January 2016 | fiction
…they try all the avenues, all the dusty streets, all the leafy parks, the houses in the better parts of the town, but they’ll not get me, they’ll not find me, they don’t know, how to do, how to do what they try to do, they fail, they always fail, it is I who knows, I have a map you see, a map of the whole town, all its nooks and crannies, I know the formula, the places to go and how to get there, despite everything they will fail, oh I look forward to it, I rub my hands at the thought of it, it will be quick when the time comes, I really cannot wait, but they will try, they will try anything, mostly it will be their trying, not my succeeding, oh I know that, and they do too, they know it is pointless, it will fail, they will try though, they always do, or do not, I mean they always fail, they won’t find me no matter where they go, no matter what they do, through leafy parks and dusty streets and oily roads, of tar and sand and stone and crisp corners in the lines along the sky, through small idle windows in red brick, no, they won’t find me, no, I know, you see I can tell from here, I can see them, they cannot see me, only they think of me, hiding the words, it gets them thinking I know, I know all they can try, they try this as much as they like, I don’t mind, I am patient, it is they that are in the hurry, it is always, there is no end to it…
by Martin Keaveney
Martin Keaveney’s recent fiction includes ‘The Rainy Day’ in the anthology Small Lives (Poddle Publications), ‘Last Order’ in Crannog and ‘A New Freedom’ in Gold Dust magazine with work forthcoming in Agave Magazine. His flash fiction piece ‘Laugh’ will appear in Apocrypha and Abstractions magazine in March. He has a B.A. in English and Italian and an M.A. in English (Writing) from NUI, Galway, Ireland. He is currently a PhD candidate at NUIG, 2014-18 where he is researching the John McGahern archive and also writing a novel as part of the course.
January 2016 | poetry
Trying out for the Senior Class Play’s
romantic lead opposite my girl but coming in second
to the ever-popular handsome hunky Everett
then having to watch him romancing her
on-stage from backstage for weeks.
Waiting for my wife in this busy hair salon
with all the clipping, combing, coiffing
and fussing with hair length, color, body . . .
with the incessant small talk all these people wasting
so much time it’s hair for crying out loud!
As a youngster he was an altar boy
carrying the cross or The Holy Book
to the altar, his face stern with religiosity.
Today he’s in the ICU waiting for the doctors
to decide if he should stay there or go to hospice.
by Michael Estabrook
Retired now working around the yard and writing more poems or trying to anyhow. Noticed 2 Cooper’s hawks staked out in our yard or above it I should say explains the disappearing chipmunks.
January 2016 | poetry
They give me no peace,
constantly flying over
at all hours.
Right on schedule,
with the precision
of a quartz timepiece.
The drone unmistakable,
they buzz by,
far too small
and too low
for commercial aircraft,
yet unassuming enough
for covert military intelligence.
Manned or unmanned, it
makes no difference, as
my house sits outside
any published flight plans.
This much I know.
That leaves me
as their sole purpose
for being HERE,
their target.
It leaves me,
also, the only one bothered.
Hell, the only one
to even acknowledge
the strangeness of
their presence.
But like everything else,
what can I do?
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
So as always,
I grit my teeth,
force a smile,
and pretend I
don’t notice.
It’s harder than it looks.
by Matthew Armagost
January 2016 | poetry
You said
I could be anything
So I became “Me”
But then
You said
That “Me” was too
Cliché
Predictable
Counterfeit
So I became
A sunflower
stretching with every fiber
of my being
toward the sky
toward the light
But you didn’t like that
You said
I set my sights too high
So I became a tortoise
stagnant
relying on my complacency and
not my accountability
But you quickly grew bored of me
You said
That I took things too slow
So I became a feather
bending and waning
vulnerable to impurities
and
emotional cacophony
lilting.
But then
You said
I was too soft
I traded hats with a thousand strangers
and nothing seemed to fit
your rules
So I became a cardboard box
With my edges fraying
And a sticker marked FRAGILE
Slapped on my left side
You put me in storage
And let me become
Worn
Weathered
Broken
And when you took me out again
My sticker had fallen off
And I wasn’t FRAGILE anymore.
The edges of me started to disintegrate
Until
I was just matter
Even though
all this time I felt like
I Didn’t.
by Piper Wood
January 2016 | poetry
You’re in the pickup with Scotty B and buzzing with anticipation cause you’re about to score and this makes your skin tingle thinking about the rush of dopamine and potential for sudden violence that comes with every deal and to feed the synergy you reach for the volume on the stereo just as the song ends and the void of sound takes you back to the bar
where amid the neon and dinge of a dive turned trendy you caught the lean through the corner of your eye before the kiss between two guys who looked like college kids enjoying a night on-the-slum and unaware of the culture shift when you leave the sandstone and iron of Okie Yuppie U.
Your first instinct was fear so you scanned the bar while telling yourself this is Tulsa and waited for the slur you’ve heard so many times it has no impact anymore and your mind went back to the night you and Scotty B were good and lit and laughing and you placed a hand on the curve of his ribs in a manner that made his spine stiffen as he shrugged away and this instant had you at the brink of fight or flight until Scotty B pretended nothing happened and you let your fists uncurl.
This is Tulsa. And you can’t understand the way things are changing because you know it never will for you with your line of descent traced through generations of Hank and Merle and Cash on vinyl and your father singing Garth’s ode with the bulls and blood and dust and mud and in the silence between songs you turn to Scotty B and twang out the drawl real nice when you tell him used to be they called this shit Horse back in the seventies and that’s the best name for a drug they ever was.
by Geoff Peck
Geoff Peck received his MFA from the University of Pittsburgh and is currently a PhD candidate at the University of North Dakota. His fiction and poetry have appeared in over a dozen journals and he has been nominated for Best New American Poets after winning the Academy of American Poets Thomas McGrath Award.
