April 2014 | back-issues, fiction
She got a freaking tattoo! The nose piercing last year wasn’t enough. She had to get a Celtic arm band tattoo. She’s not even Irish.
I blame Janice for this—introducing liberal ideas into our home like some greenie on a mission. Still, when I told her, I expected her to be upset. I should have known better. “Everyone should be able to do whatever they want to their bodies,” she said. “It’s her body and her choice.”
Back in the old days we didn’t have choices. You either did what you were supposed to do, or you were put out of the house.
A freaking tattoo! My father would have used his belt. And I would have understood. Normal woman don’t get tattoos. They’re for biker chicks or women with weird hair.
“It’s my body, she said. “You don’t own me. I own me. It’s an expression of my rights.”
She’s got rights. She can vote, can’t she? Why does she need a freaking tattoo?
I blame Janice for this, introducing tofu and yoga into our home—the two goddamn things that have ruined this country. Now, mother and daughter go off yoga-ing together.
I wish I had a son. He would’ve introduced football, wrestling and NASCAR into the family. Good ol’ American-family sports. We could’ve gone bowling together. Not yoga-ing. We could’ve joined a league and worn those cool shirts with our names embroidered above the front pocket. We could’ve had a few beers together. We could’ve been a real family.
Instead we have greenies, tofu and freaking tattoos.
I blamed Janice for this. I stuck my finger in her face and shook it up and down. “Janice,” I said. “I’m not happy! Your mother has gotten herself a freaking tattoo and it’s your goddamn fault!”
—Gerard Bianco
Gerard Bianco is a playwright, author, jewelry designer, artist and filmmaker. he holds an MFA in Writing from Albertus Magnus College.
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
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
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.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
he couldn’t stop his dreams–
each night he’d fall down a mountain
where him & our dead grandpa,
in his army greens would roll
around in a haybarn & my brother would–
out of nowhere–grow enormous tits;
grandpa would grope and suck
so as not to be sucked himself
into the vacuous sun-hole suck-shining
in the sky. When my brother woke up
he felt no horror but an overwhelming
sense of accomplishment. It seemed,
he confessed, through a cascade
of tears and thick saliva, heavenly…
This for real happened
on the way home from middle-school.
Mom was driving the dirty white Prelude &
at the intersection of after
him telling it, us conjuring it,
she pulled over and cradled his head into her chest,
caressing him violently and weeping
in the afterschool sunlight.
—Corey Spencer
Corey Page Spencer is a student of NYU’s Literature and Creative Writing program. Hailing originally from South Carolina he currently lives in Brooklyn, NY with his girlfriend and his pit-bull Hank. His work is forthcoming in Eunoia Review and SOFTBLOW.
