Blog Posts

A Fitting Tribute

7/12/2020

by TIM FRANK

shadow boxing by abby chicken | Flickr

Jimmy Ward shadowboxed in his bedroom as the morning light seeped through the blinds creating a dense silhouette. His joints were weak but he still had the moves.

“You'll damage the lining,” said his wife, Ruby, appearing at the door. “It's the best suit we could afford and you're bulging at the seams as it is. Hey, what's wrong champ?”

“I don't want to go the market, I hate that place,” he said lowering his arms and crossing them defensively.

“No, Jimmy, have you forgotten already?” Ruby said, fiddling with his blood red tie. “We're going to see the Queen at Buckingham Palace. You're going to be honoured.”

“Oh, oh, yes, I remember now, the Queen.”

Playing the Dying Game

7/4/2020

by Harri B. Cradoc

Coronavirus by Tim Dennell | Flickr

“Let’s just say I don’t like taking showers alone,” said the man on the waiting room sofa.

The tousle-haired woman in the corner chair near the potted plant had picked out a wrinkled leaf of the variegated Schefflera and was attempting to straighten its lifeline. She rubbed the plant’s golden spots between one thumb and finger, and then, with a momentary tug at her facemask, uncovered a smile that stretched her twilight red lips. They pursed like a last kiss of the sun.

“Those yellow marks don’t come off,” he said.

“No? This is what I do to make everything be right again. Rubbing is the key.”

As Sleeping Dogs Lie

6/20/2020

by PHOENIX DESIMONE

Slumber Party by Todd Dwyer | Flickr

I awoke to the dog tickling my feet with his tongue. The sun was peaking in through the blinds. The girl in my bed was beautiful – from the sparkles between her blonde locks, to her blue eyes and matching socks. The only problem was I didn’t remember her name, let alone what game I could have played to get her home last night.

It was a cause for celebration no less; I wasn’t the best with the ladies. I was okay, better than most – I would start a conversation but after that I had no idea which direction to go. I’d think of clever things to say to get them to come home with me, but typically, nothing would happen. Smiles would be exchanged, sometimes even numbers, but more than likely the two of us would never see each other again.

Some Who Wander

6/7/2020

by REBECCA GOMEZ FARRELL

Trail Sign by Lunchbox Larry | Flickr

An undecipherable sign beckons from the bottom of a neglected, steep pathway between houses. Ignoring the omen of long-forgotten patio chairs at the trail's summit, I grip the solitary, damp guardrail and descend. Cold air mists my skin. I soft-shoe over disintegrating, ivy-covered asphalt and a decade's worth of crushed eucalyptus leaves. Four wooden stairs spill down to the end, a finish line I must cross. They prove slicker than the mud, slipping away along with my balance. Bruises bloom before my feet slam against the sign's metal pole, halting my downhill careen.

125, 135, 509

5/30/2020

by EMILIAN WOJNOWSKI

M by Alexander Mueller | Flickr

Life is like traveling by bus. We get on and off it at different stops—sometimes at those we don't want to, not necessarily due to absent-mindedness—and the further we go, the more we pay. Sometimes we get stuck in traffic jams, join wrong passengers, or lose tickets. Or the bus does not come.

The above thinking occurred to me at… a bus stop. Thoughts then are mosquitoes, and heads—if free of problems, social media, and music—are camping lanterns.

It was windy, so I sat under a shelter. I was simply waiting, with my hands in my pockets and my head leaned on a rolled-up viscose scarf.

Freezer World

5/15/2020

by TIMOTHY HENNUM

time for a freezer nap by hypersapiens | Flickr

The moment the door sealed shut behind me I understood the freezer people wanted me dead.

Here’s a bit of advice: Never trust a person who willingly locks themselves in a freezer because the world as we know it is over. And when I say over, I mean done, cooked, burnt to a crisp and never coming back. No electricity, no cars, no twitter, no turkey subs, no elevators. Whoever survives whatever comes next will eat dirt and ash and walk everywhere and take the stairs. But not stairs inside buildings because buildings as we once knew them are gone, melted, dissolved into nothing but nuclear dust. Whoever survives whatever comes next will live in huts made of nuclear mud.

Or walk-in freezers.

My Grandpa's Tremories / The Pinecone Wars

4/26/2020

by LEE DOUGLAS

West Virginia Road Trip by geoff dude | Flickr

My Grandpa's Tremories

“That’s how they getcha,” Grandpa whispered in sync with Kevin Bacon. “They’re under the got damned ground.”

I grinned, loving the moment.

“Sons of bitches,” Grandpa mimed cocking a rifle in time with Kevin. He raised it to his cheek, aiming at the TV. “Boom!”

I slap the couch. “You get it every time.”

“Kevin hits it every time,” Grandpa leaned back in his ancient recliner, folding his hands across his belly. His eyes flicked toward me, curious. Then they lit up with recognition. “Kevin! Want to watch Tremors?”

It was the third time he’d asked. “Of course, Grandpa.”

Fame

4/12/2020

by TOTI O'BRIEN

Utah Rocks by Lisa Cyr | Flickr

I began the sculpture with little in mind, trying to focus but incapable of true articulation. I always arrived at the lab exhausted by daily cares, only wishing to lose myself in my gestures, thinking possibly of nothing. That would work, in this particular case, as the instructor had requested a cluster of primary shapes inspired by a common theme. I could let my hands go, unworried of a final design that I would figure later. I started patting blocks of clay into spheres, halving them for easier handling. I smoothed, then reassembled them two by two.

I was thinking of rocks. Stone formations that I knew from my childhood—huge calcareous concretions, large boulders with a moonlike feel. By association, I recalled the mighty profiles of cactuses crowding those same mesas and plains, neatly matching the harshness of the granite terrain. My young eyes had long wandered over such lunar forms, greens and greys cut against too cloudless blue skies, burned out by a triumphant sunlight. I had loved them as kids love the first things they discover, explore, recognize—beyond limits, I mean. For me cactuses were creatures of power and grace, which I worshipped.

Routine

3/29/2020

by RICHARD LEISE

IMG_0418 by Abigail Batchelder | Flickr

A toddler falls from a balcony. It takes a moment—there is no commotion, no gathering crowd; there is, after looking up, no sound—but in time (you slowly walk closer until, incredibly, you make out impossible human features, a leg uncertainly angled) you realize that the girl isn’t a garbage bag, that she isn’t a pile of clothing and that, somehow, there, on the sidewalk, like a cat struck by a car, is a child, and not just any child, but that little girl who waves every morning on your walk to work.

That she’s alive? This doesn’t cross your mind.

Earlier.

Dakota Travis, Saurallero Extraordinaire

2/23/2020

by DAWN VOGEL

Triceratops by Miroslav Petrasko | Flickr

Today, we mourn the passing of Dakota "Trike" Travis, at the age of ninety-seven-years-young. Trike was a loving family man, legendary animal wrangler and stuntman, and perhaps best known to the public for his saurallero achievements on Chengillon. In addition to his long and storied career behind the scenes in Hollywood, Travis assisted with great strides in scientific enquiry into, communication with, and shepherding of the dinosaur inhabitants of Chengillon.

Travis was born in western Colorado on one of the few remaining twenty-third century horse ranches. Family legend claims Travis was born in the stables themselves, though his biographers suspect this may be an exaggeration. Growing up in such an environment, his pursuits naturally turned to animal wrangling, from which he made his career. He met his wife, Hollywood starlet Alexis Knight, on the set of "The Saddle and the Senorita," one of his first big wrangling jobs. Together, they helped revitalize the spaghetti western genre for the twenty-third century while raising their four children, Marram, Senkyo, Dyssodia, and Abalos.

The Megamolecular Diamond Destabilizer

1/31/2020

by CHARLIE ROGERS

Diamond Mine by Kelly Michals | Flickr

If I’m being honest, this is not how I expected my day to go.

I regain consciousness in a place that is not my hotel room, with my hands fastened behind my back, strapped to a frigid metal chair. I’m in my tighty-whities and the rest of my clothes are very much missing. Looking around, I find my girlfriend, Amelia, next to me, unconscious and bound in the same fashion, but she’s wearing winter hiking gear. Did I get that for her? We always plan to take hiking trips more or ever. I’m an aspirational gift-giver, so, maybe?

I give my head a quick shake. Focus.

The Proposition

1/20/2020

by LEAH MUELLER

The Manhattan... by Glenn Dettwiler | Flickr

If your uncle yammers for hours about alcoholism, and how it fucked up the entire family, you don’t expect him to take you to a dive bar afterward.

My uncle Henry did just that. Crazy Scorpio guy. Henry was obsessive and had the goods on everybody. The previous evening, he’d driven me around my grandmother Mildred’s neighborhood, pointing out the hidden skeletons behind every door. Mildred lived in the tony North Bay section of Racine, Wisconsin. She played bridge with Johnson Wax executives and voted a straight Republican ticket.

Henry pulled up in front of the most expensive house on the block and idled for a full minute. “Real can of worms in this place,” he said, without elaborating.

No Law Against It

12/22/2019

by ROBERT KIBBLE

thierry Ehrmann : il est interdit d'interdire | Flickr

“What do you mean, I’m out of credit? Already?” Jeb looked at the card, as if by looking it would become loaded again. As if it would turn from a purple ex-offender-release-credit card into one of the prized worker cards with their silver trim.

“Maybe, sir, you should get a job,” said the waiter, stepping towards the door.

“What job? There are no stinking jobs.”

“You won’t get anything out of him, Jeb,” said Ray. “Come on.” Ray put a hand on Jeb’s shoulder.

“I was better off inside,” said Jeb, still staring at the card. “At least we got filling meals.”

Ray pulled harder. “Well maybe you should have thought about that before you went before that parole board.”

Traffic Stop

11/11/2019

by P. JO ANNE BURGH

Squad Car @ The Bridge by GunnerVV | Flickr

Okay, Officer, you know, ordinarily I’d be happy to give you my license and registration, because I’m a very law-abiding citizen, born right here in the U.S. of A, no questions about that—not that I have any issues with people coming into the country from other places because, you know, my grandparents all came over from Ireland, and my parents were born here, and so was I, which means there isn’t any question about me being legal and legit and all—oh, right, the license and registration, well, you see, this is kind of awkward because I don’t exactly have my purse with me right now, and this isn’t exactly my car—I mean, it’s not stolen or anything like that, it belongs to my boyfriend Jim, so I can drive it whenever and it’s totally okay with him, except maybe not so much right now because he’s with that slut—oh, shit, I’m sorry,

A Kiss

11/3/2019

by KEITH FRADY

135: I want to be with him every single day by bronx. | Flickr

The moon hung in the night whole and round and bright as the toll of a church bell promising salvation. Its reflection floated lazily on the lake’s surface, rippling when Blake or Johnny ran one of their naked feet through the water. The whole drive to the lake they had sung as loud as the pumped-up radio, wind tossing their hair, the headlights fairy-flashing on speed limit signs they blew by without regard for law or numbers. But now silence, or something like it considering the crickets and the trees and their breath rested over them like humidity, the bottle of whiskey between them almost empty, their fingers almost touching. Neither of them had said a word about the waterlogged corpse decaying not thirty feet away on the lake shore.

Blake broke the silence.

“We have to call the cops.”

Johnny sighed. “It can wait.”

Firebrand

9/21/2019

by ANDREW McAULEY

Beer and Fire by Alan Levine | Flickr

Marty O’Brien pushed through the door of his local, nodded at the barman, then tripped on an errant shoe left discarded near the door.

‘Ah, for feck’s sake...’ Marty groaned as he struggled to his feet. He dusted off his tweed trousers and cast a scowl at the barman.

‘Watch yourself there,’ the barman said in a sing-song voice as he dried a glass with a towel.

Marty cast his gaze around the bar. The pub was vacant except for the barman, unusual as at least a couple of locals tended to wait outside for the eleven o’clock opening time, and it was already quarter to twelve. The floor of the bar was littered with shoes of all kinds; trainers, smart leather shoes, hiking boots, wellingtons. All lay together in pairs as if the owners had removed them and left the premises without thinking to put them back on.

‘Whose are these shoes all over the place?’ said Marty.

The Poet in Bed

9/8/2019

by CAROLYN BANKS

Untitled by Rowena Waack | Flickr

He reads my poem. “But you’re not married,” he says. Right. Not only is there a husband in the penultimate line, but a son, even earlier. “I guess it’s good,” he says, trying to mend things, erase his memory of the look that swept across my face.

“It’s okay,” I tell him. “You don’t have to like it.” I rub my bare foot against his to tell him it really is okay, “I’m used to it, really.”

“I’ve never met a poet before,” he says. “And I sure as hell never slept with one.” We both laugh, his laugh real, I think.

“We’re a dying breed.”

“Not just yet,” he says, flopping atop me.

After ACHES

8/30/2019

by JANN EVERARD

sjm_sleeping_red1 by Michael Mandiberg | Flickr

“Head lice are easier to get rid of,” Sarah whines, and the group nods in unison. Sarah is the newest member of ACHES—Adult Children at HomE Still—a support group that meets every Friday night at the Wine On Bar, rain or shine, statutory holidays excepted. Counting Sarah, we now fill a table for twelve.

Meghan, our facilitator, gives us a few seconds to scratch our scalps. “We’re near the end of the venting segment of our meeting,” she says. “Does anyone else need to vent this evening?” No one speaks up. We’ve pretty much covered the insect analogies in past sessions—our kids as difficult to dislodge as wool moths, potato bugs, cockroaches. Meghan raps the table with shiny black nails. “Good. Let’s move on to coping strategies and self-care. Vivian, how are you doing?”

Next to me, Vivian shudders as if woken by gunshot. She has the look of a hard-core addict, all bony angles and sunken eye sockets. Her shoulders curve in towards her chest as if she’s protecting her breasts. In a thin voice, she says, “My doctor agreed to prescribe Pristiq.” She nods at me. “Thanks for that suggestion, Ann. I’m told anti-depressants take six weeks to fully kick in, and it’s only been two, but already I’m feeling something. I mean I feel like my brain is empty so that’s good, right? Better than obsessing?” She looks around the group for acknowledgement and we nod again vigorously.

Then the Monster, Lucky Me

8/10/2019

by BRYAN MILLER

Fressen & Gefressen Werden by Eden, Janine and Jim | Flickr

The auditor was wrapping up his presentation, a tale of cooked books and mislaid funds—one for which I had no explanation—when the monster emerged from Lake Michigan.

Thank the lord for big-ass, hydra-headed favors.

Specifically the auditor was saying something about turning me over to the Securities Exchange Commission when a woman in a pinstriped power suit interrupted with a hearty “Holy shit!” She must have been the second person in the room to see the thing hoist itself dripping onto Lakeshore Drive. I saw it first. We had a tremendous view from the gleaming window-walled fourteenth floor conference room. Even from here it was hard to distinguish between the monster’s prehensile legs and its multiple tentacular heads.

Inertia

7/26/2019

by BOB SHAR

Speed by James Loesch | Flickr

“Nothing wrong with do-overs,” I tell Ralph as we file into Bowman Gray Stadium for maybe the hundredth time this summer. “More times a man goes around the track, slicker he gets,” meaning, no days off for us. “Practice enough, you do without thinking,” I say. “Practice makes perverts,” I say, and on, and on like that.

I am the brains of our operation. Ralph’s the hands, the feet, maybe the balls, but not the mouth. He’s what you call legally dumb. Can’t make words. It’s on me to coach him up, so he don’t get sloppy or give in to the heat. “Do-overs can’t hurt a man,” I holler every night. “Do-overs can help a fool, which, not saying you’re one,” which, actually, who knows? “Look,” I say, pointing at the track below, “reps teach when to speed up and when to slow.” But – this I don’t tell him because this don’t occur to me yet – reps can’t teach a man what to do when shit hits the windshield.

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