April 2014 | back-issues, fiction
The burgers sizzled on the griddle. Bun, lettuce, onions and ketchup off to the side. I glance at the ticket. Drop the fries into the famished Canola oil. Nine more orders are tugging at my grease-tipped sleeves. Bring it on. I’m in the zone, slinging meat and killing potatoes. Sweat leaking from my ball cap. A welcomed type of sweat. Perspiration that pays. Heals.
I walked into this burger joint three weeks ago. Broken. Groveling. Borrowed a pen from the cute counter girl with a nose ring. Filled out the application, adding a few small untruths to cover the gaps of unemployment. My hair was unruly, my beard unkempt. Clothes outsized and pilfered from a church bin, shoes battered from pounding ashpalt. Walking to soup kitchens, walking to forget. Told the manager a sad tale. Homeless, formerly addicted, just needed a break. Pleaded softly. He stared. His eyes measured me, my eyes returned the volley with an inaudible prayer. Shook my hand. Start Monday he told me.
I flip a couple of beef patties and pulled the fries out before the coroner had to be called. Grabbed the pickles. Wiped my forehead, eight more tickets needing my magic. I wrap the burgers snugly and smiled at nose ring girl. Hope was percolating again. I shuffle over to the griddle, people are hungry, so am I. Bring it on.
—Chris Milam
Chris Milam resides in Hamilton, Ohio. He’s a voracious reader and a lover of baseball. A flash story of his was recently published by The Molotov Cocktail.
April 2014 | back-issues, fiction
My center grows cold and heavy. In Nagasaki, the winter months move on slowly. With my cast iron heart planted firmly in my chest, I find that simple tasks have now become difficult: getting out of bed, grooming myself, getting ready for work. The heater has been on the fritz—that, or my Welsh roommate and I are simply too stupid to read the Japanese on the remote and can’t figure out how to turn it on. After fiddling with the remote for the millionth time, I set the thing down and forget about it. I crawl into the warmth of my comforter and futon mattress and wait for my heart to grow heavier.
—Daniel Clausen
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Green Lion Devouring the Sun
1.
Once again Z.’s following in the tracks of dad. Unlike Z. dad hasn’t
escaped the ravages of time—save for the new legs that he’s using to
snowboard through the streets. “Where’d you get those?” Z. asks.
“Don’t know, but the powder’s fantastic!”
2.
Come to think of it: Z. wakes in a fetal position
3.
After breakfast Z. curls up with Strindberg. All this vitriol
and dross for the taking
Rage, Rage
1.
Night. A little wine is spilled. The age-old drama is reenacted
not far from the church steps
2.
August and Pelagia drag out the usual knives and scrapers
and work on each other until they’re nothing but a lattice
of bone and the foul shop
3.
The next morning they look somewhat refreshed. He tries
to cozy up. Put a good spin on things
“Leave it alone,” she says. “You can’t be evil 5 of 7 days
and nice on 2”
“But you said you were evil all 7”
“Your evil is worse”
—Rex Swihart
R L Swihart currently lives in Long Beach, CA, and teaches secondary school mathematics in Los Angeles. His poems have appeared in various online and print journals, including Right Hand Pointing, 1110, decomP, Posit, and Lunch Ticket. His first collection of poems, The Last Man, was published in 2012 by Desperanto Press.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Snow on the iced-up steps
bits of slate broken,
a frozen rabbit skin dangled
from a hook near the door.
Come in, come in, you can’t
stay out there. This weather
is meant for bears
and even they are hibernating.
Snow piled high at the back
cutting the light, frosted glass
with elaborate designs. A fire
in the open grate. She buzzed
about the small kitchen
excitedly wiping her hands
on her apron. A mug full
of steaming coffee.
Dad, come and see what
the storm brought in. A big
old man bent under the arch
when he entered the kitchen
from the other room.
He chewed and smiled
and sharpened his axe.
—Rose Mary Boehm
A German-born UK national, Rose Mary Boehm lives and works in Lima, Peru. Author of two novels and a poetry collection (TANGENTS), her poems have appeared or are forthcoming in US poetry reviews. Toe Good Poetry, Poetry Breakfast, Burningword Literary Journal, Muddy River Review, Pale Horse Review, Pirene’s Fountain, Other Rooms, Requiem Magazine, Full of Crow, Poetry Quarterly, Punchnel’s, Avatar, Verse Wisconsin, Naugatuck River Review, Boston Literary, Red River Review, Ann Arbor, Main Street Rag, Misfit Magazine and others.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
There are uncertainties traversing our unknowns
despite the trolls we’ve ostracized under the bridge
of our relationships. These ogres contemplate
us from the abutments of our past: how and when
and where to snatch us by our limbs. At night when we
are drifting down to sleep we glimpse the glistening
of their red tethered eyes reflecting off the walls.
It’s not the gentle cycle of our snores we feel
but their hot breaths in the pulsing of blinking lights.
On Sunday afternoons when the lazy sparrows of
our lives should linger on our beds, it’s not the flutter
of wings echoing through the heavy air, but the gobbling
of feathers, the chewing of bones, the slow grind of dull teeth,
the grunts below our naked feet splintered by the crossing.
—Aden Thomas
Aden Thomas lives in Laramie, Wyoming. His work has been featured in Dressing Room Poetry Journal, The Common Ground Review, and The San Pedro River Review.
