Wearing a white Tam o’Shanter, Vladimir chases a bobbing member of the “Blues” across a summer-greened New England meadow. He’s after something colorful and fleeting, something that, sadly, may lie beyond the grasp of a late middle-aged man. The net comes down like a gossamer guillotine on its fluttering prey.
Back at Harvard, he gazes for hours at his captive’s azure beauty under a microscope. His sight blurs until he can’t see, any longer. In those days, one could only exactingly identify the species by carefully studying the anatomy of a butterfly’s genitalia. Lolita’s author nearly went blind studying butterflies.
Brad Rose was raised in southern California, and lives in Boston. His poetry and fiction have appeared in Third Wednesday, Imagination and Place, Off the Coast, Tattoo Highway, Boston Literary Magazine, Monkeybicycle, Blue Print Review, Right Hand Pointing, San Pedro River Review, Staccato, SleetMagagazine.com, Six Sentences, Fiction at Work, Six Little Things, Short, Fast and Deadly, and other publications. Links to his poetry and fiction can be found at: bradrosepoetry.blogspot.com.
Time is Money
Even Penn Station has its quiet times, 2:17 in the morning one of them, he knew, watching the cigarette-sponsored digital clock click the minutes until the train from Richmond arrived. It made him feel good to figure his hourly rate for killing someone. He had six minutes to wait until George Heath detrained and reached the almost deserted lobby, then two more for the job. It came to $855 a minute— baseball player money. He closed his eyes for a second, just a moment…he thought, until he looked up at the clock and saw it was 2:50.
David Howard lives in Rhode Island. His fiction has appeared in Verbsap, Animal Print and the past three editions of the Writer's Circle of RI Anthologies and will soon appear in Apollo's Lyre.
Lois Elaine Heckman
He saw mountain fangs emerging from their cloud seas, rows of sharks’ teeth poised to bite the sky. The wild Pampero breathed vitality into his lungs and lifted his spirit, as he journeyed through the nearly forgotten domains of his youth, wandering freely on his voyage of rediscovery. His eyes searched in all directions, carefully observing each tree, each rock, each vaguely familiar image which might point him towards that lost road home.
He awoke suddenly from his daydream of life, massive upper limbs extended, sadly embracing the restrictive bars of his prison, like the laconic sign outside: “Andean condor.”
Lois Elaine Heckman grew up in Los Angeles, receiving a degree in Italian from UCLA. She has lived for many years as an expat in Milan, Italy, becoming a volunteer nurse and first aid instructor for the Italian Red Cross. Her works have appeared in Short, Fast, and Deadly, The Fib Review and, Shot Glass Journal, and will be forthcoming in Pemmican and Victorian Violet Press. She is the proud winner of the 2010 New England Shakespeare Festival Rubber Ducky Sonnet Contest.