Blog Posts

Portrait of a Kingdom

9/9/2017

by WARREN J. COX

Pink Castle Piñata in the Gutter by Drew Leavy / Flickr

The phone alarm sings its melody at six thirty, and I begin my slow rolling on the carpeted floor. My typical exile. There are ill-defined darkly aches in my legs beneath my woolly checkered jammy-pants, and there are acidic grumblings in my astro-gastro-gut. I know it’s a long way to standing up, but I have to get there.

By six fifty I’m outside holding the trumpet case awaiting the child-king who is still being processed, confined strictly to the bathroom until the final moment, by the matriarch. I am staring up at the slightly more than half moon, which I more and more believe is like a big blown-up bug eye, perhaps that of a Robber fly or blue damselfly. It could be a frog eye, too, I reflect, but I decide it belongs to a blue damselfly because then it’s easier to imagine (I’m aware I’m forcing the pareidolia) that there is a gigantic one of those up there staring at or past me; its body, obviously, is camouflaged perfectly in that shade of way-too-early sky blue.

The other eye, meanwhile, is looking off toward Eurasia, North Africa.

The Existentialists

9/9/2017

by PAUL SMITH

Sunoco by Chris / Flickr

The two men drove the rented car on the Expressway up from the airport. They were looking for Anderson Road. Once they found Anderson Road, they would look for the Sunoco station on the corner of it and Linebaugh, and then for the Puerto Rican that ran it.

It was not a long drive. Under different circumstances, it could have been pleasant even, so the men talked. They talked softly, without raising their voices, but steadily, as if something was about to happen and they would be part of it.

“So this guy’s a manic-depressive?” Stanley asked.

“A manic-depressive, which according to Jung, or Adler, I forget which, is most susceptible.”

“One of the four basic personality types. Wait a minute. Shouldn’t he be choleric or something? You know – hot-tempered."

Chess / Utah Agave

9/9/2017

by KYLE HEMMINGS

Chess by Nick Stenning / Flickr

Chess

In the park, where voices are low and gathering in numbers, and the gaps of silence mean someone is straining to hear, Munch plays chess with a war veteran who helped take a desert city and wipe out any late afternoon mirages.

"Death was so hard on the eyes," he says, "and the accidental casualties we had to deny."

I'm sitting on a bench across from the two, taking small bites out of a Bavarian ham and cheese sandwich from the family-owned deli around the corner. Munch, his forehead creased with deep lines of concentration, his pockmarked skin around his cheeks oozing sweat, moves his bishop to take the old veteran's knight. In turn, Munch loses his bishop to the old veteran's queen. The old man looks up at Munch, shakes his head.

"The world will end in approximately fifteen days, no more than thirty. I read it in the stars."

Pterrorshark vs. Sharkadactl / That Day in the School Yard

4/16/2017

by SAUL LEMEROND

Tiburon Volador by Jc Olivera / Flickr

Pterrorshark vs. Sharkadactl

I had stopped, long ago, waiting for a movie to come out that could redefine the genre. It’s not done anymore. Studios are too interested in their precious international dollar to spend any money or take any chances because everybody already knows the formula to set off a blockbuster in Beijing or Bali. Film is a dead, the Yuan and the Rupee have killed it, and though we visit its grave every now and again when we re-watch films like Jaws or The African Queen, there’s always a melancholy attached because something inside tells you this is it. It was fun while it lasted but it’s over. Most times I sit in my theater seat expecting just another movie as I’ve abandoned hope of an actual cinematic experience. But I was wrong, and I’m glad to say I was because Pterrorshark vs Sharkadactl is a tour de force. Man vs nature vs shark vs nuclear power vs the digital age, the film combines this country’s post 911 anxiety with what’s left of our communal Cold War nuclear paranoia.

The Pterrorshark (the ‘P’ is silent) has two heads, and each head two mouths, all of which breath atomic fire. The right head is of a shark, which surprises no one, and the second head is a lion’s head, which surprises some because they don’t expect to see a lion head on something called a Pterrorshark, which also has three pairs of wings. A set of bat wings, dove wings, and what look to be the wings of a flying squirrel. It has the body of a shark and is the size of the empire state building. The giant beast exists as the result of radioactive genetic experimentation, is considered by the people who created it a danger to human existence, and is encased in lead under the Yucatan Peninsula by order of the president.

Your Daddy's Daddy

4/15/2017

by CATHERINE MOORE

Roll Tide by Paull Young / Flickr

Eldred Hagan had been in possession of his great-grandmother’s engagement diamond for near two decades when he decided to take action. Well, maybe possession was too strong a word since it was stolen five years prior, but on the afternoon that ring was syphoned out of the muddy waters at Burnt Springs he was standing in front of the consignment section of Larry’s Gun & Pawn where Larry’s wife leaned over the counter in a provocative way. It was about his favorite place to be especially when Larry was off fishing in the Burnt.

“They have lots of these online dating sites now,” she said in a way that made online sound dirty.

“Don’t think my daddy would approve of me seeking the hand of a stranger, ma’am.”

“I reckon since WJ’s been six-feet under for a couple of decades, you should stop minding what he’d think. And who says anything about marriage?” she added a wink.

Call It What It Is

4/15/2017

by CHAD W. LUTZ

Chair by Thomas Hawk / Flickr

“That chair is putrid!” I shouted at my partner. “Get it out of here!”

We’d spent the better part of two hours transporting the cathedra across town and now that we were standing on the sidewalk outside our building I decided I’d had it.
“It’s too heavy. I’m tired. Let’s just leave it here. This was pointless, anyway.”

“Well,” he said coolly, lighting a Parliament Light, “then that is your life.”

“What do you mean, ‘That is your life’? Why do you always say things like that?”

“Because you always say things like that,” he said back, exhaling a rather lengthy drag.

I threw my hands up in the air, disgusted. “The day is ruined. Let’s do this some other time.”

But my partner never moved. He just stood there, smoking his cigarette, enjoying the act more than I’d ever admit I wanted him to in the still pale early morning sunlight.

1-800-CALL-GOD

4/15/2017

by DL SHIREY

Churchsign-6 by Brooke Witlon / Flickr

Duìyú zhōngguó qǐng àn yī. Pulse dos para español. For English, press three.

Thank you for calling 1-800-CALL-GOD. Our menu has changed, so please listen to the entire message before making a selection. At any time you may repeat this message by pressing four on your telephone keypad.

To leave a confession for a minor sin, press one. For a list of mortal sins and current penance for each, press two. To find an authorized place of worship, press the pound key followed by your five-digit zip code. To report any personal religious experience, including prophetic dreams, saintly or angelic visions, and suspected demonic possession, press three. To talk to God, please stay on line. Your call will be answered in the order in which you called.

They're Kind of Turtles

1/16/2017

By BEN SLOTKY

Tortoise and Grass by Tambako The Jaguar / Flickr

At what point is it okay to tell your kids that they’re dumb? Like when should you tell them that they’re dumb? And I know, I know. There’s never a good time, right? Like I know, you’ll always have an excuse for why you don’t tell them they’re dumb. Maybe you’re too busy, maybe you’ve got things to do. That could happen, right?

[crouching down, looking out into light]

That’s a possibility, you’ve got a lot of things to do, you can’t tell them they’re dumb all of the time, right?

Or maybe they’re about to get smart. Maybe they’re, right, maybe they’re like almost not going to be dumb anymore, yes, I get that. Maybe it’s close to their birthday or Christmas. You don’t want to spoil it by being like, “Hey, you’re dumb!” I get that ma’am, I do and I do but what I’m asking here is, and I’ll go ahead and say it again, and I’ll hunch over a bit here, like this here, and what I’m asking is when?

Is it okay?

[Looks up, slight smile.]

Greatness

1/16/2017

by ARRON BURROWS

Squishface #1 by Lynae Zebest / Flickr

Going over the Walt Whitman Memorial bridge, I see a sign that declared, ”Greatness never quits!” I think about that sign, until my father drops my wife and me off at the Philadelphia airport. It’s raining. Greatness, just what does that mean?

We get pushed, shoved, licked, and prodded through security. Make our way to gate E8 and sit in the waiting area. I wonder if any of the people around us will ever achieve greatness: the girl smiling at her phone with the travel pillow, the two older women sitting on the floor playing Mahjong, the couple whispering in each other’s ears, or the guy with the long beard staring at me as I write this. He smiles. If you could only count using your teeth, this guy would be limited to bunches of three.

He is rocking back and forth, glaring at me. I’m getting more concerned. A piece of food is dangling from his beard. I think it’s ham. Other passengers have begun to move away from him. My wife mentions that perhaps we should also move. No. I will not be frightened; Greatness never quits.

Too Many Words

1/16/2017

by RASMENIA MASSOUD

Word by Tinnytintin / Flickr

I tell people she's dead. It isn't the truth, but it isn't a lie. Breathing isn't proof of life. Breathing sometimes happens only because the body hasn't caught up yet. It will sooner or later. In time, her body will realize that she's already gone. Not because she's special, but because it happens to everyone.

Explanations are exhausting. Telling people she died is easier than explaining why I don't talk to her. Why there is no place for her in my life. Why I despise her.

Most people think hating makes a person bad. That anger is a negative thing. Good for them. They found a happier way. In their ignorance, they have no idea how these things can keep a person alive.

Really alive. More than just breathing.

My Idea For This Story / Dear Wonderful Stranger

11/30/2016

by ELIZEYA QUATE

The Feet by Alessio Michelini / Flickr

My Idea For This Story

My first idea for this story was to build a page for homicidal sentences. They would be the toughest, meanest sentences anyone had seen in a long while. As soon as the reader opens to the first page: *blam-blam*, there they are, the sentences, just going at it.

Whoah, thinks the reader. That's blood. That blood is real.

These sentences would be criminals. They would have escaped from burned-down asylums. They would want to dance the way skeletons want to dance; with their whole bodies missing at once. They would be crude and nasty. They would behave badly. And then they would die in wanton spectacles of violence.

That didn’t work out, so my second idea for this story was to make a story that was a story about writing this story itself, like a self-zapping lightning bolt that strikes itself over and over again. This would be the paragraph where you’d get a sense of whether or not this sort of thing could hang actually together.

Me and Nettie

11/29/2016

by SCOTT McCLELLAND

First Food by Jenny Cu / Flickr

January 3, 1964

Our Ma died three days after President Kennedy was killed, and I reckon Daddy must’ve thought the whole world was coming apart on him then, ‘cause he didn’t have no idea how to take care of me, a nine-year-old boy, or worse, my little sister Nettie, who’d just turned three.

When Miss Jaskey, from the County Office, come to see if we was okay, there weren’t nothing to eat in the house ‘cept three jars of baby food from when Nettie was just a little bitty. We’d had six jars the day before, but Daddy come in the kitchen and ate two jars of sweet peaches, then left us on our own, while he went down to Rusko’s Superette to get another box of beer—that he drank warm—before knocking out on the davenport again. I fed Nettie one jar of mushed peas, and then hid them last three jars in a cubbyhole where the milkman used to leave our milk and cottage cheese.

Why I Can't Fly With My Harp

11/28/2016

by BOBBIE WAYNE

Ye Olde Harp by Baptiste Pons / Flickr

I learned that Moses was dead from Fred Koller, the dry-witted songwriter who had told me his acquaintance Moses could build me a harp case. Fred called from Nashville to say that Moses had died of “bad livin’” and that I needed to get the case before it was taken and sold to repay debts. Unfortunately, the case he had built was not the light-weight one I wanted for my small Celtic harp. But maybe if I had the case I could sell it and get my $600 back.

I wouldn’t have ordered such an expensive thing if my career as a singer/songwriter wasn’t picking up steam. Having made my first recording, I was getting airplay in college radio stations across the nation. It was time for a better instrument along with a flight case. I ordered the new harp. But Moses made very slow work of the case, despite my frequent and increasingly urgent long distance calls. Eventually he let slip the fact that he had subcontracted the work as soon as he had cashed my check for $600. I decided it was time to take a firmer stance with Moses.

New App Narceexist

11/27/2016

by DANIEL ROCHE

The Rare #Selfie by Al E. / Flickr

Every year billions of people go to bed starving for attention. Born into a hard life of mediocrity, with no special skills or talents, these people have little chance of ever making an impact on the world. As a last resort, many upload countless pictures or videos in hope of mattering. At best, these people are noticed and soon forgotten. At worst, they’re ignored entirely. Unfortunately there is no cure to being insignificant, but there is a way to provide relief for suffering egos everywhere.

Narceexist makes the average person sound remarkable. Inspired by the plight of the unexceptional, Narceexist turns meaningless events into major turning points in human history. With Narceexist you can upload your favorite pictures or videos, and experience what it’s like to live in a documentary about yourself. Accompanying every upload is a celebrity voiced narration that gives your event the impact it needs to be remembered.

Here’s how it works:

This Is Embarassing

10/30/2016

BY DOUG VAN HOOSER

Embarrassed by Chris Fane / Flickr

The band was loud. Paul leaned over the bar and ordered his usual dirty martini. As the bartender turned away to make the drink, Paul turned to look over the crowd. He spotted Janice, she never missed a Clawing Maul gig. She was the lead guitar player’s wife or girlfriend. He had never asked. He waved. She waved back. She was a large woman to begin with and the pregnancy had blown her up more. Paul turned to get his drink and ordered a sparkling water for Janice. She was a real sweetheart. Never a word of complaint, much less an unkind one. The only woman Paul had ever met that he could say always had a genuine smile. Nothing artificial or forced. He paid for the drinks, and started to knife his way through the crowd.

“Hey.” Paul greeted her.

“Hey. Sit down. It’s been a while."

“Yea, I missed the last couple of times the Maul played. Here I got you a sparkler.” He placed the water in front of her.

She looked up with that engaging smile as he took a seat. “Forget that. It’s time for one of those.” She pointed at his martini.

Blue

10/30/2016

BY E. M. EASTICK

Blue Clown by Cristina Jiménez Ledesma / Flickr

When baby-blue walls are the only thing separating you from the degradation of humankind, it’s hard to stay calm. But what choice do I have? My attempts to escape, to continue my plight, have drawn the walls tighter. The threat taunts me in my prison. The memories eat at my conscience.

A line of silly string—pukey green in the yellow light—squiggled down the alley and disappeared behind an industrial bin. I crept forward and tried not to breathe in, but the stench tugged my nostril hairs and threatened to call up my cheeseburger dinner. Nevertheless, I pushed on. I had him. "GIVE IT UP, BOZO.”

A chuckle erupted from behind the bin. A rainbow smelling of popcorn rushed past me. Ill-fitting shoes flip-flopped down the alley, and I chased, my clown extermination kit, cleverly disguised as a briefcase, swinging at my side. When I reached the corner, he’d gone. No circus smells. No flip flops. No crazy blue hair that marked him as a member of the Clown Uprising.

Clarity

10/29/2016

BY J. D. GRAVES

Margarita by Kim Manly Ort / Flickr

I recently decided to quit drinking. No one browbeat me into it. No one heaped platitudes or used twelve step double speak to steer me towards the wagon. I arrived at this choice of my own free will and with a somewhat sober mind.

Last month I'd gone out again with Jeannie. That toe headed squaw who you remember works at Peterson's grocery store. Jeannie and me started the night sensibly enough. I picked her up and drove into Longview for Tex-Mex. We each had a margarita.

And then another.

After that we wanted to pace ourselves so I ordered a round of beers. By this time, Jeannie wasn't feeling good and excused herself to the ladies room. The waiter, this pimply faced kid in chinos, came over and apologized for the delay of our food. He gave some half-acorn excuse about being short handed in the kitchen.

He offered us another round and I nodded. I mean I wasn't going to offend the guy. A hispanic boy came over and refilled the chips and salsa.

All was right with the world.

Incident at CritterLand

9/11/2016

by DAVID HENSON

Slow Critters by Rachel Stelmach / Flickr

"Computer, dictation mode: It all started when one of our bees buzzed too close to one of our dogs. The dog snapped at the bee, which then stung the dog's nose. It couldn't have hurt the dog because of our safety protocols. But it apparently scared him because he started howling and barking."

Fudgeknuckle, don't begin so abruptly. Give some background.

I thought we agreed I'd do this report, Shockrocket.

Yes, but at least explain what CritterLand is. For the record.

If it makes you happy. "Computer, insert at beginning: CritterLand is a new amusement, which I'm in charge of, at Teleportation World."

You're just in charge of technical. I handle the business side.

Please stop interrupting. It's going to be hard for me to dictate this report with you surfacing your thoughts in my mind.

For the time being it's our mind.

boots

9/11/2016

by MONIQUE QUINTANA

Saturday Night by Meg Nicol / Flickr

Here’s the problem-- everyone calls them her puta boots because they’re so slick and shiny. It’s not cliché, not with her. It’s not that shit she watched on TV, that movie they show sometimes on Saturday afternoons where a streetwalker ends up meeting a man and getting to Rodeo Drive. It’s not even like that, and she leans against the wall like she’s the most brilliant mannequin. If she could count the stars she would, but they’re not even there. Still, there’s all kind of lights on Blackstone. She’s short, and her boots fit her like snakes are eating up her legs, and they buckle and pinch, and they gnaw at her kneecaps.

No, wait. She’s not really on Blackstone or G Street. She’s just walking down the halls of her elementary school. Crystal’s in kindergarten. The first time she saw the boots in the store window, she fell in love with them. Her mom bought her the boots because at that moment in time, she thought that they were rain boots, or at the very least, would pass for rain boots. At first it was ok. Crystal would just wear the boots to stomp around the house, up and down the stairs, and all around the porch. But then, she got so attached to those boots she wanted to wear them to school. She would beg her mom, and sometimes she would even cry. She wouldn’t let the subject go until she got to stomp out the door with her boots on. That first day she wears them, all the mothers are standing with their children at the gate, and they look at the boots, and then they look at each other, whispering behind their hands, like brown paper fans.

Like I Always Do

9/11/2016

by JENNIFER HERALD

I am Hngry by duncan c / Flickr

I have caught every single red light from Cold Spring to Cincinnati and this one, at the corner of East Liberty and Broadway, coming off the exit is no different. Another red light. Seriously. I’m not running late but it still perturbs me. I’m sipping my caramel mocha and enjoying a sausage biscuit when he catches my eye. Guiltily, I put the food down in my lap.

He stands here every day or at least every day for the last two years. When I worked at the children’s hospital up the road a bit, he was there and if he wasn’t, I wondered where he went, if he was okay. Now I only come over to teach or attend class so I don’t see him as often. He is tall and lanky, he is of medium build, neither fat nor thin. He has a long face with perpetual grey stubble and a baseball cap is always perched on his head. Today, he has a gauze pad duct taped to his leg and there is blood seeping through. It couldn’t be good to have duct tape holding gauze in place or for a wound that is clearly pretty severe to be outside all day. But, he seems as pleasant and kind as ever, offering me a nod and a wave which I return.

I wonder if he has a schedule for waving, as ridiculous as that sounds. When I drove to the hospital, it was much earlier, just after seven in the morning. He would already be there, set up for the day. At that time, he would hold a sign and give a warm nod to each person. I nodded back each time but never rolled down my window. The exit veered suddenly and in the autobahn that is Cincinnati rush hour traffic, one is expected to make the right on red turn the nanosecond it is feasible lest the person be regaled with the horns of a thousand angry commuters.

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