Archive for July, 2017

Posted in Uncategorized on July 31, 2017 by Scot

Pop up issue tomorrow…

flash fiction by by Sarah Russell

Posted in Sarah Russell with tags on July 13, 2017 by Scot

Figure Drawing at Community College


I’m getting goosebumps from a draft, though the class doesn’t notice. Most are open-mouthed, charcoal scratching paper, concentrating on the weight of my breast, curve of hip, sag of buttock. I bite my lip, think of the rigidity of a villanelle, try to compose one in my head while the old guy in a beret for god’s sake, studies the cleft, the pubic mound, then meets my eyes.

I want to yell, “I just want to earn enough to get cable,” but I look away, try to show disgust without showing disgust because the woman who will pick up kids from school at 4 is drawing my face. My arm is falling asleep. The instructor said to tell her when I need a break, but the young man by the window is so intent, I hate to interrupt him. I start to tremble, try to shift but not throw off the line. The villanelle becomes a limerick.

There once was a nude on a table
Who couldn’t afford to get cable…

Trembling. Can’t feel my arm at all.

She posed for a class
Where an old man was crass,

Ah, the instructor is announcing a break. I raise my body off my arm and feel electric shocks as blood starts to flow. I reach for my kimono. The old guy sidles up to me.

“Coffee later if you are able?” he asks. Shit, he’s finished my limerick. I walk away rubbing my arm. “Maybe tomorrow?” he calls.


Posted in A.D. Winans with tags on July 13, 2017 by Scot

Live for the moment
the past is a ghost riding
an empty midnight train

sing like a hammer sings to a nail
tread softly thru the night where dreams
lay like land mines
ready to explode on the tattooed dawn

run barefoot with children in the park
listen to the sound of their breath
drown in the innocence of their eyes

ignore your enemies
false prophets drowning in quicksand

wrap your head in a song bag
lock your ego in the clothes closet
wear the eyes of an owl
write words soft as chalk
not like ball-less careful poets
in love with the business of poetry
wed to the immaculate chain of money

strip the flesh to the marrow
be a one person quire
light up the sky like a million
fireflies in flight to mate with
the sun


Posted in Larry Jones with tags on July 13, 2017 by Scot



We struck up a conversation at the local post office,
looked to be in his seventies
said he retired here from Dallas
said he was a journalist
owned a newspaper back there.

That was two years ago,
yesterday he called 911
told dispatch he had just shot his wife to death
said he’d be dead
before they got there, outside
under the pine tree.

He couldn’t have written a better ending.

Why Blanche White and Daddy Didn’t Speak by Kelley Jean White

Posted in Kelley Jean White with tags on July 13, 2017 by Scot

Blanche Cole was your Granny Venie’s youngest sister, she and Venie
and Helen were the only one’s never weighed over 250 so you come
by your weight honest. Blanche married into a family of Whites, no
relation to you (well, she’s a relation to you on my side but I mean
not on your father’s), David White might be my last surviving
cousin. Last I heard he was alive—No—I do not want you looking him up
on that internet thing, put it down now. Daddy said Blanche weren’t no
bigger than a popcorn fart. So them Whites was Jehovah’s Witnesses
and one day Daddy was out in front a the house drawing water from
the well and this Jehovah’s Witness come a long and set up—in those
days they used to travel with a wind-up Victrola and they’d offer to play
you some salvation music or preaching—and this Jehovah’s Witness he
set his up and wound it up and Daddy said you can stop that and the man
said well, wouldn’t you just want to listen to Jesus Christ our Lord who
came to earth to save people like you. And Daddy said well the Son-of-a-Birch didn’t stay long enough did he. And that were Blanche’s brother-in-law he said that to. Blanche’d still show up at sickbeds and funerals but
Daddy’d always go outa the room. David White weren’t allowed to play at all. Wore a little suit and bowtie. But he’s my cousin. Helen’s grandkids, those would be my cousins once removed, looked him up in Bridgeport. No, don’t you even think about driving me there. I won’t go. No.

A Bride for Mr. Fenster by Donal Mahoney

Posted in Donal Mahoney with tags on July 13, 2017 by Scot


Three sisters
single in their 40s
gather ’round the fire

on a night of thunder
to figure out which sister
should marry Mr. Fenster,

a widower in his 90s now.
He proposed last week to
all three of them and said

he would marry one
and provide a nice home
for the other two.

Mr. Fenster owns a farm
down the road a mile or so.
Worth a lot of money

he buried a wife a year ago.
He’s mourned enough, he says,
and wants to marry a nice lady

who will make him happy.
Mabel and Maude say Millie
should be the bride.

After all, she’s the youngest
of the three, can cook and clean
and is young enough

and strong enough to lift
Mr. Fenster on and off.
Millie says no way

Winter Solstice by Paul Hellweg

Posted in Paul Hellweg with tags on July 13, 2017 by Scot

Winter Solstice, Year of the Monkey,
the cupped hand can hold water or cradle a breast
sources of life immemorial, details
in the observer, caresses in the dark.
All of us trapped in iron cage, maker unknown,
suspicion falls on self. Freedom the key, but
where lies the door? Remember ancient savannah,
soft dirt underfoot, gliding like wind wolves through tall grass,
horizon the destination, not the limit.
Remember blood-red sunsets and
the welcoming warmth of dawn’s first light.
Remember bright cold stars and inky vastness,

When Life is Life by Winnie Star

Posted in Winnie Star with tags on July 13, 2017 by Scot


We stand upon life
Up on a footstool
Encumbering the day, the night
Relishing peacefulness
And attempting to demolish
The unrest we endure

The footstool may teach us
To bring up the harried, tardy
Elements we face

And each day
As each day goes by
We ask questions
Seek answers
Within the elements of love
Of listening
Of cherishing the dear
And praying to not fear the inevitable

Rather, languishing if we can
In the not foreseeable future
On the footstool