October 2013 | back-issues, fiction
Statewide alert: White female, 14-19 years, brown hair and eyes, last seen walking alone in Forest Park. The Rangers’ Hut is considered the likely destination. May be wearing red raingear. Wanted in connection with possible wolf sighting.
— Lynn Bey
Lynn Bey has had short stories and flash fiction published in The Literarian (nominated for a Pushcart award), The Brooklyner, Birmingham Arts Journal, Two Hawks Quarterly, Marco Polo Arts, Prime Number Magazine, and several other magazines.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
The physician fired my father
For insubordination.
Dad couldn’t regulate the dosage
Or himself.
He is hibernating in his room,
Eyes closed and face turned.
Suspended and silent,
Deep in thought.
— David S. Drabkin
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
I typed my doctoral dissertation
in the driveway of our old
house in Ohio hoping for
a head start on my spring tan.
I sat in a nylon-webbed lawn chair
wearing my swim suit on a sunny
seventy degree afternoon.
My Smith-Corona electric typewriter
sat on two cases of empty Stroh’s
longneck beer bottles tethered by an
orange extension cord to an outlet in the garage.
Of course, I had a cold one
sitting beside me on the concrete
to sip between paragraphs.
The warmth made an onerous task more palatable
and drinking beer made me feel like a rebel.
My committee would have found
this scenario hateful; not befitting a scientist.
But after I graduated, I took a job at a major university
and cranked-out research for the next thirty years.
Today I plan to go outside with my laptop,
sit by the pool with a beer and write some poetry.
The elitists at prestigious poetry journals
would probably not approve.
I won’t always be writing about mythology, muses,
classic oil paintings or arcane issues in philosophy.
I won’t necessarily be structuring my verse
as a pantoum, sestina or villanelle.
But as a writer and a reader, I know
there is something to be said for enjoyment.
— William Ogden Haynes
William Ogden Haynes is a poet and author of short fiction from Alabama who was born in Michigan and grew up a military brat. His first book of poetry entitled Points of Interest appeared in 2012 and a second collection of poetry and short stories Uncommon Pursuits was published in 2013. Both are available on Amazon in Kindle and paperback. He has also published over seventy poems and short stories in literary journals and his work has been anthologized multiple times.
October 2013 | back-issues, poetry
You are young,
You always want to run.
feet would rather resist friction,
tugging beneath
the soles of your shoes,
than to compromise;
With resistance.
a constant battle,
throughout your youth;
You are disillusioned,
you want to travel faster,
than the sonic booms.
The electricity glistens;
You get older,
Feet start to develop
an appreciation for friction,
You gradually ease off;
The ignition,
had an epiphany
don’t need to sprint,
into the ground,
that will inevitably,
force you under.
Retrace your steps,
drawing every line in reverse,
want to reclaim youth?
It’s alluding you.
advanced so far in life
yet the waves
still succeed each other,
and the projections in the skies,
still creep until they meet their demise.
ask yourself, a paramount question,
“Why did I run so much?
when my skin was smooth,
when life didn’t feel so fragile?”
You start to notice things,
How the sun gleams
in the summertime;
how the flowers bloom,
blissfully,
An aesthetic marvel.
you utter,
It’s the process of human nature,
mathematically calculated;
into the circle of life,
but even so,
before you realize it,
your heart rapidly skips,
before you turned to dark,
so why the realization abruptly
why wait until eternal
condensation?
when trying to formulate
constellations in your head
until you realize that you are finally dead.
— Chris Ozog
Christopher Micolay Ozog is a twenty-one year old aspiring author and poet residing in the college educated town of Ann Arbor Michigan. Chris was Raised by two dedicated polish immigrants who once fought for their freedom in a movement that was proclaimed; “The Polish Movement Of Solidarity” during the height of the countries communism in the early to mid 1980’s. Chris has stated that he draws a substantial amount of his influence of poetry and literature from his parents who instill in him a diligent mindset. His parents put a strong emphasis on the value of literature and education which has stuck with him throughout his years of life. His affinity for the music, particularly of indie rock, can be seen in his poetry as he has drawn extensively from lyricism of that genre as well as Rap. He cites his top influences as Matthew Caws from Nada Surf, famed rapper K’naan, Michael Jackson, and rapper brother ali. He is also a fan of literature admires the workmanship of J.D. Salinger. He celebrates his Birthday On December 6ht, 1991.
October 2013 | back-issues, fiction
He’s been dead quite some time, six maybe seven years I’d say. He passed right here in this house. That was the way he wanted it. He didn’t want doctors and nurses poking away at him until there was nothing left. I don’t think he found much honor in going that way.
Years ago he built his own coffin right there in the garage. He spent three months smoothing and notching the pine until it was just so. He put so much lacquer on it that it shed water like a duck’s back. I’ll rot long before this pine box does he told me one night.
When he finished it he carried it in and stood it upended in the corner. It was one of the strangest things I do believe I’ve ever seen. That coffin standing contoured and waiting in the corner. It wasn’t exactly an omen. Then one day he brought some boards in and tacked them across. He put a few dusty volumes on the shelves, an old hickory clock, and the birch whittled wood figures he carved. It looked like any other bookcase. Why, whenever we had company they would complement him on it. He would just smile real big like and say thank you. That was the kind of man he was.
When he passed the coroner came to the house. He went out to his van to get a bag and I told him he wouldn’t be needing it. I took down the volumes, the hickory clock, and the birch whittled figures and put them on the vestibule. I knocked out the tacks and took the boards out and told the coroner to put him in the coffin and save his bag. He just stood there trying to think of something to say. That’s quite clever he finally said. Thank you I said and smiled real big.
Then he took the coffin out and ever since I have needed some place to put these volumes, and clock, and figures. Don’t you know he built one for me too. I was hoping you’d help me carry it in and tack the board across.
— Jeremy Sexton
