Monthly Archives: September 2015

Five Poems by Richard L. Gegick

THE OCEAN Tony’s been a cook here ever since he was placed in the renew­al cen­ter over a decade ago. Twice a GED fail­ure, he can bare­ly read, but knows how to cook a steak, how to work hard, show … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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The Mad Farmer's Wife Delivers the Foal, poem by Rita Quillen

It is the turn­ing I most remem­ber: Just anoth­er ordi­nary day I woke and looked out the win­dow. The mare stood with the colt half out of her, Mem­brane still com­plete­ly intact. I ran like a war­rior, butch­er knife in … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Two Poems by Tiff Holland

Saltines We was all afraid of that bridge, just ropes and slats, spaces between where the crick came right up at you if you looked down at it, and Bil­ly, that’s what we called him, after the fairy-tale, squat­tin’ under­neath. … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Sweet and Clear, essay by Terry Barr

I saw her smil­ing at me in K-Mart, over by the jeans. She had red hair, and no mat­ter which aisle I turned into—the Men’s groom­ing prod­ucts, the albums, the “notions”—there she was, smil­ing. I don’t know if it was … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Transformer, fiction by Benjamin Soileau

I’m fid­dling with one of those trans­form­ing mon­strosi­ties that toy com­pa­nies make just to dri­ve men like me crazy. It’s some kind of dinosaur that turns into a speed­boat and I’m look­ing down at it, turn­ing it this way and … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Triadelphia, WV, poem by Jay Sizemore

The hotel room seems damp— cold as the West Vir­ginia sky, a cer­tain kind of humid­i­ty left behind in the emp­ty space that light can nev­er fill and that only the nos­trils can inter­pret as mois­ture in the atmos­phere of … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Roulette, poem by M.S. Lyle

You move around the house, a cord attached to that spot on your back that no mat­ter how hard you try to reach, you can­not reach. At the oth­er end, the cham­ber. And you are so small; you heard the … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Big Red Cap, fiction by James Leary

Not so long ago there lived a young man who suf­fered great­ly at the death of his father.  The young man, who became known as Red Cap for the old, dusty Marl­boro hat he always wore, was loved by all … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Frogball, poem by CL Bledsoe

We couldn’t afford bats so we scav­enged, bro­ken lengths of PVC pipes, crooked sticks, hands, if that’s all we had. Like­wise, instead of base­balls we used pinecones, dried cow pies, rocks. One kid start­ed catch­ing frogs and smack­ing them into … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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not getting served at the subway inn, poetry by John Grochalski

not get­ting served at the sub­way inn ten min­utes before this we were still in the hos­pi­tal room watch­ing my moth­­er-in-law wres­tle with a peanut but­ter and jel­ly sand­wich just some­thing, the nurse told her to get in her stom­ach … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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