April 2012 | back-issues, fiction
by John Witherow
Mother was in the kitchen slowly stirring a steaming cauldron of Harvest Stew. Both Wesley and Aaron sat in the parlor, gently brushing Marjorie’s golden locks. Sweet aromas danced through the air, filling the house with a warmth and good cheer that had been vacant for decades.
Long had it been since the entire brood was under one roof – and this was truly a harvest to celebrate. Large casks of yams and mead were brought up from the cellar. Even Padre Lorenzo was meant to stop by and say the traditional Navish goat blessing before the great feast began.
Jeremy was wheeling in Brother who nearly leapt from his cage when he caught wind of that sweet slow-roasted acorn squash. In our formative years, we would hand feed Brother stringy bits of mule flesh and leftover crème cakes through his wrought iron bars. I can still see Brother’s quivering lips as he greedily inhaled ever morsel given to him. His razor sharp teeth tearing through bone and vein as if it were salt water taffy. Every Saint Crispin’s Day we would all gather around and laugh with delight as Grand Papa Alphonse would shovel burning embers onto the floor of Brother’s cage. Brother would hop from one foot to the other as his bloodcurdling screams filled the air and unholy terror flooded his eyes.
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
783:
invention
becomes
the mother of
the incandescent
in here
beneath
the hum
and rigging
all
wires
and false
senses of
places to go
invention
becomes
tired of itself
tired of reinvention
tired of movement
and political traction
invention
all folding
back in
on itself
reminding us
of history
those calm
pages
we were read
as children.
784:
in the center
of the rug
eyes slightly
slanted
a half-sleep
a half-ringing
telephone
by the stairs
shes cold
in a thousand
hairs
while her
eyes
walk a thousand
miles
yesterday she
thought more
of herself
in the lighting
of the patio.
there is calm
amidst
the ruckus
amidst
the backbone
of her mouth
and she’ll know
more for certain
as the
ground stops
swelling.
785:
what
can we be but
children
when all we want
can be handed over
cash still writes
the checks
that pave
our feet
over the snow.
786:
the expression
written
on the wall
is that
the sweat
continues
its path
remains
on course
until
all the right
words
are soiled
into
the minds
of the children next
to the countertop.
787:
are we justified
in our
methods
actions
all leaving
the dinner plates
to a feeling
of the often-misread
no we’re still
in here
as cold
as birth
as tired
as youth
notion
the breath
as it reflects
off the walls
of January.
Joshua Robert Long is an American-born poet who’s work has appeared in OTCC Magazine, AURCO Journal, Fresh Fish, and The Hogcreek Review. He has an upcoming series of poems to be featured by Spork Press and is the author of 3 books: Translating The Avenues (Walleyed Press), Mixtape (Walleyed Press), and Leaving Frost Upon the Walls, which was self-released. More information can be found on joshuarobertlong.com
April 2012 | back-issues, fiction
by Tyler Gillespie
Remember that time when we were in Target, and you put a bottle of champagne in the refrigerated section, because we wanted chilled champagne (the only way I’d drink it) and Target only had room-temperature champagne, so we needed to chill it ourselves?
And the champagne bottle blended-in with the wines and we laughed because we thought that this was true about most people and things (they blend in).
And we left Target and came back to the store two hours later and the champagne was cold.
And we laughed when the cashier asked us about it.
And we drank the champagne from sippy-cups.
And you told me that you loved me, but I didn’t listen because you always say things like that.
And I don’t believe you.
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
A change could be a bloom
as well as a withering.
Her half‐world suspended between
two superstructures: a mystique of waxed floors
and shattered mirrors, spiderwebbed with cracks.
On the rim of her sky
were only hints of sunrise,
like goldfish swimming in ink.
No one was disturbed
by the clicking of her heels on the paving stones,
the breeze stirred by the sighs of her veils,
the movements of her braid.
She bleached out herself, gradually
the way of old photographs, in a slow bath of acid:
first moles and pimples, then her shadings and face,
until nothing remained but general outlines;
a wax doll to stick pins into.
by Andrea Starr Pelose
The above poem is a cento poem that experiments with lines from novels, manipulating them, and thus creating a new work of poetry. A list of the works used can be provided upon request.
April 2012 | back-issues, poetry
I am riding the spooked horse
through a world of shadows –
In my visions,
there is nothing but ghosts
of all things.
There is another world
behind the one we live in.
Everything I see here,
is a shadow
from that world.
When I am riding,
things I see before me
disappear.
There is no more grass
or trees, skies or rocks.
When I am standing still,
I am traveling
on a horse made of bellows.
by Craig Shay
