martin’s for beers and a burger. As I waited for my food, an old man wheeling an oxygen tank waddled toward the counter. He bumped his way past tables, sat a few stools down from mine, and ordered a Budweiser. We made eye contact and I nodded politely. The aluminum tank stood beside him like an obedient dog, and I wondered what it felt like to wheel your life around, handle and all, to walk about knowing that your next breath was literally in your own hands.
Giuseppe Taurino lives in Austin , TX where he works as an Education Programs Coordinator for Badgerdog Literary Publishing. His work has appeared in Gulf Coast.
10.14.2008
Death by Shovel
by Doug Mathewson
87 words
At lowest tide I visit our town beach. A purposefully unfashionable time after all the poets searching for god have finished walking their dogs. Scrup-fwop, scrup-fwop, can be heard beyond the jetty.
I see two lifeguards young and tall, their sun-blond hair in matched French braids. With long handled steel shovels from Parks and Rec they scoop up jellyfish and casually lob them up to a hot dry death upon the rocks.
The oversized orange windbreakers our teen guardians wore urgently proclaiming “RESCUE.” Mercifully, jellyfish can’t read.
Doug Mathewson lives on Connecticut’s eastern shore and writes very short stories that occasionally become poetry or essays of their own volition. He is interested in how an individual’s perception can change shared reality. Fiction creates new realities, and strangely how reality changes itself. His catalogue can be found here, or is shippable via rail. His current project, True Stories From Imaginary Lives, can be found at www.little2say.org
87 words
At lowest tide I visit our town beach. A purposefully unfashionable time after all the poets searching for god have finished walking their dogs. Scrup-fwop, scrup-fwop, can be heard beyond the jetty.
I see two lifeguards young and tall, their sun-blond hair in matched French braids. With long handled steel shovels from Parks and Rec they scoop up jellyfish and casually lob them up to a hot dry death upon the rocks.
The oversized orange windbreakers our teen guardians wore urgently proclaiming “RESCUE.” Mercifully, jellyfish can’t read.
Doug Mathewson lives on Connecticut’s eastern shore and writes very short stories that occasionally become poetry or essays of their own volition. He is interested in how an individual’s perception can change shared reality. Fiction creates new realities, and strangely how reality changes itself. His catalogue can be found here, or is shippable via rail. His current project, True Stories From Imaginary Lives, can be found at www.little2say.org
Tears
by Stephen J. Davis
95 words
I remained stoic while Esmeralda ended our relationship. “Well, adiós,” I said, lonely—then all alone.
It wasn’t but five minutes before I started crying. I wiped those first tears with my fingers. When the sobs came, I upgraded to tissue but the rate of saturation was overwhelming. I resorted to holding a bowl under my chin. It proved effective at collecting my salty sadness.
I finally regained my composure after filling up four bowls and placing them in the scorching sun to evaporate.
I used the salt they made to rim a Margarita glass.
Stephen J. Davis teaches Kindergarten near San Francisco , California . He lives with his wife, daughter and two cats.
95 words
I remained stoic while Esmeralda ended our relationship. “Well, adiós,” I said, lonely—then all alone.
It wasn’t but five minutes before I started crying. I wiped those first tears with my fingers. When the sobs came, I upgraded to tissue but the rate of saturation was overwhelming. I resorted to holding a bowl under my chin. It proved effective at collecting my salty sadness.
I finally regained my composure after filling up four bowls and placing them in the scorching sun to evaporate.
I used the salt they made to rim a Margarita glass.
Stephen J. Davis teaches Kindergarten near San Francisco , California . He lives with his wife, daughter and two cats.
Arranged Complacency
by Hector Duarte
100 words
It had all been arranged; into a neat, little package.
He looked up at her and smiled and averted his eyes. It was difficult to maintain eye contact because it brought in him a sense of longing, quickly followed by a sense of shame. In knowing that in one year she’d be lying next to him, under the same sheets, her surname different.
“It’s what I chose for myself,” she’d once said. He was embarrassed by the fact he’d let himself be deluded by the prospect that perhaps he had a place in her plans: her plan B, of course.
Hector Duarte Jr. is an aspiring writer and seventh-grade Language Arts teacher. He resides in Miami, Florida.
100 words
It had all been arranged; into a neat, little package.
He looked up at her and smiled and averted his eyes. It was difficult to maintain eye contact because it brought in him a sense of longing, quickly followed by a sense of shame. In knowing that in one year she’d be lying next to him, under the same sheets, her surname different.
“It’s what I chose for myself,” she’d once said. He was embarrassed by the fact he’d let himself be deluded by the prospect that perhaps he had a place in her plans: her plan B, of course.
Hector Duarte Jr. is an aspiring writer and seventh-grade Language Arts teacher. He resides in Miami, Florida.
9.30.2008
I Was Raised
by Neil Crabtree
100 words
I was raised by machines that entertained me in exchange for my obedience. Put in front of a television, I surrendered free will for a chance to stare into the electric glow.
My parents disappeared into the shadows to either side. Their talking sometimes disturbed me as I watched my favorite shows. Eventually, they moved closer and closer to the glow. Then they became quiet too.
We stared nightly, bathed in radiation, awaiting instructions. We did what we were told, bought goods we saw displayed.
Family fighting stopped between us, since no one dared talk when the box was on.
Neil Crabtree's work has appeared in Verbsap and others. Links to his work can be found at his blog site, www.believablelies.blogspot.com
100 words
I was raised by machines that entertained me in exchange for my obedience. Put in front of a television, I surrendered free will for a chance to stare into the electric glow.
My parents disappeared into the shadows to either side. Their talking sometimes disturbed me as I watched my favorite shows. Eventually, they moved closer and closer to the glow. Then they became quiet too.
We stared nightly, bathed in radiation, awaiting instructions. We did what we were told, bought goods we saw displayed.
Family fighting stopped between us, since no one dared talk when the box was on.
Neil Crabtree's work has appeared in Verbsap and others. Links to his work can be found at his blog site, www.believablelies.blogspot.com
A Useless Bit of Advice
by Howie Good
98 words
Better stay on your meds. Or get some. Otherwise how will you ignore the pile of hacked-off limbs on the hospital lawn, the amputees limping or crawling away, as disability permits, their sacrifice worse than forgotten – misremembered? You’ll end up scribbling on napkins and the last remaining walls, and the scribbles, presuming they’re discovered, will sound when pieced together like a suicide note left to mislead investigators. Christ, you’ll end up like me, driving slowly over a bridge of bones, your face gray with exhaustion, while along the slatternly, post-industrial river, morning birds sing in the cadaverous trees.
Howie Good’s latest chapbooks are Last Words, available online from Gold Wake Press at http://goldwakepress.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/lastwords.pdf, and Police & Questions, available online from Right Hand Pointing at http://www.righthandpointing.com/howiegood/
98 words
Better stay on your meds. Or get some. Otherwise how will you ignore the pile of hacked-off limbs on the hospital lawn, the amputees limping or crawling away, as disability permits, their sacrifice worse than forgotten – misremembered? You’ll end up scribbling on napkins and the last remaining walls, and the scribbles, presuming they’re discovered, will sound when pieced together like a suicide note left to mislead investigators. Christ, you’ll end up like me, driving slowly over a bridge of bones, your face gray with exhaustion, while along the slatternly, post-industrial river, morning birds sing in the cadaverous trees.
Howie Good’s latest chapbooks are Last Words, available online from Gold Wake Press at http://goldwakepress.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/lastwords.pdf, and Police & Questions, available online from Right Hand Pointing at http://www.righthandpointing.com/howiegood/
Pop Tarts and Beastie Boys
by Sabrina Stoessinger
99 words
On the hottest days Debbie would lock us into her room. I'd always protest, predicting the outcome, but in the end I'd be the first to light up. We'd partake in grandiose schemes and while away hours, days.
The thermometer hit three digits that afternoon and I decided a ski trip was in order. Debbie set about creating a blizzard by tearing open her feather bedding. We danced among the flakes and successfully piled up snow banks, though our snowballs left much to be desired.
The Alps were paradise until the door frame split and ski patrol burst in.
99 words
On the hottest days Debbie would lock us into her room. I'd always protest, predicting the outcome, but in the end I'd be the first to light up. We'd partake in grandiose schemes and while away hours, days.
The thermometer hit three digits that afternoon and I decided a ski trip was in order. Debbie set about creating a blizzard by tearing open her feather bedding. We danced among the flakes and successfully piled up snow banks, though our snowballs left much to be desired.
The Alps were paradise until the door frame split and ski patrol burst in.
Sabrina considers procrastination an art and perfects her technique as often as possible.
9.09.2008
Flawed
by Grant Hettrick
91 words
I emptied my bank account to buy my fiancé, Mary, the most beautiful engagement ring, quite sure I didn't deserve her.
"Look," the jeweler said. He handed me his conical glass and a small brilliant diamond. "See the flaw toward the bottom?"
I convinced myself I saw the merest cloud, but more than anything, I deferred to his expertise.
"If it wasn't for that flaw, this would be perfect," the jeweler continued. "And when I'm done with the setting, it will be impossible to notice unless you already know it's there."
Grant Hettrick enjoys writing fiction and enjoys reading fiction with his two children, Nate and Maddy. His work has appeared in Peeks and Valleys, Heavy Glow and Toasted Cheese.
91 words
I emptied my bank account to buy my fiancé, Mary, the most beautiful engagement ring, quite sure I didn't deserve her.
"Look," the jeweler said. He handed me his conical glass and a small brilliant diamond. "See the flaw toward the bottom?"
I convinced myself I saw the merest cloud, but more than anything, I deferred to his expertise.
"If it wasn't for that flaw, this would be perfect," the jeweler continued. "And when I'm done with the setting, it will be impossible to notice unless you already know it's there."
Grant Hettrick enjoys writing fiction and enjoys reading fiction with his two children, Nate and Maddy. His work has appeared in Peeks and Valleys, Heavy Glow and Toasted Cheese.
Dumbing Down
by Kevin White
97 words
Maria watched her daughter chew on the triangle shaped aiglet as she gazed intently at the aquarium fish. At least she wasn't sucking her thumb, Maria thought. Still, the yellow-orange, wulfenite sometimes broke off and Maria wasn't positive her daughter hadn't swallowed some.
Years later, after countless doctors and even resorting to a West Indies shaman who practiced Obeah, Maria despaired that her daughter's mental deficiencies stemmed from this. A few misaligned teeth would not have kept her from being a doctor, engineer or even an Ichthyologist, but small amounts of lead ingested over time certainly would.
Kevin lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife and three German Shepherds. His work has been seen in PenPricks, and next month will be in 55 Words. A link to more of his work can be found here: Horrificmusings.com
97 words
Maria watched her daughter chew on the triangle shaped aiglet as she gazed intently at the aquarium fish. At least she wasn't sucking her thumb, Maria thought. Still, the yellow-orange, wulfenite sometimes broke off and Maria wasn't positive her daughter hadn't swallowed some.
Years later, after countless doctors and even resorting to a West Indies shaman who practiced Obeah, Maria despaired that her daughter's mental deficiencies stemmed from this. A few misaligned teeth would not have kept her from being a doctor, engineer or even an Ichthyologist, but small amounts of lead ingested over time certainly would.
Kevin lives in Portland, Oregon with his wife and three German Shepherds. His work has been seen in PenPricks, and next month will be in 55 Words. A link to more of his work can be found here: Horrificmusings.com
Frugal
by Stephen Davis
95 words
Topher prides himself on being frugal. It’s a competition of sorts, established by his fraternity. The guidelines are simple: Have sex on a first date while spending as little money as possible. Topher holds the frat record at $8.35 (tax included). He spent the money on chardonnay and romanced his way to nudeness—under the stars and atop the beach.
He’d surpass that record within a month. For Selena he bought more potent vodka ($7.83 on sale) and followed the same cheap sex formula. But in his added drunkenness he failed to use a condom.
Stephen J. Davis teaches Kindergarten near San Francisco , California . He lives with his wife, daughter and two cats.
95 words
Topher prides himself on being frugal. It’s a competition of sorts, established by his fraternity. The guidelines are simple: Have sex on a first date while spending as little money as possible. Topher holds the frat record at $8.35 (tax included). He spent the money on chardonnay and romanced his way to nudeness—under the stars and atop the beach.
He’d surpass that record within a month. For Selena he bought more potent vodka ($7.83 on sale) and followed the same cheap sex formula. But in his added drunkenness he failed to use a condom.
Stephen J. Davis teaches Kindergarten near San Francisco , California . He lives with his wife, daughter and two cats.
8.24.2008
Ash
by Nancy W. Wood
54 words
54 words
Delicate white shards of what used to be a redwood or a eucalyptus or a sofa or a serving platter or a car or a cat or a tender stalk of lavender layer my car.
When your voice, a thin, wispy thread bounced from satellite to satellite, asks me what’s new, I say: “Nothing.”
Nancy W. Wood lives and writes in Santa Cruz, California. She has been published in Long Story Short and is currently writing a mystery series. The first book in the series, Due Date, is complete and she is agent-shopping.
Notes Toward an Investigation
by Howie Good
94 words
Although he seems to already know the answer, the investigator asks how the object up there can be the moon when it’s spinning like a Ferris wheel. I shrug. He has short, fat fingers like the stubs of melted candles. The royal domain has shrunk, and the streets are often empty during the day, but filled at night with the dead from accidents. He asks again would I lend a pyromaniac a light. I concentrate on ignoring the screams coming through the wall. Somewhere I learned the heart is the size of a fist.
Howie Good’s latest chapbooks are Last Words, available online from Gold Wake Press at http://goldwakepress.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/lastwords.pdf, and Police & Questions, available online from Right Hand Pointing at http://www.righthandpointing.com/howiegood/
94 words
Although he seems to already know the answer, the investigator asks how the object up there can be the moon when it’s spinning like a Ferris wheel. I shrug. He has short, fat fingers like the stubs of melted candles. The royal domain has shrunk, and the streets are often empty during the day, but filled at night with the dead from accidents. He asks again would I lend a pyromaniac a light. I concentrate on ignoring the screams coming through the wall. Somewhere I learned the heart is the size of a fist.
Howie Good’s latest chapbooks are Last Words, available online from Gold Wake Press at http://goldwakepress.files.wordpress.com/2008/07/lastwords.pdf, and Police & Questions, available online from Right Hand Pointing at http://www.righthandpointing.com/howiegood/
A Conspiracy of Address Book Salesmen
by Peter Cherches
78 words
It's the fourteenth century, and a man is leafing through his address book. He notices that more than two thirds of the entries are obsolete. So he buys a new address book and begins to transfer the names and addresses of the living. All over Europe people are doing likewise. The address book sellers are experiencing an unprecedented prosperity, yet they are also vilified, as much of the populace believes them to be directly responsible for the plague.
Peter Cherches blogs about food and travel at http://petercherches.blogspot.com
78 words
It's the fourteenth century, and a man is leafing through his address book. He notices that more than two thirds of the entries are obsolete. So he buys a new address book and begins to transfer the names and addresses of the living. All over Europe people are doing likewise. The address book sellers are experiencing an unprecedented prosperity, yet they are also vilified, as much of the populace believes them to be directly responsible for the plague.
Peter Cherches blogs about food and travel at http://petercherches.blogspot.com
8.10.2008
Deposit
by Stephen J. Davis
100 words
Sex was great with Susan B. Anthony. No, not the woman on the dollar coin. My wife's name was Susan B. Anthony, like the famous activist. We got married in 1979, the year Susan's coin began circulation.
The coincidence manifested a tradition. Before intercourse, we'd always deposit a Susan B. Anthony into our piggy bank. "Sexual savings" we called it. Our sex life started out rich.
But publicly, the coin was so unpopular. Her limited production caused near celibacy. Divorce ensued.
In 2,000 I remarried. Sex is great with Sacagawea. No, not the woman on the dollar coin .
100 words
Sex was great with Susan B. Anthony. No, not the woman on the dollar coin. My wife's name was Susan B. Anthony, like the famous activist. We got married in 1979, the year Susan's coin began circulation.
The coincidence manifested a tradition. Before intercourse, we'd always deposit a Susan B. Anthony into our piggy bank. "Sexual savings" we called it. Our sex life started out rich.
But publicly, the coin was so unpopular. Her limited production caused near celibacy. Divorce ensued.
In 2,000 I remarried. Sex is great with Sacagawea. No, not the woman on the dollar coin .
Stephen J. Davis teaches Kindergarten near San Francisco, California. He lives with his wife, daughter and two cats.
As We Stand Looking On
by Tom Lassiter
96 words
For a moment I watched as if from above, Davey and I below in the bed of the pickup as it bounced along the gravel road, kicking up a rooster tail of dust across the sagebrush flat. I saw what was happening, what would happen. And then I was in the truck again, hands pressing against the roof of the cab to steady myself, Davey's arm cocking, the yellow-ripe apple flung, the old man staggering, stumbling beside the road. Davey crowing a loud war whoop as we passed, shouting, "Dumb Injuns." Who was he? I wondered.
96 words
For a moment I watched as if from above, Davey and I below in the bed of the pickup as it bounced along the gravel road, kicking up a rooster tail of dust across the sagebrush flat. I saw what was happening, what would happen. And then I was in the truck again, hands pressing against the roof of the cab to steady myself, Davey's arm cocking, the yellow-ripe apple flung, the old man staggering, stumbling beside the road. Davey crowing a loud war whoop as we passed, shouting, "Dumb Injuns." Who was he? I wondered.
Tom Lassiter teaches writing and literature at Florida Atlantic University. He’s at work on a novel and a collection of short stories. His work has appeared in Tropic magazine and at Verbsap.com.
The Intimacy of Things to Come
by Beverly A. Jackson
67 words
He was part of the huddle, heads bowed, low murmurs, sweaty backs, ball arced in the air, arms extended, point scored, smacked asses, and jubilation! The girl watching can never hope for it.
His mother pours for her, tea in china cups lifted to soft lips, subtext of complicity in their breathy casualness, their pact in their palms balancing the saucers. The boy watching knows he's lost.
67 words
He was part of the huddle, heads bowed, low murmurs, sweaty backs, ball arced in the air, arms extended, point scored, smacked asses, and jubilation! The girl watching can never hope for it.
His mother pours for her, tea in china cups lifted to soft lips, subtext of complicity in their breathy casualness, their pact in their palms balancing the saucers. The boy watching knows he's lost.
Beverly A. Jackson lives, writes and paints in Asheville, N.C., blogs at www.beverlyajackson.com.
7.30.2008
The Tragedy of Dewey C. McCray
Elizabeth Eve King
99 words
Our hero, one Dewy C. McCray was an animal lover. His pet food company specialized in vegan food for cats.
Unfortunately, cats that don't eat meat grow blind. So Dewy began a subsidiary business, "Dewy's Seeing Eye Dogs for Blind Cats."
He hoped this would not only aid the blind, but promote interspecies harmony.
It was an unfortunate side effect that some of the dogs ate their charges. Revolutions are never without casualties.
The bloodlust of his hitherto furry friends embittered Dewy.
He changed his name to Kim, moved to Korea and opened a restaurant specializing in dog fricassee.
99 words
Our hero, one Dewy C. McCray was an animal lover. His pet food company specialized in vegan food for cats.
Unfortunately, cats that don't eat meat grow blind. So Dewy began a subsidiary business, "Dewy's Seeing Eye Dogs for Blind Cats."
He hoped this would not only aid the blind, but promote interspecies harmony.
It was an unfortunate side effect that some of the dogs ate their charges. Revolutions are never without casualties.
The bloodlust of his hitherto furry friends embittered Dewy.
He changed his name to Kim, moved to Korea and opened a restaurant specializing in dog fricassee.
Elizabeth Eve King has performed and worked both nationally and internationally in theater, comedy, dance, teaching, painting & science. The Tragedy of Dewy C. McCray was published in a "top 12 short story booklet" by Glimmer Train Press and has received first place in the 2005 Innermoon Lit Award for Best Short-Short Story. An excerpt of 'Dirk Snigby's Guide to the Afterlife' was long listed for the Aeon Award and short listed for the Biscuit Publishing International Short Story Award. This excerpt of Dirk Snigby will be published and recorded as a CD by the Biscuit Publishing. Another excerpt from the novel is readable on the Descending Darkness website.
Natural Selection
by Kevin White
54 words
54 words
Under a steel-blue, morning sky the air is crisp and cold like a fresh, green apple.
Tiny feet scamper across twigs and frost bitten leaves as birds sit silently in the trees like sprinters waiting for the starter's gun. Hunters stalk warm blood out of season but park rangers will not check for permits.
Gracie's Mom
by Rosanne Griffeth
100 words
We rode insane Shetland ponies and petted rabbits at Gracie's house. Her dog bit me but it was my fault. Her mother, a dark-haired beauty, cleaned the punctures and kissed my forehead. I apologized to the dog and we went back to play, running on the dock over oyster shells.
Her father was big and scary, a crabber--rough and stinking of brine and shellfish.
I hadn't thought of Gracie in years, until her mother disappeared.
Missing persons assumed she had run away. But the townfolk, they whispered Gracie's father cut her mother up and used her for crab bait.
Rosanne Griffeth's work can be seen in The Angler, Writer's Eye Magazine, Smokelong Quarterly, Keyhole Magazine, Cautionary Tale, Static Movement, The Dead Mule and Dew on the Kudzu. She lives on the verge of the GSM National Park with her herd of goats and spends most of her time writing and documenting Appalachian culture. She is the blogger behind The Smokey Mountain Breakdown.
7.22.2008
Comment Column
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Matt, with apple
by Emily Nonko
97 words
We sat barefoot on thick grass as you ate your apple whole. I asked, can you do that? and you didn’t answer and I, well I only watched as you bit carefully to the core, chewed one, two, three, swallow: teeth abrupt as piano keys. You considered the apple skeleton before biting hard into its heart - eating seeds, innards, stem, leaving nothing to prove it ever existed. And I tried this eight days later and two hundred twenty-five miles away from you. I ate an apple whole, and I, well I felt no different than before.
Emily Nonko grew up in
Poor Snuffie
by Doug Mathewson
85 words
85 words
We needed warmer costuming for our travels to the north. The money was already spent on on plane tickets, art supplies, and snacks.
A gift from above - 50% off coupons from “Bargain Barn” came just in time! Always fashion forward, we choose the blackest of ultra-soft vests.
At check out time my wife says “these things are so soft, I bet they’re made out of muppetts!”
Eyebrow piercings scrunched together as our clerk slowly read the label, ‘no mam, says here it’s all acrylic”.
Doug Mathewson writes very short fiction that occasionally changes of its own volition into poetry or essay forms.
Most recently he has been published by The Boston Literary Magazine, Doorknobs & Body Paint, Pen-Pricks,
The Entertainer
by Kate Kaminski
71 words
When Berger got that summer job driving for Good Humor, he couldn’t possibly have foreseen that he would be driven mad by having to creep along at 10 miles per hour (evidently the exact speed at which children can run if chasing an ice cream truck), accompanied by that repeated four bar refrain of Scott Joplin’s “The Entertainer” rendered as dairy treat Pavlovian bell-call. Yet that’s exactly what happened.
Kate Kaminski is an underground writer-filmmaker whose motto is “Go ahead, swim upstream. It’s better exercise.”
http://www.myspace.com/gitgoproductions
http://www.myspace.com/tripmovie
http://milkisforbabies.aminus3.com
7.01.2008
Middle Eastern Transport
by Channie Greenberg
99 words
Two punches left, I move past aisle-sitting shopping carts and filled baby buggies. A few steps more, beyond the space where bus segments are linked by incredible plastic, I find a gum wad, soda-stained seat.
The fellow, with legs splay across that spot, grumbles as I nudge my way toward the window. Behind him, a woman whose scarf reaches around her chin, over all of her hair, and up to her eyes, squints at me.
Her narrowed gaze provokes not half as much does her bundle, which neither mewing nor leaking dust, shakes, nonetheless. First chance, I disembark.
Channie Greenberg is a writer and a teacher of writing. Her work has appeared in places ranging from The American Journal of Semiotics to Calligraphy Magazine. In the future, her articulated irreverence will be published by Fallopian Falafel Zine and by The Mother Magazine.
When not fooling around with words, Channie paints, builds ceramics, and supplies small spatulas to imaginary hedgehogs. She also dreams about the day when her children will correctly sort the laundry.
Bottom of the Barrel
by Lydia Suarez
87 words
87 words
"Albumen causes the sediment to sink ensuring the Rioja's clarity." The tasting group wanted to smash Carla's head against the barrel. Even among wine connoisseurs, she was a snob.
Carla swirled, poked her crooked nose, swallowed and spit, "Not fruity enough," she said to Cliff her husband whom she had stolen from her depressed friend. During the double date, Carla had shanghaied the conversation with witticisms and flashes of her long legs. Cliff, a widower, recovering from the loss of his sweetheart to a drunk driver, succumbed.
"We won't be bringing this back," she said. Cliff offered an apologetic smile.
Lydia's stories and poems have appeared in 971 Menu, All Things Girl, and Literary Tonic. Work is forthcoming in Girls and Cars and apt.
She Rides Me
by Mike Munsil
100 words
She rides me – as always, this time of day – and it's time for a rumcola, it is. She drapes herself over my shoulder, braces her hind feet on my hand and swipes at the fanchain. I reach for the Brugal, canejuicy, dark and sweet like that maid - that girl hardly older than me - and ohsogood. Dark, like her. She rides me, still.
Lime, quick quick! Spill over the ice. Pool in dark rum, fizzz with cola. Umm.
She watches from her perch, wrinkles her nose, sneezes disdain, digs in her claws. Vulturey, she rides me.
The bottle is almost empty.
Mike was born in Chile, raised in Panama, and now lives in Texas. He has published poetry and creative non-fiction in a variety of places online and in print. Someday he will learn how to write weller, and then watch out! It'll be badass Bunnahabhain time, baby!
6.17.2008
Gulls
by Jim Parks
99 words
99 words
No other trucks. He had slept like a baby. His walk across the vacant parking lot took him through the midst of a flock of gulls. He could feel their collective body heat.
They rotated on their spindly legs and webbed feet, each following him with their beaks and eyes. They had wheeled over the portable toilet while he was inside.
Later she asked why he had not called her the moment he got in. He thought about the quiet bunk, the absence of vibration, the snug sea cabin feel of it.
"I needed to sleep. I was exhausted."
Three Days that Shook the World
by Kate Kaminski
35 words
It took three days to realize he didn’t love her. By then, everything had changed. Nothing would ever be the same. And they knew that life was, and always would be, just a goddamned cliché.
Kate Kaminski is an underground writer-filmmaker whose motto is, "Go ahead. Swim upstream. It's better exercise."
http://www.myspace.com/gitgoproductions
http://www.myspace.com/tripmovie
http://milkisforbabies.aminus3.com
The New Job
by Doug Mathewson
99 words
99 words
Everybody had photos in the cubicles of loved ones, pets, and friends.
Having none of the above I cut out an old magazine picture of Courtney Love and put it in a cheap frame. She looked great in this smokey live concert shot. Her hair whacked-out, lipstick badly smeared, cigarette upthrust like FDR, and mayhem in her eyes. She had ripped the broken-strapped tacky sequin bra far from one shoulder, slick with sweat her bare breast exposed, nipple defiant.
The department supervisor made his courtesy visit, saw the photo,
and conversationally inquired , “So, ah... is that the Mrs.?”
Doug Mathewson writes very short fiction that occasionally changes of its own volition into poetry or essay forms. He has been published here and there online, most recently at The Boston Literary Magazine, Doorknobs & Body Paint, e-Muse zine, Six Sentences and Tuesday Shorts. His current project, True Stories From Imaginary Lives, can be found at www.little2say.org
6.06.2008
The Unique Sound Properties of Ethylene Glycol
F. John Sharp
94 words
Tyrus heard about the accident when he was at work. In front of his house, all that's left are tiny glass pieces and the coolant reservoir with a kinked hose attached. He picks it up; it's vibrating. The hose straightens and he hears something leaking out. He puts the end to his ear—it's crying, screaming, calling for mommy. There're sirens, and voices of EMT's prying off the door and strapping the driver to a gurney and covering her face. Tyrus puts his thumb over the end, hugs the container, and closes his eyes.
F. John Sharp has published in print in Peninsular, Snow Monkey, GUD: Greatest Uncommon Denominator, Birmingham Arts Journal and Opium, and online in Eclectica, Pindeldyboz, Salt River Review, Paumanok Review, and Lunarosity, among others. His poetry appeared in the anthology, 'An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind,' published by Regent Press. He has worked as an associate editor for the literary journals, Night Train and Story Garden, and is the fiction editor for Right Hand Pointing. He has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
94 words
Tyrus heard about the accident when he was at work. In front of his house, all that's left are tiny glass pieces and the coolant reservoir with a kinked hose attached. He picks it up; it's vibrating. The hose straightens and he hears something leaking out. He puts the end to his ear—it's crying, screaming, calling for mommy. There're sirens, and voices of EMT's prying off the door and strapping the driver to a gurney and covering her face. Tyrus puts his thumb over the end, hugs the container, and closes his eyes.
F. John Sharp has published in print in Peninsular, Snow Monkey, GUD: Greatest Uncommon Denominator, Birmingham Arts Journal and Opium, and online in Eclectica, Pindeldyboz, Salt River Review, Paumanok Review, and Lunarosity, among others. His poetry appeared in the anthology, 'An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind,' published by Regent Press. He has worked as an associate editor for the literary journals, Night Train and Story Garden, and is the fiction editor for Right Hand Pointing. He has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
6.03.2008
Untitled
by Tom Meek
83 words
Peas, capers, chunks of carrots and chicken, it looks like chicken pot pie. Red wine, no trace of the white or the martini, only the pate of a green olive and a pimento' red tail. Duck pate. I see it. Couscous, rosemary and crème Brule, you fed me well. All I did was sit there and gorge, you in your dress, me in my suit. This was to be our night, but I was a pig and took it all, even you. Vomit.
Tom Meek is a writer living in Cambridge, MA. He teaches fiction writing to youths and reviews films for the Boston Phoenix.
83 words
Peas, capers, chunks of carrots and chicken, it looks like chicken pot pie. Red wine, no trace of the white or the martini, only the pate of a green olive and a pimento' red tail. Duck pate. I see it. Couscous, rosemary and crème Brule, you fed me well. All I did was sit there and gorge, you in your dress, me in my suit. This was to be our night, but I was a pig and took it all, even you. Vomit.
Tom Meek is a writer living in Cambridge, MA. He teaches fiction writing to youths and reviews films for the Boston Phoenix.
Breakups
by Noel Sloboda
60 words
Kevin found the best way to deal with being dumped was with rocks. Heʼd paint his ex-girlfriendʼs face on one as soon as they parted ways.
In his vegetable garden, Kevin had a great collection of stony faces heʼd once kissed. All the brightly colored lips, forever puckered up, helped keep away the blues and the squirrels, especially in winter.
Noel Sloboda lives in Pennsylvania, where he serves as dramaturg for the Harrisburg Shakespeare Festival and teaches at Penn State York. His writing has appeared in venues based in the United States, the United Kingdom, New Zealand, and Canada. Look for recent work in Chronogram, Vulcan, Keyhole Magazine, bottle rockets, Gentle Strength Quarterly, Poems Niederngasse, and Pen Pusher. He is also busy with a collection forthcoming from sunnyoutside.
60 words
Kevin found the best way to deal with being dumped was with rocks. Heʼd paint his ex-girlfriendʼs face on one as soon as they parted ways.
In his vegetable garden, Kevin had a great collection of stony faces heʼd once kissed. All the brightly colored lips, forever puckered up, helped keep away the blues and the squirrels, especially in winter.
Noel Sloboda lives in Pennsylvania, where he serves as dramaturg for the Harrisburg Shakespeare Festival and teaches at Penn State York. His writing has appeared in venues based in the United States, the United Kingdom, New Zealand, and Canada. Look for recent work in Chronogram, Vulcan, Keyhole Magazine, bottle rockets, Gentle Strength Quarterly, Poems Niederngasse, and Pen Pusher. He is also busy with a collection forthcoming from sunnyoutside.
Cows
by Carol Novack
46 words
So I'm in The Food Emporium and hear a man and woman talking and the man says to the woman, "Hey, I hear you've been working with wolves; that must be fascinating!" And the woman replies, "Yes, it is!" This was in the dairy section.
Carol Novack is a black-belt in madhattery: More at Mad Hatters Review.
46 words
So I'm in The Food Emporium and hear a man and woman talking and the man says to the woman, "Hey, I hear you've been working with wolves; that must be fascinating!" And the woman replies, "Yes, it is!" This was in the dairy section.
Carol Novack is a black-belt in madhattery: More at Mad Hatters Review.
5.20.2008
The Edible Book Festival, 2008
by Phil Abrams
100 words
100 words
In Austin, Texas, of all places. Caption read, Judith Goldstein to judge - her picture leapt at him from the magazine article. Fuck books! All he could imagine was eating her! Taking her pen-like fingers, dipping them into her private inkwell, licking her writing off the wall, lying in bed devouring her like a great novel read late into the night. He must enter her contest and woo with culinary excellence wrapped in a literary masterpiece! Maybe a haiku on salmon colored soybean paper penned with squid ink? But what if she keeps kosher? Damn religion! Damn its archaic laws!
Wish Fulfillment
by Noel Sloboda
73 words
Don decided he wanted to become a Pez dispenser. It wasn’t just fame he was after. He liked the idea of standing alongside the likes of the Lone Ranger, Darth Vader, and Shmoo.
Don resolved to demonstrate his worthiness by a shoving a world-record-setting number of Easter eggs into his mouth. He reached a count of 37 before he had to stop.
Then he tilted his head to release the bright bounty inside.
Noel Sloboda lives in Pennsylvania, where he serves as dramaturg for the Harrisburg Shakespeare Festival and teaches at Penn State York. His writing has appeared in venues based in the United States, the United Kingdom, New Zealand, and Canada. Look for recent work in Chronogram, Vulcan, Keyhole Magazine, bottle rockets, Gentle Strength Quarterly, Poems Niederngasse, and Pen Pusher. He is also busy with a collection forthcoming from sunnyoutside.
A Pint of Blood
by Michael Kechula
100 words
Michael A. Kechula is a retired technical writer. His flash and micro-fiction tales have won first prize in six contests and honorable mention in three others. His stories have appeared in ninety-two online and print magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “Crazy Stories for Crazy People.” Both paperbacks available at www.amazon.com eBook versions of the former are available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com
100 words
Curious, Frank answered a newspaper ad: “Beautiful Vampire seeks donors."
A week later, they met in a restaurant.
“You’re cute,” she said. “What’s your blood type?”
“A-Positive.”
“My favorite. Mind loosing a pint tonight? Makes me incredibly aroused.”
Frank couldn’t wait.
“Dessert?” asked the waiter.
“We’ll pass.” Squeezing Frank’s thigh, she whispered, “You’re my dessert.”
And he was. But he was also appetizer and main course.
Her ad was a lie. She was a man-eating zombie, not a vampire. Newspapers accept classified ads from vampires, werewolves, ghouls, but not zombies. That’s nasty discrimination. What’s a hungry, man-eating zombie to do?
Michael A. Kechula is a retired technical writer. His flash and micro-fiction tales have won first prize in six contests and honorable mention in three others. His stories have appeared in ninety-two online and print magazines and anthologies in Australia, Canada, England, and US. He’s authored two books of flash and micro-fiction: “A Full Deck of Zombies--61 Speculative Fiction Tales” and “Crazy Stories for Crazy People.” Both paperbacks available at www.amazon.com eBook versions of the former are available at www.BooksForABuck.com and www.fictionwise.com
5.19.2008
Passing
by Jim Parks
100 words
100 words
Two tipoffs a kid wouldn't notice.
We didn't spend much time there.
"Place smells like cat piss."
For lunch, rye bread toasted, Spam fried, with mayonnaise. On the crackling radio, Eddie Fisher sang "Oh, My Papa."
He hugged me and cried.
At the airport, he said, "No tattoos." I asked why.
Why? Can't be buried in a Jewish cemetery.
"I'm not Jewish."
"So, convert."
Copyright © 2007 Jim Parks
Ribs on the Run
by Kris Saknussemm
100 words
Slaughter-time at the bacon factory. Never forget the sounds.
100 words
Slaughter-time at the bacon factory. Never forget the sounds.
I'm filling up at the truckstop when I hear those same desperate squeals again. A twin trailer loaded with hogs. Suddenly slats smash—one breaks loose. Crazed pig between the pumps—high octane panic—market-bound meat charging across the freeway. God, I'm thinking smoked ham and a five car crack-up but the creature actually makes it, disappearing in the derelict speedway where Guns N' Roses once played—pounding over the peeling asphalt toward a suburb where Blockbuster kids graffiti the display houses…as if it knew its way. All the way home.
KRIS SAKNUSSEMM is the Random House author of
His stories and poems have appeared in such places as
For more information:
Copyright © 2007 Kris Saknussemm
Rose
by Jim Tomlinson
100 words
For weeks after your hospital stay, I brought you roses, a dozen each day. Online you bought me an inflatable lady, named her 'Rose,' too, your delightful, sick-wife humor.
100 words
For weeks after your hospital stay, I brought you roses, a dozen each day. Online you bought me an inflatable lady, named her 'Rose,' too, your delightful, sick-wife humor.
I find Rose in our closet. She's saggy and sad. I pull her close and uncap the plastic tube. On my cheek, my neck, I feel again your whisper-soft breath.
Jim Tomlinson's short story collection, Things Kept, Things Left Behind , won the 2006 Iowa Short Fiction Award. Check out his MySpace page and website.
Copyright © 2007 Jim Tomlinson
Leftovers
by Jacquelyn Mitchard
98 words
Author of The Deep End of the Ocean, Jacquelyn Mitchard's new novel, Still Summer, is out in August, 2007. Visit www.Jackiemitchard.com.
98 words
Any living
People would tell her to be strong. But she'd already been strong. She had lifted her dying, leaking, groaning little girl out of her sweat-and- pee-soaked bed. She had stayed awake for eighteen-hour stretches, lying or pacing on the carpeted floor, listening to the thump-hiss of the oxygen apparatus and
The pills had always had the power to move truths into the next room.
What would
In your dreams, they would say.
They had the balls not to be fooled.
Author of The Deep End of the Ocean, Jacquelyn Mitchard's new novel, Still Summer, is out in August, 2007. Visit www.Jackiemitchard.com.
Copyright © 2007 Jacquelyn Mitchard
4.29.2008
$4,750
by Damian Dressick
17 words
"Nope," said the foreman. "Won't be the jury gets hung, that's all you can lay hands on."
A Pushcart nominee and winner of the 2007 Harriette Arnow Award for short fiction, Damian Dressick's work has appeared or is slated to appear in more than twenty-five literary journals, including New Delta Review, Alimentum, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Vestal Review and Contrary Magazine. Founding curator of
Copyright © 2008 Damian Dressick
Lore
by Bob Heman
72 words
72 words
The stork brought a baby bear to the hunter and a baby fox to the frog and a baby chicken to the wolf. Each was raised to adulthood by its new parent in the same way they would have raised any child. The bear was taught human ways, the fox frog ways, the chicken the ways of the wolf. Later, when they talked with each other, they became filled with strange ideas.
Bob Heman's work has appeared in Quick Fiction, Paragraph, Sentence, and many others. A collection of 33 pieces, How it All Began, is available as a free download from Quale Press at http://www.quale.com/How_BH.html
Copyright © 2008 Bob Heman
The Evening News
by Chris Deal
98 words
98 words
The tender turns the television to Univision, mostly for the telenovela women, and there they saw, on the news, this grainy clip of a group of Argentine kids freaking out over a gnome coming their way, pointy hat and drunken hobo shuffle and all. Nat watched from over his beer and spoke, to his reflection in the glass, to the tender, to no one, "Now, if you see a little fellow coming your way, all jolly on his bun, you don't scream. You buy that cat a drink and get his story." No one had anything to say.
Chris Deal writes from
Copyright © 2008 Chris Deal
SUBMISSION REMINDER
We continue to get more and more submissions - stunning work, too - but alas, we can't publish everything.
This is just a reminder that if your piece isn't chosen one week, it could on another. The editorial process is subjective and is often based on the overall issue, just as with any other publication.
So keep it up. Our readers need you!!
This is just a reminder that if your piece isn't chosen one week, it could on another. The editorial process is subjective and is often based on the overall issue, just as with any other publication.
So keep it up. Our readers need you!!
4.08.2008
How Things Were
by Doug Mathewson
56 words
Family called us difficult children. School and the neighbors called us worse.
Late at night, I would squirt lighter fluid on our boots, my sister would strike the match, and we would run screaming through the house.
Doug Mathewson writes very short fiction that occasionally finds itself being essay or poetry. He is current project is "True Stories From Imaginary Lives." He has been published most recently by PenPricks Micro-fiction, Creative Soup,and Tuesday Shorts. His poetry will appear in the March issue of eMuse-zine.
More of his work is available at his own blog, www.little2say.org
Copyright © 2008 Doug Mathewson
A Day in the Life: The Guinness Counter
by Cicily Janus
100 words
100 words
A thousand words a minute.
5a.m. flight to Bangor, Maine.
More words than anticipated: 1,259.4
Winner: by default. Her competition--asthmatic.
The breathless could have won, gasping out, inhaler! Good last word. The other woman chattered, the winded collapsed. I laughed--sick, twisted laughter.
Last week: World’s longest conga line--New York City. CEO announces 20% salary increase, complete outbreak of idiocy.
Count: (people, dogs, canaries) 2,450.
Deaths: 1.
Report doesn’t mention it. Death warrants disqualification.
Tomorrow: Hotdogs--Weingarten, Germany.
Hot Dogs to be digested: 110.
I’ll be there.
I’m the senior Counter—part of the absurdity; an out-numbered oddball.
Cicily Janus is a writer in Colorado Springs, CO. Her writing has appeared in many online and print journals. For a complete listing of her projects, both writing and otherwise, you may visit her website at: www. cicilyjanus. net Cicily is also hosting a writers retreat in Vail, Colorado this fall with award winning authors and editors. Visit the retreat website at: http://www.freewebs.com/literaryretreat4couples
or on myspace at:
http://www.myspace.com/writingaway
Copyright © 2008 Cicily Janus
For the Record
by Noel Sloboda
66 words
While studying Stein manuscripts at the Beinecke library, Beth turned out to be a poor steward of history. Taking notes, she used red pen, which leaked onto the precious pages of the Mama of Dada.
66 words
While studying Stein manuscripts at the Beinecke library, Beth turned out to be a poor steward of history. Taking notes, she used red pen, which leaked onto the precious pages of the Mama of Dada.
Beth’s guilt was great, only mitigated by the implausible hope that a future scholar, studying the same pages, might mistake the origin of the accidental mark and conclude Stein bled ink.
Noel Sloboda lives in Pennsylvania, where he serves as dramaturg for the Harrisburg Shakespeare Festival and teaches at Penn State York. His writing has appeared in venues based in the United States, the United Kingdom, New Zealand, and Canada. Look for recent work in Chronogram, Vulcan, Keyhole Magazine, bottle rockets, Gentle Strength Quarterly, Poems Niederngasse, and Pen Pusher. He is also busy with a collection forthcoming from sunnyoutside.
Copyright © 2008 Noel Sloboda
4.06.2008
Stolen Lunch
by Sarah Holland
100 words
Lightning necklaces the sky as Cordell Reno dashes into the bushes with a lunch sack stolen off the WPA supervisors’ truck. He’d lifted each bag, comparing, then grabbed the heaviest one. I’ll get found out...the drive boss will can me for sure. Work’s scarce, but he doesn’t care. He hasn’t eaten anything but flour all week, and his stomach is scraping up against the back of his spine.
"We’re poor people, son. We got our own laws," his dad says.
Safely hidden with his prize, mouth watering, he opens the bag.
Inside is a bunch of black walnuts, and a hammer.
Sarah Holland lives in Maine. Her fiction has appeared at Six Sentences.
100 words
Lightning necklaces the sky as Cordell Reno dashes into the bushes with a lunch sack stolen off the WPA supervisors’ truck. He’d lifted each bag, comparing, then grabbed the heaviest one. I’ll get found out...the drive boss will can me for sure. Work’s scarce, but he doesn’t care. He hasn’t eaten anything but flour all week, and his stomach is scraping up against the back of his spine.
"We’re poor people, son. We got our own laws," his dad says.
Safely hidden with his prize, mouth watering, he opens the bag.
Inside is a bunch of black walnuts, and a hammer.
Sarah Holland lives in Maine. Her fiction has appeared at Six Sentences.
Copyright © 2008 Sarah Holland
the first date
by Louise Yeiser
16 words
oh my god the look on his face when i told him i didn’t eat fish.
louise yeiser is a freelance writer, studying creative nonfiction at the university of pittsburgh, who doesn’t go out much.
16 words
oh my god the look on his face when i told him i didn’t eat fish.
louise yeiser is a freelance writer, studying creative nonfiction at the university of pittsburgh, who doesn’t go out much.
Copyright © 2008 Louise Yeiser
Shake ‘N Jake
by Mike Reczek
95 words
Copyright © 2008 Mike Reczek
95 words
"What’s for dinner, Mom?
"Shake ’N Jake!"
"Awesome! Hey, Dad--Mom’s making Shake ’N Jake!"
"Shake ’N Jake? What’s that, honey?"
"Shake ’N Jake is a quick and easy meal that’s perfect for the whole family! Jake comes fully dismembered and disemboweled for convenient choosing of the body part you want! Simply shake the contents in the freeze-loc bag for tasty seasoning and place in the microwave! Who’s ready for Shake ’N Jake?"
"Me! I want an arm!"
"I’ll take a leg!"
"And I’ll have the lymph nodes!"
Shake ’N Jake: THE ULTIMATE WHITE MEAT!
Mike Reczek is a TEFL teacher currently working in Taiwan. He has been to Hong Kong, Singapore, the Philippines, and Jakarta and, to his knowledge, and never willingly eaten Shake ’N Jake.
3.13.2008
Untitled by Kelly Irmen
87 words
She could not understand what he was still doing alive. She glared at him and said, "I wanted you to vanish into the box-spring once I had gone."
She always listened to his fingers plucking at the strings. And it seemed almost insect-like, the arch and jerky movements of his fingers- like something substantially small working its way through an over-grown landscape.
The courtyard is silent until a screen door opens and kids burst forth screaming to play tag. It is like watching a building give birth.
She could not understand what he was still doing alive. She glared at him and said, "I wanted you to vanish into the box-spring once I had gone."
She always listened to his fingers plucking at the strings. And it seemed almost insect-like, the arch and jerky movements of his fingers- like something substantially small working its way through an over-grown landscape.
The courtyard is silent until a screen door opens and kids burst forth screaming to play tag. It is like watching a building give birth.
Copyright 2008 Kelley Irmen
The Unique Sound Properties of Ethylene Glycol by F. John Sharp
94 words
Tyrus heard about the accident when he was at work. In front of his house, all that's left are tiny glass pieces and the coolant reservoir with a kinked hose attached. He picks it up; it's vibrating. The hose straightens and he hears something leaking out. He puts the end to his ear—it's crying, screaming, calling for mommy. There're sirens, and voices of EMT's prying off the door and strapping the driver to a gurney and covering her face. Tyrus puts his thumb over the end, hugs the container, and closes his eyes.
F. John Sharp has published in print in Peninsular, Snow Monkey, GUD: Greatest Uncommon Denominator, Birmingham Arts Journal and Opium, and online in Eclectica, Pindeldyboz, Salt River Review, Paumanok Review, and Lunarosity, among others. His poetry appeared in the anthology, 'An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind,' published by Regent Press. He has worked as an associate editor for the literary journals, Night Train and Story Garden, and is the fiction editor for Right Hand Pointing. He has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Tyrus heard about the accident when he was at work. In front of his house, all that's left are tiny glass pieces and the coolant reservoir with a kinked hose attached. He picks it up; it's vibrating. The hose straightens and he hears something leaking out. He puts the end to his ear—it's crying, screaming, calling for mommy. There're sirens, and voices of EMT's prying off the door and strapping the driver to a gurney and covering her face. Tyrus puts his thumb over the end, hugs the container, and closes his eyes.
F. John Sharp has published in print in Peninsular, Snow Monkey, GUD: Greatest Uncommon Denominator, Birmingham Arts Journal and Opium, and online in Eclectica, Pindeldyboz, Salt River Review, Paumanok Review, and Lunarosity, among others. His poetry appeared in the anthology, 'An Eye for an Eye Makes the Whole World Blind,' published by Regent Press. He has worked as an associate editor for the literary journals, Night Train and Story Garden, and is the fiction editor for Right Hand Pointing. He has also been nominated for a Pushcart Prize.
Copyright © 2008 F. John Sharp
Cheers to Sylvia Plath by Timothy Gager
99 words
We all tied one on after you told me that you lost the baby and how the ultra sound showed an empty sack and debris floating around.
"I'm really drunk," you said as almost daddy started warning us about addictions and the loss of creative geniuses "gone too soon." Peeking over my scotch, the ice-cubes imploded when he said, "Imagine if they were alive. Hendrix, Janis....Sylvia Plath…"
I hadn't opened my mouth much until I said, "It would really fuck up the head in the oven poem I wrote." I'm no genius but I've lived to say inappropriate things.
Timothy Gager has been widely published in print and electronic journals. He lives at www.timothygager.com.
Copyright © 2008 Timothy Gager
2.26.2008
Y'all Muddafucka by Jim Parks
100 words
Nine inches of rain one day, eleven the next. Gutters, ditches, creeks, bayous, rivers running riot nearly out of their banks with chocolate water.
Ti-beau and his little sister Evangeline are about to go out of their minds with cabin fever. The floor of the bayou house on stilts rings with their running footsteps.
Outdoors, for the fortieth time of the day, they stomp in the ditch, Ti-beau in little white shrimpers' rubber boots. The Cajun mother, virago, her hair in curlers, leans out the door and bellows, "Y'all muddafucka bet' get y'all muddafuckin' ass out dat muddafuckin waw-tuh!"
Jim Parks is a native of the Oak Cliff section of Dallas, son of a merchant and a bank teller from the black lands where they grow the cotton. Raised in Houston, he did his time in the Navy, college in California, newspapers there, Texas and Florida. Truck driver, deckhand on tugs, tuna clippers, oyster barges and shrimpers; a railroad bum and laborer, he can't remember ever not trying to work hard to tell his stories of sudden death, love, lust and life in print. Tagged as The Legendary Jim Parks by a less than complimentary police captain in Houston, he uses that moniker still to find out who among us has a sense of humor and who does not.
Nine inches of rain one day, eleven the next. Gutters, ditches, creeks, bayous, rivers running riot nearly out of their banks with chocolate water.
Ti-beau and his little sister Evangeline are about to go out of their minds with cabin fever. The floor of the bayou house on stilts rings with their running footsteps.
Outdoors, for the fortieth time of the day, they stomp in the ditch, Ti-beau in little white shrimpers' rubber boots. The Cajun mother, virago, her hair in curlers, leans out the door and bellows, "Y'all muddafucka bet' get y'all muddafuckin' ass out dat muddafuckin waw-tuh!"
Jim Parks is a native of the Oak Cliff section of Dallas, son of a merchant and a bank teller from the black lands where they grow the cotton. Raised in Houston, he did his time in the Navy, college in California, newspapers there, Texas and Florida. Truck driver, deckhand on tugs, tuna clippers, oyster barges and shrimpers; a railroad bum and laborer, he can't remember ever not trying to work hard to tell his stories of sudden death, love, lust and life in print. Tagged as The Legendary Jim Parks by a less than complimentary police captain in Houston, he uses that moniker still to find out who among us has a sense of humor and who does not.
Copyright © 2008 Jim Parks
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