We’re a small town. A very close community. There’re 3,570 people in town and about that many within five miles of town. We’re not bigoted. We are champions of diversity. We have an Arab, Muslim family, several black families, two Asian families, and three mixed race/ethnicity couples. We have gay couples and a score of gay individuals.
I’m Jewish, married to a Catholic. We own the Country Store.
We’re forward-looking and forward-thinking.
In the last election, we voted fifty-eight percent Democratic.
You need this background to understand. I hope you do understand. Continue reading “Odd | by Frederick Foote”
And it was the morning after a big party but we hadn’t come down completely yet, much less gone to sleep, so Doug and me and a couple girls went to hang out on the abandoned highway bridges. We were going to go to the Amoco for sodas but weren’t coherent enough to talk to sober people yet, so we were just up there. I saw these big piles of dirt mixed with gravel and called out to Doug that we should dig for dead bodies.
He ran over all excited, waving that weird black umbrella cane he always carried whether it was going to rain or not, something about the Penguin from the comics, but then he sagged all disappointed. Said he thought I told him I found one and he was almost kid-happy to see it. Continue reading “The Only Reason We Were Drinking Mellow Yellow in the First Place Was Because it Was Only 49 Cents | by David S. Atkinson”
Julie Collins – I’m very pleased to be able to have another interview with Dook, a representative of our closest relatives, what we call the yetis and what they call the Angwin.
We have talked about some Angwin basics and your successful attempt to create homeland. Today I’d like to talk about your daily life. We’ve already learned about your sustainable life, and your creative romantic life. Would you tell us what a normal day is like for you folk?
Dook – Glad to. We always try to get a good night’s sleep and then work on our homes and communal structures and harvest our food. None of those activities take very long, so we have plenty of time for entertaining ourselves.
Julie Collins – I’m sure that our in house audience and those listening and viewing at home would like the details filled in. Continue reading “Prime 5 | by Doug Hawley”
My dad’s name is John Josephs Jr. and he’s a ghost, and what he misses most about being human is: SUPERFOOD SMOOTHIES.
On his plane of existence, they taste like cigarettes and feel like razorblades going down.
I know this, because Father still speaks to me, even after death. I mean really talks, which is the way it always was, and the way it seems its always going to stay.
His voice in my head, blabbing about outsourcing production and quality inspections and liability risk and my failures as a daughter. It’s torture.
‘Torture you deserve,’ is what he says.
Debatable, really. If he hadn’t been such a dick father, maybe things might have turned out better. No response to that one.
All he can talk about is how pissed off he is to be dead, trapped with all the other Astral Bodies I’m carrying around in my head. Like I can do something about it, like I’m something more than a vessel – a Life Raft stuck in the Not Quite Afterlife. Continue reading “Open Palm of Night | by Brendan Adams”
A shadow lives in my shower
standing still and
still standing in the dark
born from the drain—
whole and imperfect
a septic Venus de Milo
I’ve seen her,
black like the fog
of retinal detachment,
in dreams, nightmares
the mildewed curtain Continue reading “Undrowned | by Alyssa Ciamp”
An Extraordinary Delivery of Rabbits
First it looked like a pig’s bladder, then a cat’s paw
& afterward rabbits, one after another.
Eleven in all fell from her warren. Creatix of colony,
Mother of mothers. An inedible feast unto herself.
Taken before she could coddle the wet fur, before she
could lick her lips in anticipation, the doctor pickled
their slack bodies & lined the jars on his mantle.
Stillborn meat poisons the blood. So many believed
this to be true. A country woman births a brood of rabbits
So many said she was hungry. Starved. Continue reading “Three Poems | by Trista Edwards”