Handyman - Lucy Spinetti Short Story Workshop, March 1983 - Nicholas Ripatrazone If Your Fern Talked Back - Jeffrey H. MacLachlan St. Barnabus, Pa - Andy Martrich Creeping Fire - Jeffrey H. MacLachlan Making the Most of It - Michael A. Wells Same Day Delivery - Hugh Fulham Seven - Victoria Clayton Munn User 23 - J.D. Nelson A Brief Refrain - Richard Fein CC Milam
She's learning to drive this spring… We drive round and round the baseball field Avoiding the boys of summer stealing bases…every chance we get… When the Police ain't watching… She drives the old work car… A faded hunter green… Pointing at every fast back sun roof shiny new day dream…moaning softly…."ooooh I would look sooooo cute in the that one…" as the relentless sun bakes another layer off the green… I could say so many things… Smile... remind her to flip on the turn signal… CC Milam is a reclusive poet who practices Ceremonial High Shamanism in the tradition of the Tang poets. He was profoundly influenced by the writing and philosophy of Han Shan, and believes that poetry is an ancient magickal process.
Handyman Lucy Spinetti I had the wallpaper peeled off in the bedroom The bathroom door sanded so it doesn't stick anymore The peeling paint on the wall next to the shower was scraped off And the walls repainted a girly color I had a ceiling fan put up in the livingroom There's a new light fixture in the kitchen The hole you punched in the wall is patched now Painted over, too The little cabinet we bought is assembled and stained I sat the lamp I bought to replace the broken one on top New slipcovers over the couch, fresh and crisp And the carpet has been steam cleaned The television is moved out of the bedroom And the old quilt and shams thrown out The handyman had a field day Removing all traces of you from my life Lucy Spinetti remains an avid Red Sox fan, despite the last two seasons. Almost never seen without a coffee cup, she is hopelessly devoted to her three and a half beautiful nephews. Or maybe three nephews and one niece? She's an "enterpreneur," which means she gets to work in her jammies, having her own new age t-shirt business. Oh, and she likes her two year old Wheaten terrier a little.
Short Story Workshop, March 1983, Northern Maine Nicholas Ripatrazone
I see that you read Cheever. Your characters speak with understated irony, as if they are aware of their inadequacies yet, for the good of the plot, they play along with you: fight with wives, drink Chevis Regal. They would even swim across the county if only you asked. Nicholas Ripatrazone lives in New Jersey with his wife and teaches literature and novel-writing at Bridgewater-Raritan Regional High School. He has short-fiction forthcoming in Leaving Home: Stories of Coming and Going, published by Hourglass Books and is seeking a literary home for a novel set in the Siskiyou Mountains of northern California.
If Your Fern Talked Back Jeffrey H. MacLachlan
You'd sit the plant atop the dinner table and stew about your day at work. Firings sweeping through the office and you just want quiet to unwind. Soon you'd dread coming home to its throaty smoker's voice breaking up into coughs after every sentence -- sharing a synopsis of the day's soaps and how you work too much as it illuminates your faults. Before long, it's awakened all the plants that nap by the windowsill out of boredom. All day they press leaves against sun-touched windows like a lover's door and moan. All night deafening screams from their unwatered soil. Jeffrey H. MacLachlan received his MFA at Chatham College and his work has appeared in the Brooklyn Review , Zaum, and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. He hails from Skaneateles, NY. St. Barnabus, Pa Andy Martrich
slate tiles were armoring the outer walls of st. barnabus church until the early months of 1988 when it was removed piece by piece and reassembled half a mile up the durham hill slope my parents would bring my brothers and I to 9am mass sitting in the back where the construction had already started and stained glass had been replaced by double glazed windows. I stared at my reflection all service intermingled among the slighting buds of sycamore trees the winter finches and house sparrows in the church yard fending off the squirrels from the thistle socks next to an ebbing brook a run off from a durham spring where I would sit with the willows the caking silt frothing in the low leaves the sting of a spate dragging the leaves along with it into the current's crease with new needles ranked lines of white stomata following a stream of old glory blue, diving south into maryland rolling west into ohio. yet we remained in our state frequenting mass at st. barnabus half a mile more up the mountain now a church with no history. Andy Martrich is from Emmaus, PA but currently lives in Brooklyn, NY. His poems have appeared in BlazeVox, JAAM, Contrary Magazine, Barcid-Homily, Muse Apprentice Guild, Can We Have Our Ball Back, among other journals. A chapbook "I think we should lay here..."
Creeping Fire Jeffrey H. MacLachlan
An old flame motions to see her newborn's eyes blink away sleep's cobwebs and reveal the color of sea holly. Her husband hurls chopped logs into the quiet fireplace. Later, she takes me to her empty flower shop and eases down on a pile of Miracle Grow bags. The slaughterhouse up the hill was cleaved by a storm and the animal blood that seeped kept everyone away, she says, but then falls quiet for a time. Shedding her velvet coat, my eyes wander to the places I once lightly traveled. Sharp burn marks begin below her navel, disappear under a soft rose sweater, then stop at the collar. Outside, her husband sneaks a cigarette. Jeffrey H. MacLachlan received his MFA at Chatham College and his work has appeared in the Brooklyn Review , Zaum, and the Pittsburgh Post-Gazette. He hails from Skaneateles, NY.
Making the Most of It Michael A. Wells Sorting out the allegory, Dividing up the spoils To which we are entitled According to some archaic law Of our own. These times are not the norm And we can't quite recall normalcy Aside from the time the catfish jumped A good three feet above the water, The summer the moon froze in full mode For two straight months. I remember old folks telling of strange sightings In the northern sky, and they claim the winter was harsh That year and the women all spoke in language That would have mortified their own sensibilities Any other time. It seems we all adjust to changes sooner or later. The wind is always shifting and desires are nothing more Than wants - not needs. All of us are looking for chances At one time or another. Opportunity comes and goes, But mostly it just hangs out In Jackson Hole. Michael A. Wells is a Midwest poet and native Missourian. His work has appeared in three anthologies, as well as Rockhurst Annual Arts Review, Park University Scribe, Independence Examiner and various online venues. Michael has conducted a number of readings in the Kansas City metro area over the past three years. He is married and father of four children. He has spent 20 years working in a mental health related field. When not writing and reading he enjoys San Francisco Giants baseball.
Same Day Delivery Hugh Fulham Sam pushes his glasses back up his nose, kind of blinded by the light inside the flower shop. A rose is supposed to make her eyes shine, make her smile wide, plant your name in her mind, says the seller, just sign here. Now the phone drops under the passenger seat, the engine splutters he sweats and wishes he was driving a De-lorean. She opens the door surprised, taking them inside. She runs for a vase, runs the cold water, her face flushed. She clasps her hands like God would close his favourite book. There's a tiny card with a name that makes her shake, and kick the cat who smashed the vase and lapped at the rose water as the doorbell rang. He sees the dew in her eyes and changes tack, with these new conditions he knows just what to do like a young sailor in the eye of the storm. and prepares himself for the warmth of her embrace. Hugh Fulham is Irish, he writes poetry. He has new
work appearing in Juked, Ward 6 Review, Mastodon
Dentist, Fuselit and Words Myth.
Seven Victoria Clayton Munn I stood in waist high daisies - swirled yellow in clouds among a graveyard of skeleton cars. I scratched at the rust coat, flaked from the closest monument russet dust hitting stems and weeds falling into earth. Dust piles - traced a finger through the filings, smelled the blood on my fingertip - pushed the powder into block shapes as the sky brightened, a map of my world in strips of grass and mounds of sand and dirt appeared Sun hit my shoulders, glinted sharp off worn chrome Among the field of growth and decay I picked flowers and wove crowns and bracelets for myself alone, Sang lullabyes to honeybees and hid from their sting I robbed twigs of their bark and beheaded purple clover The world hummed around my head, I sat for hours on stones bruised but painless, a child's condition I studied dirty fingernails with interest and boredom Twisted strands of straw covered my face under gray skies Pulled a hood over my head as the fat drops hit Ran for shelter, my kingdom invaded Destroyed by the conquering rain. Victoria Clayton Munn is a freelance writer and poet who will write about any topic -real or imagined - and she's proud of each and every word. Her poetry has previously been published in Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), APT and edifice WRECKED. Victoria lives in upstate New York with her husband and daughter.
User 23 J.D. Nelson sitting on my black octagon, meditating -- I'm turning into a spider (slowly.) I'm no computer programmer -- I just use. is it eight arms or eight legs or four arms & four legs? any way you slice it, a spider would make a great programmer. J. D. Nelson experiments with words and sound in his subterranean laboratory. His poems have appeared in many small press publications, both print and online. He lives in Colorado, USA. Visit J. D.'s website for more information.
A Brief Refrain Richard Fein The easy chair most of all, especially the one with the massage switch- the neck, back, and feet gently rocking. She'd make it fit into her midtown condo, if she could ever afford a condo. She plays in parks, on street corners, and at occasional concerts. Few listen. Fewer still toss coins into her violin case. She peers through the Sharper Image window-that easy chair, a sweet synesthetic melody to her sight and skin. Today she'll make the bow dance across the strings, whether the muse inspires her or not. And tonight she'll practice until her neighbor bangs the wall for quiet. She made her choice, most of us do. She'll play her lifetime's theme with toughened fingers for nickles, dimes, and occasional dollars. But for now, right now, she'd like that chair- that black chair massaging her, while her callused fingers splay across a supple leather armrest. Richard Fein was finalist in The 2004 Center for Book Arts Chapbook Competition. His work has appeared in Oregon East Southern Humanities Review, Touchstone, Windsor Review, Maverick,
Parnassus Literary Review, Small Pond, Kansas Quarterly, Blue Unicorn, Exquisite Corpse,
and many others. He also has an interest in digital photography and has published
many of his photos. Please visit: Bardofbyte
| |