April 2011 | back-issues, poetry
by Tyler King
Like a silent lover,
Summer slipped out this morning.
The sheets were pulled aside.
Summer’s clothes were gone,
and my outstretched arm lay
under the phantom nape of her neck,
my body folded into her vacant back,
my hand caressed her missing thigh.
Autumn tried to slide into Sumer’s side of the bed,
(her mattress-impression doppelgänger)
but her feet were cold and sent
shivers through my shins, so
I told her she needed to put on socks
or get out of bed. She said maybe
it would be better if she started
making breakfast. I went back to sleep
and dreamed us two together again.
Tyler King is currently working toward his B.A. in English at Whitman College. His work has been published in The Binnacle, the December 2009 and 2010 issues of Quarterlife, and featured online at www.365tomorrows.com and trainwrite.tumblr.com. More of his writing can be found on his blog: tkfire.tumblr.com.
April 2011 | back-issues, fiction
by William Fedigan
The angels want Jimmy’s head.
Jimmy runs. Jimmy runs scared. Jimmy runs to church. God help me, please! Dark church, black-as-coal church, black-as-pits-of hell church. Can’t see. God help me, please! Can’t see Christ, cross, nails, thorns, painted blood on hands, feet…can’t see. God help me, please!
On altar, tiny light over picture of lamb. Lamb of God, lamb chops, lamb stew, Easter lamb rises from dead and runs…Jimmy runs.
The angels want Jimmy’s head.
-Slow down, Jimmy, Where you going? It’s Flower. Jimmy likes Flower. Flower’s OK.
-The angels want my head.
-Sure, Jimmy, sure they do, Flower says. Slow down. Talk to me, Jimmy. Flower likes Jimmy.
-Gotta get the fuck outa here. The angels want my head!
Jimmy runs. Flower runs after Jimmy. Ambulance runs after Flower. Angels run after ambulance. The angels want Jimmy’s head.
God, help me, please!
Jimmy’s in lockdown Ward. Isolation Room.
Jimmy hears wings. Jimmy feels wings on head. Angel wings.
Jimmy screams, screams.
Nurse gives Jimmy shot in ass.
–Help me, please! Jimmy’s crying. Help me, please! The angels want my head!
The Devil looks at Jimmy’s head.
The Devil looks at Jimmy.
The Devil smiles.
April 2011 | back-issues, poetry
by Victoria Haynes
The prayer is offered,
and waked, the robins march thru
the chambers of open morning.
O, they are small and they hurt,
they bend and break to broken birds.
The morning gone as we talked
over the problem of bones—
shall we hang them for the children?
string them across the lights?
make secrets of them in vials?
There is no place for brittle things.
At once the yardplay is embarrassing and public
and the children’s teeth glint louder than keys.
She comes to you empty-fisted and unsatisfied
and pulls your hair and your ears—
O daddy i’d give anything for a small sparrow
to hold against my clothes—
and somewhere through an armor of wings
you point to the stones, which must be enough—
and the prayer is closed.
Victoria Haynes is a writer of poetry, fiction, and accordion music.
