July 2014 | back-issues, fiction
Bill’s desk was clean, nearly antiseptic, holding a stapler, a rolodex and a computer terminal, the computer tower stashed under his desk. He had always believed the neatness of his desk represented his efficiency, and thus his value. That and his expertise with the Infamous system. By now, he was its resident expert. Surely that guaranteed job security.
He had recently seen others “let go” during the current downsizing, but he knew he was safe. Until he tried to log on to his computer:
LOG IN FAILED. SYSTEM DOWN.
Then his phone rang. It was Jim from Human Resources.
“Bill, can I see you in my office for a minute?”
Walking down the hall, his footsteps muffled on the carpet, Bill felt as though he were following an invisible executioner leading him to the gallows.
Jim’s office was sparsely furnished: a wastepaper basked next to a desk with a chair on casters behind it and a straight-backed metal chair in front.
“I’m sorry it has to be this way, but the company’s been downsizing for some time now…” Jim droned on. Bill stopped listening and stared at the curtain fluttering at the window.
After eighteen years, no retirement, no “golden parachute,” just a man saying something about “references” and “severance pay.” References? For what? At 58, who would hire him? He was alone; no children, his wife dead five years.
He began to listen again. Heard “… let you go,” and, at the word “go,” did just that – ran to the open window thirteen floors above a concrete sidewalk.
Lon Richardson
He has been writing non-fiction and fiction for about 20 years — in journalism having been published in newspapers, magazines, industry newsletters, and have had short stories published in two literary journals: From The Depths (“Two Tickets,” December 2012) and The Torrid Literature Journal (“One Thing Led To Another,” October 2013).
July 2014 | back-issues, poetry
i.
Raise a flag, cast a glance,
and it’s all over now.
ii.
It was me. I triggered the mechanism
that cut off my own hands.
iii.
When I had the chance,
I should have kissed her
with conviction.
Should’ve slipped her poems
on folded paper,
the sweat from my palm
still lingering on the creases.
Should’ve bought her flowers
or some similarly obscene gesture.
Or left vivid lipstick prints
in the soft angle of her breast.
iv.
If I’d known that was a singular moment,
I would have devoured her –
no question,
no hesitation blooming
like a tumor.
A fish-eye gaze on that basement room,
the only two people in existence.
v.
Even though your ignorance was not permission,
your silence not a gesture inside,
I smuggled her heart for a little while.
And your heart may burn with love for her,
but my touch left her scorched through the skin
so deeply the marks cannot be washed away.
Sarah Marchant
July 2014 | back-issues, poetry
My surgical gown is green,
the room lit in grey gothic gradients.
The anesthetic is strictly local, you don’t want me to feel it,
but you want me to know you’re making the changes, taking titanium instruments and probing my skull, leading scopes and needles on an excavation of my inner ears
because you’re a tourist. Science is just how you build your frequent flier miles, and
I’m your trip around the world.
I’ve been damselled, holed up in a stoney rook.
The master plan: induce a blue screen of death, and create a new architecture on the reboot. Take my kidneys, put them in the new guy! I’ll be Igor-52
All twenty seven of your personalities agree, I am the deformed iron clad heart of Victor Von Doom, in need of shock therapy.
The palpitations send my eyes rolling like bowling balls down the alley. I gag and gurgle with the thunder. From the inside toasted brains smell like lemon drops. It’s all good, you say, I’m just acting, the cake is a lie, the cake is a lie, the cake is a lie. I don’t know what that means!
It’s my fault you tell me, if only I wasn’t so beautiful, if only I gave you more
attention, love is action not words.
The acid bath bubbles, the electric eels spin, and Igor 17 slips his hand under your dress and you smile, lips sharp as scalpels. Lips like a wicked boomerang, your words always come back to haunt me no matter how many times I ignore them.
You want me to do the laundry and hand wash the beakers,
stare stupidly when you make out with the henchmen.
Igor-2 is picking his nose with a dust buster.
There’s a frat boy swagger hidden in his
broken sway. Above him, Geiger conjured
dreams, not quite sexual machines coiled
like gray dreadlocks.
“The internet is a series of tubes!” He guzzles.
I cannot die fast enough.
Wait. Stop. , I’ll say you’re beautiful ten times a day even when you return from a sweat soaked night of grave robbing and say I’m lying because you’re a flithy disgusting fat cow, and I promise not to argue the point anymore and never say you’re beautiful and just nod my head like all the other Igors “yeah, you’re a fat cow” a bovine freak of recombinant DNA with a gaping hole in its third stomach.
My sarcasm does not amuse.
A black rubber glove reaches
to pull the lever one more time.
Bound by steel bars on a cold white slab like a giant tic-tac, I do not break eye contact.
You can’t hold me forever, nothing holds Boris Karloff forever. I won’t see you in hell, but I’ll see you in the sequel.
David Arroyo
David Arroyo earned an M.A. from Florida State University, but this is the least interesting thing about him. He is days away from solving the anti-life equation. Upon doing so, he will smuggle the code subliminally through his yet to be published chapbook, Secret Identities.
April 2014 | back-issues, fiction
Big commotion last night. Brianna O’Quinn ripped a shotgun blast into the night on Lookout Mountain. No one knows what she saw. She won’t tell neither. The widows on picket duty say they found her on her haunches, eating dirt. But they must of confused her with Darkish. No one else eats dirt but her.
I’m a man of few words. Back at LaGrange, my mama always told Gib and me, “Quiet, boys.” I listened. Gib didn’t.
But I want to ask Brianna what she seen last night. I want to do what I do best: listen. I sit with her at breakfast. But I don’t know what to say. All the widows look at her queer. But I remain with her. Brianna’s appetite has doubled since last night. She stuffs as much food in her mouth as possible. Eats like a hog, except she chews her food slow. She closes her eyes, which look like they might could tear up.
I want to talk to her, tell her whatever she thought she seen last night is gone. But I cain’t. Don’t have the words.
—Jeff Stayton
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Savannah, Georgia
Ralph was a painter of
miniatures—
miniature couches, mostly.
Ralph wore thimbles, like rings &
wore one too many watches, which is to say, two watches, one on each wrist &
sometimes if you listened closely, and you likely listened closely, you could hear that subtle subtle ticktock coming from his ankle. But he wouldn’t dare
cuff his khakis & you
wouldn’t dare drop a dime, half
accidentally, to snoop.
Ralph watched
creepshows and peepshows and couldn’t tell the difference
because really what’s the difference
& he only knew George, and George
knew everybody, yes everybody, and George: he made his own paper.
George’s car was only fancy from far; it was covered in duct tape &
the duct tape was covered in sludge,
the kind of sludge that comes from duct tape, & mud
the kind of mud, a tire
might kick up, or down, in Georgia.
Those willows were deceptively weepy.
They’d be just fine & so would Ralph.
Poor George, now that’s another story.
Train tracks & neon signs,
Open late
Open late
Open late.
Thimbles
And when the trampoline started to sag, & the sheds became infested with bats and/or the idea of bats, & when the chandelier became a warped and golden spider in its reflection in the spoon, and when the piano bench broke a tendon, and then another tendon, and the thimbles, all the thimbles fell, but did not break, & the banister bore splinters, and the cold from the window, turned the books that were up against the window, blue—that’s when they knew it was time to raise that glass, and strike that match, and burn it burn it burn it all. And wouldn’t it be something? Just to burn it all? Wouldn’t it be dangerous, not to?
—Molly Schulman
Molly Schulman is a poet; she was born in California; she grew up in New York; and now she lives in Georgia. She has many brothers! She has many sisters! She has a crush on most things. After receiving her BA in Creative Writing from The New School in 2009, she went on to work in the publishing industry as an assistant and in-house editor for Molly Friedrich at The Friedrich Agency. She left the agency in October 2013 to pursue her own writing. She is currently working on a book of prose poetry/performance piece called ONE-OF-SIX: A STORY IN HOUSES.
