By Nathan Key
96 words
Ever since Mr. Brown’s prized milk cow, Bernice, jumped over the moon there was an all out war for his attention. The chickens were determined to peck out the world’s largest hole, the pigs planned world domination, and the horses soon embarked on expedition to the bottom of the sea.
Mr. Brown put an end to the whole affair when the old goat broke his neck in a skydiving accident. With tears in his eyes, the farmer buried Fredrick’s body beside a physics lab that the mice had been constructing and considered the matter settled.
Nathan is a writer/philosopher who lives in Seattle, WA with his family. He primarily writes screenplays and magazine articles, but you can find some additional writings at his website: www.nathankey.com
11.11.2008
The Watchmaker's Lover
By Roseanne Griffeth
50 words
They met through his hobby, an obsession with clockwork, tiny screwdrivers and timepieces. She brought him her father's gold watch for repair. In his attic, he showed her his treasures and more. Her infidelity was visiting another watchmaker then lying. He issued an ultimatum. Her gears were his. She disagreed.
Rosanne Griffeth's work can be seen in Keyhole Magazine, Smokelong Quarterly, The Angler, Writer's Eye Magazine and Six Little Things among other places. She lives on the verge of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park with her herd of goats and spends most of her time writing about and documenting Appalachian culture. She is the blogger behind The Smokey Mountain Breakdown. www.smokeymountainbreakdown.blogspot.com
50 words
They met through his hobby, an obsession with clockwork, tiny screwdrivers and timepieces. She brought him her father's gold watch for repair. In his attic, he showed her his treasures and more. Her infidelity was visiting another watchmaker then lying. He issued an ultimatum. Her gears were his. She disagreed.
Rosanne Griffeth's work can be seen in Keyhole Magazine, Smokelong Quarterly, The Angler, Writer's Eye Magazine and Six Little Things among other places. She lives on the verge of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park with her herd of goats and spends most of her time writing about and documenting Appalachian culture. She is the blogger behind The Smokey Mountain Breakdown. www.smokeymountainbreakdown.blogspot.com
The Man Whose Home is a Bench
By Eva Eliav
100 words
I know a man whose home is a city bench. I don’t know by what roundabout road of life he ended at that place, but he is established there, his scanty belongings heaped neatly beside him.
What brings a man to settle on a bench? I try to solve the mystery of a life, exposed, yet completely hidden. If I were to give him a questionnaire, "bench" would be the answer to every question: address, family, occupation, hobbies.
Perhaps he fell out of a myth, and created another one. Within it, he is held, contained and nourished. Within the bench.
Eva Eliav grew up in Toronto , Canada and has been living in Israel since 1970. Her poems and short fiction have been published in a number of literary magazines, including Room of One’s Own, Natural Bridge , Parchment, Quality Women’s Fiction, Voices Israel , and ARC Israel . Her other interests include painting, films, and finding the perfect frappuccino. Eva Eliav is married and has a daughter.
100 words
I know a man whose home is a city bench. I don’t know by what roundabout road of life he ended at that place, but he is established there, his scanty belongings heaped neatly beside him.
What brings a man to settle on a bench? I try to solve the mystery of a life, exposed, yet completely hidden. If I were to give him a questionnaire, "bench" would be the answer to every question: address, family, occupation, hobbies.
Perhaps he fell out of a myth, and created another one. Within it, he is held, contained and nourished. Within the bench.
Eva Eliav grew up in Toronto , Canada and has been living in Israel since 1970. Her poems and short fiction have been published in a number of literary magazines, including Room of One’s Own, Natural Bridge , Parchment, Quality Women’s Fiction, Voices Israel , and ARC Israel . Her other interests include painting, films, and finding the perfect frappuccino. Eva Eliav is married and has a daughter.
10.28.2008
A Theory of Motion
by Howie Good
92 words
It’s hard now to distinguish the deranged from the merely
troubled, or the entrance to all this darkness from the
obsolete exit. So why should I even bother when I can
simply subscribe to the unified theory of motion within
the rocking cradle of her hips? Oh, to hell with the
nobility of labor, the wreckers that prowl the charred
turnpike for breakdowns and chain collisions. I’ll search
her pockets instead and rush as if our suitcases were
packed and in the hallway and we always had someplace
wonderful to go next.
Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of six poetry chapbooks, including the e-book, Police and Questions (Right Hand Pointing, 2008), available free at
http://www.righthandpointing.com/howiegood/
92 words
It’s hard now to distinguish the deranged from the merely
troubled, or the entrance to all this darkness from the
obsolete exit. So why should I even bother when I can
simply subscribe to the unified theory of motion within
the rocking cradle of her hips? Oh, to hell with the
nobility of labor, the wreckers that prowl the charred
turnpike for breakdowns and chain collisions. I’ll search
her pockets instead and rush as if our suitcases were
packed and in the hallway and we always had someplace
wonderful to go next.
Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of six poetry chapbooks, including the e-book, Police and Questions (Right Hand Pointing, 2008), available free at
http://www.righthandpointing.com/howiegood/
Salty
by Meg Pokrass
57 words
It was when she loved a man with eyes like a fish everything changed. With his kisses she would swallow clear water. Fear would rest behind colored pebbles, be gone for entire seconds -- long enough to bubble inside and out. I love this, she spit, swallowing his air, his name, dancing backwards with it in her lips.
Meg Pokrass lives in San Francisco. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in 971 Menu, The Rose and Thorn, Thieves Jargon, Eclectica, Chanterelle's Notebook, 34th Parallel, Literary Mama, Blossombones, Ghoti, Elimae, Word Riot, Frigg, DOGZPLOT, Wigleaf, and Smokelong Quarterly's Fifth Anniversary Issue. She has performed with theatre companies throughout the United States and considers writing a natural extension of sensory work developed as an actor
Neck
by Corey Ginsberg
100 words
Small gold heart dangling below her collarbone, amid the tan sea of flesh. Her face—the kind of pretty you fell for, married, then realized on the honeymoon is all wrong. Her kind of pretty makes you hate pretty, makes you want to smother it until it never looks at you again.
The sand below your feet, her hand in yours. Smiling the kind of smile you've perfected—face betraying motives. Wind blows the heart to the side. You move it back. Her small neck will fit easily in the palms of your hands when you cradle it to sleep.
Corey Ginsberg graduated from Carnegie Mellon University, where she studied creative writing, philosophy and professional writing. She currently is working toward her MFA in nonfiction at Florida International University, where she serves as editor of Gulf Stream Magazine. Her favorite writer is Kurt Vonnegut. Here is the link to Gulf Stream: www.gulfstreamlitmag.com.
100 words
Small gold heart dangling below her collarbone, amid the tan sea of flesh. Her face—the kind of pretty you fell for, married, then realized on the honeymoon is all wrong. Her kind of pretty makes you hate pretty, makes you want to smother it until it never looks at you again.
The sand below your feet, her hand in yours. Smiling the kind of smile you've perfected—face betraying motives. Wind blows the heart to the side. You move it back. Her small neck will fit easily in the palms of your hands when you cradle it to sleep.
Corey Ginsberg graduated from Carnegie Mellon University, where she studied creative writing, philosophy and professional writing. She currently is working toward her MFA in nonfiction at Florida International University, where she serves as editor of Gulf Stream Magazine. Her favorite writer is Kurt Vonnegut. Here is the link to Gulf Stream: www.gulfstreamlitmag.com.
10.20.2008
A Delicious Dish
by Errid Farland
79 words
That big bad wolf didn’t belong in sleeping beauty, but he tried to get in her anyhow. As if she wouldn’t notice! He knocked over her alarm clock with his big wolf mitts, and if he did such a poor job on her clock imagine how the rest of it would go. For sure she’d wake up, and not in a pleasant way. But he couldn’t help himself, for she was lovely, and he’d had his fill of pork.
Errid lives in Southern California and writes at a cluttered table where a candle burns to create an aura of serenity. Sometimes she accidentally catches things on fire, which turns the aura into angry yellows and reds and sort of wrecks the whole serenity thing. Her stories have appeared in Barrelhouse, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot, storySouth, Pindledyboz, GUD, and other places. One of her stories received an editor nomination for storySouth’s Million Writers Awards. She owns www.ShowMeYourLits.com, a website which sponsors a weekly flash contest.
79 words
That big bad wolf didn’t belong in sleeping beauty, but he tried to get in her anyhow. As if she wouldn’t notice! He knocked over her alarm clock with his big wolf mitts, and if he did such a poor job on her clock imagine how the rest of it would go. For sure she’d wake up, and not in a pleasant way. But he couldn’t help himself, for she was lovely, and he’d had his fill of pork.
Errid lives in Southern California and writes at a cluttered table where a candle burns to create an aura of serenity. Sometimes she accidentally catches things on fire, which turns the aura into angry yellows and reds and sort of wrecks the whole serenity thing. Her stories have appeared in Barrelhouse, Thieves Jargon, Word Riot, storySouth, Pindledyboz, GUD, and other places. One of her stories received an editor nomination for storySouth’s Million Writers Awards. She owns www.ShowMeYourLits.com, a website which sponsors a weekly flash contest.
The Edible Bachelor
by Georgina Bruce
100 words
J. Blood Ulmer has been saving the secret of his initial J for someone special. He has loved many women, and wanted them badly, but his fat red face, his sausage fingers, his jelly roll, his milk bubs, his lonely, secret letter J: all these things have saved him from love. For who could be special enough to love J. Blood Ulmer, to taste all his virgin parts, to sink her teeth into the sad, sweet, fat flesh? Who is brave enough to press her smooth delicate ear to his mouth and hear the wet whisper of his secret name?
Georgina Bruce's stories can be found at http://thebeardedlady.wordpress.com
100 words
J. Blood Ulmer has been saving the secret of his initial J for someone special. He has loved many women, and wanted them badly, but his fat red face, his sausage fingers, his jelly roll, his milk bubs, his lonely, secret letter J: all these things have saved him from love. For who could be special enough to love J. Blood Ulmer, to taste all his virgin parts, to sink her teeth into the sad, sweet, fat flesh? Who is brave enough to press her smooth delicate ear to his mouth and hear the wet whisper of his secret name?
Georgina Bruce's stories can be found at http://thebeardedlady.wordpress.com
Out on the Drag
Out on the Drag
by Giuseppe Taurino
99 words
That afternoon, after I got laid off, I went down to Dirty Martin’s for beers and a burger. As I waited for my food, an old man wheeling an oxygen tank waddled toward the counter. He bumped his way past tables, sat a few stools down from mine, and ordered a Budweiser. We made eye contact and I nodded politely. The aluminum tank stood beside him like an obedient dog, and I wondered what it felt like to wheel your life around, handle and all, to walk about knowing that your next breath was literally in your own hands.
Giuseppe Taurino lives in Austin , TX where he works as an Education Programs Coordinator for Badgerdog Literary Publishing. His work has appeared in Gulf Coast.
by Giuseppe Taurino
99 words
That afternoon, after I got laid off, I went down to Dirty Martin’s for beers and a burger. As I waited for my food, an old man wheeling an oxygen tank waddled toward the counter. He bumped his way past tables, sat a few stools down from mine, and ordered a Budweiser. We made eye contact and I nodded politely. The aluminum tank stood beside him like an obedient dog, and I wondered what it felt like to wheel your life around, handle and all, to walk about knowing that your next breath was literally in your own hands.
Giuseppe Taurino lives in Austin , TX where he works as an Education Programs Coordinator for Badgerdog Literary Publishing. His work has appeared in Gulf Coast.
10.14.2008
Death by Shovel
by Doug Mathewson
87 words
At lowest tide I visit our town beach. A purposefully unfashionable time after all the poets searching for god have finished walking their dogs. Scrup-fwop, scrup-fwop, can be heard beyond the jetty.
I see two lifeguards young and tall, their sun-blond hair in matched French braids. With long handled steel shovels from Parks and Rec they scoop up jellyfish and casually lob them up to a hot dry death upon the rocks.
The oversized orange windbreakers our teen guardians wore urgently proclaiming “RESCUE.” Mercifully, jellyfish can’t read.
Doug Mathewson lives on Connecticut’s eastern shore and writes very short stories that occasionally become poetry or essays of their own volition. He is interested in how an individual’s perception can change shared reality. Fiction creates new realities, and strangely how reality changes itself. His catalogue can be found here, or is shippable via rail. His current project, True Stories From Imaginary Lives, can be found at www.little2say.org
87 words
At lowest tide I visit our town beach. A purposefully unfashionable time after all the poets searching for god have finished walking their dogs. Scrup-fwop, scrup-fwop, can be heard beyond the jetty.
I see two lifeguards young and tall, their sun-blond hair in matched French braids. With long handled steel shovels from Parks and Rec they scoop up jellyfish and casually lob them up to a hot dry death upon the rocks.
The oversized orange windbreakers our teen guardians wore urgently proclaiming “RESCUE.” Mercifully, jellyfish can’t read.
Doug Mathewson lives on Connecticut’s eastern shore and writes very short stories that occasionally become poetry or essays of their own volition. He is interested in how an individual’s perception can change shared reality. Fiction creates new realities, and strangely how reality changes itself. His catalogue can be found here, or is shippable via rail. His current project, True Stories From Imaginary Lives, can be found at www.little2say.org
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
