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.

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.

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