October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
This isn’t about a man evaporating to skeleton,
or joe bargaining with air
from a combat zone
as his father lies on the crucifix bed,
moaning so coherently the sins of the world
coalesce, come forth in black chugs
of foam, intestine, final whispers of God.
Not the twenty-by-twenty-foot crater
where the memory of joe’s name lay
less than a week before,
and the surgically sliced face of Khobar Towers,
and the blood, and the globs of flesh
that may someday be you or me.
Not even the memory of morning drill
at Rocky Mountain Arsenal—numbered
chairs matched to numbered masks,
assigned lanes, impromptu sirens,
seven-second scramble to don
writhing rubber faces before nerve gas
can drop the body in a heaving break dance.
And after, stepping outside, the ice fog lifts
as from a lunar landscape,
iridescent sun rising between snow plain,
mountain and smog crest.
This is what joe means—three changes
of clothes (enough in his college days),
three pairs of shoes with no holes (enough
for old age), a quiet room with comfortable
bed and covered mirrors.
by Will Harris
Originally from San Antonio, Texas, Will Harris was born into a military family and spent most of his public school years outside the U.S., particularly in England and Germany. After serving two military staff tours in the Middle East, he left the military but returned to live in the United Arab Emirates. He and his wife visit the U.S. during the summer months. Will’s writing is forthcoming or has been published in African American Review, The Austin Writer, Cold Mountain Review, College Language Association Journal, Colorado-North Review, decomP, Eleventh Muse, Existere, Mantis, MELUS, NEBULA, Reunion: The Dallas Review, Storyscape, The Trinity Review, Voices in English, Wascana Review, Word Riot, Writers’ Forum, and The Zora Neale Hurston Forum.
October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
red drop
blur down
hover first, then
rush with helicopter
sound on mute, between
a Monday and the lavender
bush, aligned aside a
moment you forgot to even
notice; still, on wings, it
seems to rise in up and
down motion, the hope of each
becoming squeezed inside
the beat of wings, a
quantum fine that lasts for
you a glance or two but
for the hummingbird
a lifetime.
by K.C. Bryce Fitzgerald
K.C. Bryce Fitzgerald has been writing stories since he learned to read. A native of Los Angeles, he is inspired by the daily truths of the world around him. In addition to moonlighting as a bartender, he is an avid writer and filmmaker whose production company C4 Films specializes in visually groundbreaking, character-driven storytelling. He has had several screenplays featured on Hollywood’s prestigious Black List and was recently the featured author in Burningwood Literary Journal. When not sending rich producers and literary agents gift baskets, he is hard at work perfecting his craft. He has currently written numerous short stories, two books of poetry, a debut novel, and many screenplays.
October 2015 | back-issues, poetry
Nothing more than a beaten baby,
fleeing down the aisle in my
virginal gown of naivety.
He wore my hope proudly.
Pinned to his chest like a
red rose boutonniere.
Concluding whispers of the
tired and disillusioned
pursue me as I try to prove them wrong.
Oh! Oh, no. I’m not
the stereotype of predictable
failure to thrive.
Through gritted teeth, I
learn to duck
and stay up late
Learning the dangerous buttons
and resisting the desire
to push them.
With a light step and a
careful eye, I execute
years of delusional bliss.
Life inside a Stepford skin
wore down the glorious
angles of imperfection:
my birthright and bliss.
She came with a dagger
forged in the ecstatic
flame of unexplainable
familiarity.
Immediate love. Fierce
unexplainable connection.
She cut through the skin
freeing the woman. I
was meant to be.
Always was. Hidden
brief and singular,
willful and ignorant,
But no more! She
rescued me. And I
rescued her. And
I am she, and
she is me.
by Rachel Holbrook
Rachel Holbrook writes from her home in East Tennessee and is anxious to leave her mark on the literary world. She was previously unpublished.
