April 2014 | back-issues, fiction
Why doesn’t love end when it should?
The man I loved has found someone else. Palm trees lance skies full of low clouds. Sunset breaks like a jellyfish tide. It will rain.
She walks to his door with her wolfhound. I’m shocked seeing how old she is. Black hair, dark eyes, short, thin, not his type. He greets her, hugs her, and the dog, immense, jumps up. She glances in my direction.
What am I doing? Stalking? What is this craziness?
I married him six years ago. We divorced. What am I doing here in a rented car, looking at Jack and this woman? In the cloudy light, her long hair sways; she reaches for his arm. I hear soft rumble of thunder like the dog growling. She’s ordinary, nothing but a dark woman with a huge dog, an eerie look, Jack grinning like a fool at the door.
Don’t let her in.
Don’t don’t don’t don’t let her in.
In Greece, on our honeymoon, Jack found a statue of the goddess Hecate. We laughed, swam, drank too much wine, made love by a sea that hissed against black rocks. I left that small figure among shards and broken shells, dead fish and live gulls on that stony beach. I didn’t like her.
Jack, don’t let her in.
Death walks around these havens where the old come to the humid air, the orange groves, come in their millions, and die, one by one. In a flash he is shadowed, inside, in her arms while a wrongful dark stretches under the palms.
The woman, maiden, mother, crone, whatever she is, reappears, as red sirens rip the distance and some eager ambulance begins begins begins in the dusk-filled street to arrive.
—Janet Shell Anderson
Janet has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize for fiction and published by Vestal Review, decomP. FRIGG, The Citron Review, Grey Sparrow, Cease Cows and others.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Using a calligraphy pen,
she traced the side of my face
onto crisp paper stock,
mutton chops and tam
stitched in profile.
She shared it
before king oaks
in the UNC courtyard.
Journalism camp, a random
choice, but lent
to the surprise, and
a walk and a swim. Calendar
pages turned and we sat
along the Currituck Sound,
our bodies engraving maps
of our explorations
in the damp sand.
Our inexperienced hands
roamed one another
and without much
warning, the day breaks
the two of us into
our separate ways,
but distant pictures still
linger, and songs still
remind. Beach prints
remain to echo
our art. Museum galleries
framing the past.
—Paul Piatkowski
Paul Piatkowski lives in Winston-Salem, North Carolina with his wife, daughter, and corgi. He teaches English at Forsyth Technical Community College. His work has been published in journals like Florida English, A Hudson View, 2River View, Nagautuck River Review, U.S.1 Worksheets, Fast Forward, Sheepshead Review, and Ditch.
April 2014 | back-issues, poetry
Exploit the Masses
Anyone who violates any of
The exclusive rights of the copyright
Owner as provided by section One-
Oh-Six through One-Twenty-Two or of the
Author as provided in section One-
Oh-Six A(a) is a low down liar.
I will see him at dawn, see him at ten
Paces. This is not Garfield’s dog, it is
Jacko’s ceramic chimp. This is genius.
While I am not prepared to call it best,
Honesty is quite a good policy.
It ranks with making the trains run on time,
With eating vegetables, with not spitting
Into the wind, or with not stepping on
Cracks, breaking backs, breaking banks, or banking
On much coming of it. So eat your soup,
Drink your tea, dot your I. Honestly, you
Have to stop meeting me like this. I can’t
Keep hearing about your kids, your childhood,
The curl of your pubes or the squeal of your
Sex. I do not even know who you are.
Your name rung no roseys, and your poses
Are way too familiar. They are hung in
All of America’s dorm rooms. Let’s go,
Then, you and I, our separate ways, horse
Knows the way to carry the sleigh, so ease
On down the road, oh, ease on down the road.
Jenna Jameson Says The First Thing That Comes Out Of Her Mouth Is Right.
She said at last that his penis was just
Too small and let’s go to the video
O she says o o uh ah uh er…
Pat Summerall is dead! (what’s one more voice
Not to say through the uprights or it’s in
Or time taken or now a word from
CNN says he was a dark-skinned man
Says next time on Daddy I’ve had to kill
Says last week on May I Fuck Your Daughter?
On that note may I fuck your daughter? She
Is something I hear Dandy Don chime in
And she should cook now from the makers of
The Anarchist Cookbook ISBN 1607965232
Tagged “education” on Amazon tick.bomb
How we like explosions explosioner
How ready rowdy are all my friends to
How Joe Theisman’s leg breaks time and time and
Time again small bones small and very small
You Will Go Blind
Before drinks even arrive, she howls,
Screams she’s never been much afraid of clowns
Or public speaking, even marionettes
We wake to find dangling overhead. In her
Profile she calls bungee jumping a “passion.”
It’s bullshit. I hope there is less to life.
All I ask is a healthy respect. Order
House salad, the table wine. Oil light red
Pull over, please. Use before use-before
Dates. More than two taps is playing with it.
It’s not a toy. This is no joke. What’s more
I don’t recall asking. Look. Time for bed.
R&D is on it, I hear, to weave
A harness and shock cord, Kevlar, snug. It allows
Freedom to move you never much had, breathes
Like boxers, supports like tighty-whiteys
Brings out the jock in you, your vertical
Infinite provided (naturally) it’s down.
—Brian Cooney
