July 2012 | back-issues, fiction
A child finds lost earrings in the sand and puts them in her mouth. A seagull picks the corpse of a small-mouth gruntfish and crystal jellies and egg-yolk jellies lie holding in their inner folds the balance of life and decay. Seaweed pops on the rocks. Dry stubbly grass pokes from broken shells and reeds stand up ecstatic in the wind. Sand candies it all. The waves come in lashing their glass nerves at the slope before pulling back across the bay and I run to the water, take a blind fall in the wash. The blessed cold cleans me. She comes carrying my son. The baby smiles watching his parents kiss. Chip vinegar stings my lips. Toes curl down in the sand. Nature forgets itself. She feeds him as it goes dark and together we watch him roll and gurgle on the rug. Up she leaps to find something to drink and my son turns his head to her shortening silhouette. And then I see something unfamiliar in him. Someone I don’t recognise. There she comes, waving her arms so the light of a cigarette traces neon nests in the night. A large wave rolls in. We grab everything and retreat behind the line of seaweed but a bag of clothes is left to the water and I run to retrieve it, and when I return I see them together and my heart knows that it is all a lie – that he is not my child. I put my arm around her waist and she holds the bottle away from my mouth and pours. I gag as the red wine runs down my chin and she kisses me again. The baby smiles.
by Joe Evans
Joe Evans is a TV Producer who lives and works in London, UK. He writes short short fiction and novels. His flash ‘Simple’ appears in the April edition of ‘Flash: The International Short Short Story Magazine’.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
your heart is a cracked accordion filling fast with salt – Patrick Rosal
My ex-wife called to tell me this.
Well, not exactly this. She called for money
I’d already paid. As an aside, in passing,
she added this: Our son cries.
He holds his face in his hands and sobs.
He stops by for food, cleansing, a couch
for sleeping on. He talks to himself.
He scratched the name “Jesus”
into his chest, says he’s fighting
the devil. He asked if he was adopted,
says Bob Marley is playing games
with his mind. His prescription
bottle’s full; he says the doctor is stupid.
Our son cries, she tells me in passing
after asking for money I’d already paid.
She cries, says she prays for magic.
I do not cry right there in front of her,
on the phone. Instead, I blink hard
and blink hard again.
by Danny Earl Simmons
Danny Earl Simmons is an Oregonian and a proud graduate of Corvallis High School. He has loved living in the Mid-Willamette Valley for over 30 years. He is a friend of the Linn-Benton Community College Poetry Club and an active member of Albany Civic Theater. His work has appeared in or is forthcoming in various journals such as Avatar Review, Summerset Review, The Smoking Poet, Toe Good Poetry, Pirene’s Fountain, and Burning Word. His published poems can be found at www.dannyearlsimmons.blogspot.com.
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Today,
I realized
everything I do is a joke
and God is on stage
doing stand-up
waging his finger at me
laughing
uncontrollably
while everyone in the audience
is relieved
he isn’t pointing his stubby fat fingers
at them.
by Kari Hawkey
July 2012 | back-issues, poetry
most mad and moonly
she’s a little crazy, right? half,
at least. cloaking herself in
inky star-spilled darkness,
unmasking her many moods;
this waxing and waning at whim
crescent grimace gloating,
gibbous eye hypnotizing
tumbled time and tide
fat and full and freckled
face beckoning, reckoning
you are but earthbound, and
she, a beacon of the night
who can neither shed nor
bear her own exquisite light.
Demarcation
Draw a line in the sand.
Don’t cross it. Color inside
only, and only in the most
muted of tones. Show ID.
Please keep all limbs and
appendages inside the
vehicle. Control all spon
-taneous laughter. A proper
level of decorum must be
maintained at all times. When
you’ve had it up to here, secure
the perimeter and batten down
a hatch or two, paying particular
attention to not getting finger
-prints on glass ceiling.
Don’t grasp at first or last
straws, or allow them anywhere near
that camel over there. Use sunscreen.
Tilde
If we unscroll this thing, give it syllable
and song, taste it along our torn tongues,
our dialect is horses, hooves pounding
forward, manes flinging salt water to the
waiting wind. Our floating hope is a tiny
bird’s crest, conjugated in cinnamon and
sage, aged carefully, held with ginger hand.
If we stand, on this, one last promise, we
are archers heading into battle, quivers of
anticipation and rage and unsheathed
joy. If we toy with noble wisdom, crack its
solid amber shell, pronounce it loud and
well, this cant, with all its quiet meditation
and clasped conjugations and implied con
-jectures, this language of our hearts might
live and breathe and brave this aged place.
by De Jackson
De Jackson is a poet, a parent and a Pro Crastinator (not necessarily in that order) whose heart beats best when accompanied by inky fingers and salty, sea-soaked toes. Some of her work has has appeared, or is forthcoming, in Sprout, Red River Review, Bolts of Silk and Indigo Mosaic.
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
Things We Cut
umbilical cord, my mother’s kite string.
pine tree bark, the saw blade hungry for heat.
foreskin, our first offering, sin, sacrifice.
birthday cake, the sugar’s tragic reminder.
hair, this should be more difficult.
wrists, plump with fear.
bread loaf, thins slices of salvation.
wing tip, the caged animal’s final passport.
May 22, 2011 – The Day After “Judgment Day”
I cried myself to sleep last night,
the morning landed softly, light shone
through the dust that ain’t gone neither,
my prayers ain’t been workin these days,
my sins musta been too deep to be unearthed
from this hell, I knew ma and pa been waitin
for me, I hope they heard it’s been postponed,
I ain’t packed no clothes, just a plastic bag
with ma’s favorite dishrag, she loved this kitchen,
when I was little I’d swing from the big oak tree
out in the front yard, sometimes I’d catch
her eye from the kitchen window,
she’d smiled like I was her pride and joy,
she’d used to say “be careful up in that tree
honey, I ain’t ready to lose my only son to
gravity,” one time when I was much older
I fell from the second highest branch, right
on my back, I sat up and looked right over to
that window, expecting to see ma’s scared face
but that window’s been broken for almost
two years now, one day when I was boiling
sum water, a bird flew right into the glass,
I ran outside to see if it was alright, it was
a red bird, it laid still but looked like it was
going to be okay, I put its body on the highest
tree branch, so when it woke up it could just
fall and fly, I haven’t looked to see if it woke yet,
my pa buried our dog in the backyard, I packed his
pipe in the plastic bag too, if I know him he’s
been cranky without his tobacco all these years,
the sun is starting to go down, I’ll leave the plastic
bag on my nightstand tonight but take my shoes
off this time, the house is quiet and cold tonight,
I wonder if I should have buried that bird?
Ryan Hurley is a member of five National Poetry Slam teams from Wisconsin and has been featured in multiple national publications including The Progressive, Dream of a Nation and Positive Impact Magazine. Ryan is also an elected member of the Emerging Leaders Council with Americans for the Arts, the largest arts advocacy organization in Nation. Ryan is dedicated to using the arts and creativity for community development and engagement.
