April 2013 | back-issues, poetry
Old trees in the winter are like wizards
clean shaven or white beards hanging,
you can see the 60s and 70s in them,
not far off at all, right there even,
if you look closely. You could even see
other decades that you wish you lived in,
like the, 40s? I don’t know, I don’t look for
the 40s when I look, but
these trees are the ones, with that grainy gray
winter film on them: where the sticks come from
that crack under our feet when we walk together
through the woods towards the giant wind turbines
we’ve always wanted to stand at the base of,
just to see. Walking towards a brand new thing
like you and I, through the Scots pines, Silver maples,
Old things, trees
at home in yards: the ones creaky old rocking chairs
are made from, newly made even, I could make one
right now, lubed up and stained fresh,
but if I used that old thing out there, like a giant’s tibia
preserved from some other decade,
it would creak, crack, cold and crisp with gray
outside like this portion of the world’s schedule
the sun just couldn’t buy its way into:
“Sorry Mr. Sun, sir. The sky is booked. It’s not that
the rain will be using it, it’s just that you can’t.”
That kind of gray, more refreshing to wake up to
than orange juice, gray dancing in a line around
November through February and the trees—
branches dead enough to let me climb them
to their tip top, but snap anytime I try sitting
up there awhile and watch me fall, all the way
back onto the grass, back on the grass,
breathing in the smoke smell from a bon-fire
two houses down, burning old creaky things,
old creaky things burning.
by Andy McIntyre
Andy’s poetry and fiction have been published in Hard Freight, a Penn State literary journal, and two of my original plays were also there produced during my time there as a student.
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
It began as easily
as the opening of a flower.
A parfait of feelings,
sticky confections
enjoyed together;
an ache in the marrow
when they were apart.
They went to dinner and films.
They danced at clubs and balls
dressed up in the costumes
of fairy tales.
Then came the camping trips,
and visits to theme parks.
And they got an apartment,
dividing rent, utilities,
groceries and chores.
Soon, they met the parents
with mock chastity,
sleeping in separate bedrooms.
It was a predictable dance.
Tacit understandings.
Compromises.
Accommodations.
Expectations.
A diamond ring
to close the deal.
They sat together on the couch
in their bathrobes by the flatscreen TV.
Between them was a bowl of buttered popcorn
to share on movie night.
As he listens to Andy Dufresne and Red
talk about escaping from
Shawshank State Prison,
all he can think about
is how to say goodbye.
by 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 book of poetry entitled Points of Interest appeared in 2012 and is available on Amazon. He has published nearly forty poems and short stories in literary journals and his work has been anthologized multiple times. In a prior life he taught speech-language pathology at Auburn University and authored six major professional textbooks.
January 2013 | back-issues, fiction
You gaze at the clothes flipping in the washer, because you don’t know what else to do. They’re not even yours.
You told Brad you needed something more, something he couldn’t offer, something you couldn’t explain. You rubbed your damp palms over the lime green material of your dress and told him you wouldn’t forget. You didn’t mention the inoperable tumor.
You changed jobs and moved to the other side of the city, so there would be less chance of you running into each other. You didn’t tell your new employer you’d be there for less than a year.
You changed your cell phone number and closed your Facebook page. You knew Brad would try to find you.
***
You spin the diamond to match the cycle of the clothes. You don’t think about the future.
You handed Brad a valise with his stuff from your apartment when you met at the cafe, everything except the ring, that is. You told him you lost it. He was too shocked to be angry.
He asked why. You couldn’t tell him the truth.
You walked out of the coffee shop, leaving him sitting with his mouth open. You told him not to follow you. You needed some space.
People stared. You wanted to tell them you didn’t want to be a burden, like your mother had been at the end.
by Jim Harrington
Jim Harrington began writing fiction in 2007 and has agonized over the form ever since. His recent stories have appeared in Short, Fast and Deadly, Ink Sweat and Tears, Near to the Knuckle, Flashes in the Dark, and others. “Redlining” was chosen for inclusion in the Pulp Ink, a collection of crime stories. He serves as Flash Markets Editor for Flash Fiction Chronicles (http://www.everydayfiction.com/flashfictionblog/). Jim’s Six Questions For . . . blog (http://sixquestionsfor.blogspot.com/) provides editors and publishers a place to “tell it like it is.” You can read more of his stories at http://jpharrington.blogspot.com.
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
I hear a red, circular noise,
but I don’t know where it’s coming from.
I could look for it,
but I think I’ll just to go back to bed for a couple of weeks.
Even if the night is a magnetic field,
it’s still darkly repulsive.
When you examine the historical record,
you can learn about the lowest high temperature,
and the highest low temperature.
The speed limit however, is not posted.
It’s a little like listening to the sizzle of pink electricity;
carnal, yet pristine.
I often wish I knew how to play poker, but I was raised very religiously.
I wasn’t allowed to gamble anywhere near a television set.
It’s much easier to love an other at a distance,
although, over time, you may discover yourself
growing apart.
Love chooses its own gravity,
just like a remora chooses its own shark.
Symbiosis works best in tandem with loneliness.
On the surface of the diamond planet, ‘55 Cancri e’,
the temperature is 3900 degrees.
Wherever you may be, the flame burns bluest near the source of combustion.
On August evenings, Hollywood’s swimming pools glisten
like intentionally set wildfires.
They shimmer, wet rectangles of aquamarine, television light.
Of course, you can’t change the channel.
Fortunately, learning to write a complete poem is a lot easier than it looks,
if you give it half a chance.
Like a reincarnation story you’ve read twice,
it’s over more than once, before you’ve begun.
by Brad Rose
Brad Rose was born and raised in southern California, and lives in Boston. His poetry and fiction have appeared in , Boston Literary Magazine, San Pedro River Review, Off the Coast, Third Wednesday, The Potomac, Santa Fe Literary Review, Barely South Review, Imagination and Place, Monkeybicycle, Right Hand Pointing, Little (flash) Fiction, SleetMagagazine.com, and other publications.
January 2013 | back-issues, fiction
She scrapes the charred crumbs from her morning toast, then she does laundry.
She does ironing, then she strums a chord on her guitar, commiserating with herself, as the taut metal strings slice pain into her tender fingertips.
She does more laundry, then she spatter-paints with Pollockesque abandon.
Which inevitably generates more dirty clothes.
She has a shower, luxuriating in the incalescence of the near-scalding water, as it flows along the crevices of her fatigue.
She dries her tangled hair, then dries the laundered clothes, then nourishes the machine with another load.
She eats ambiguous leftovers with a plastic fork, then watches the kaleidoscope of colors intertwine, as purple shirt mixes with scarlet robe mixes with periwinkle underwear mixes with turquoise socks.
She wiggles open the encrusted lint filter and wonders why the vibrant hues always converge into a sluggish gray.
She does more laundry, writes a restrained haiku, then erases it.
She sips decaffeinated coffee, while she edits her fragmented novel, seeking flawless metaphors for unrequited love and grim despair and soul-sucking regret.
She classifies the laundered clothes and places them benignly onto hangers, slides them with innate compassion into drawers.
At ten o’ clock she slams the lid onto the overflowing wicker basket, as she crawls, debilitated, into bed.
by Gillian McQuade
January 2013 | back-issues, poetry
You swing the scythe in washed out flaxen fields
You may hear the blade against the dried out stalk
It is a sweet sound if the cutting edge is thin
You will listen for that faultless cut, it is a veiled thing
It will hide in the murmur of starlings and six-row barley
You will swing and scare the murderous crows
In repetitions you swing with the turning of your hips
They are never the same, form of swing or ting of blade
The light will fail and you will walk home under cast out corncrakes
By turf lit doorway you will sit and spit then drag the whetstone
You will smother the wicks and set loose the hungry tomcat,
Evicted field-mice are suing for recompense.
by Alan Donnelly
