WORD SLAW

2011-09-30T13:42:00.002-05:00

Well, Word Slaw hasn't returned quite yet...

(Been busy writing a novel.)

But if you're looking for something to read,
Check out my weekly column:
http://arlington.patch.com/columns/play-date-2

Adios!

2011-09-15T14:46:00.000-05:00

Yep. Looks like Word Slaw is on an extended hiatus.
To be continued....

Off again

2011-05-31T17:20:00.000-05:00

Taking May off too. Damn. Bear with me here, folks. Thanks!

Off

2011-04-30T19:12:00.001-05:00

Sorry, but Word Slaw is taking the month off. Thanks for stopping by and see you next time.

Sushi is the Devil, D.Batten

2011-03-21T12:13:00.004-05:00

Sushi is the Devil
By Delores Batten

There is a bird that is dying because there is a crab that is dying because it is being used as bait used to catch eels that are being eaten and dying to feed people in the form of sushi. I hate sushi.

Filth at Work, T.Giovanni

2011-03-21T11:57:00.003-05:00

Filth at Work
By Thomas Giovanni

Steve let it rip and calmly waited to see how bad it smelt. He had eaten red meat the night before and after being a vegetarian for the last six months feared how his stomach would react to the blow.
It was hard for him to fart at work. It was a small office. And usually anyone who farted would be ostracized with dirty looks and later exclusion from their order for the dunkin donuts run. Not that Steve could drink any coffee right now. Just the thought of the warm black poop stimulant made his stomach growl.
He was still waiting for the smell to rise to his nose when Sarah came in from the other room to ask about a shipper Steve knew well. A bead of sweat formed on Steve balding head. Sarah was a beautiful young women.
"Steve, you work with GregCo, right? Out of Atlant-- oh my GOD!"
She covered her nose with the office papers in her hand and shot out of the room. When she turned her skirt shot up and Steve noticed some lacy black panties. Thoughts of sex calmed his stomach and he wallowed in his sweet foul odor fog as he googled online porn.

Blueberry Regulations, S. Jackson

2011-03-21T11:52:00.003-05:00

Blueberry Regulations
By Samantha Jackson

I've been around these parts for some time now and again and again I am always put off by all these yahoos talking all this junk about the president of the order of the blueberries. Now I say this hear county has plenty of dadgummed blueberries so why the sam hey we gotta have any types of filantherpistin on em. i say let the blueberries grow free just like the holy ghost an all them other say and for another let anybody who wants to eat them. That's what the president says too and i concur completely. them damn antoxidents is good fer braincells and junk.

Spring, Unknown

2011-03-21T11:49:00.002-05:00

Spring
By Unknown

There's a hammer in the distance dear Liza, dear Liza. There's a hammer in the distance Dear Liza, a hammer. Ah, spring the return of construction noise. Wah wah.

Time and Again, E.Johnson

2011-03-21T11:47:00.002-05:00

Time and Again
By Eric Johnson

Even Steven
Nelly Rose
Hit the pavement pay the pros
Stick a needle in the pain
Start a season over again

Untitled, M.Dunlap

2011-02-02T15:36:00.001-06:00

Untitled
By Murray Dunlap

To be tempted by normalcy
Is to be drawn to a quivering light
Often causing painful burns
That certainly leave scars
And while unique
Not cool
Among other kids
...And so drawn to pain
We huddle in agony
With little relief

Smell of the Sea, T.Mahony

2011-02-02T15:34:00.000-06:00

Smell of the Sea
By Tom Mahony

“What’s that smell?” my son asked as we walked along the sand.
“The smell of the sea, Laddie,” I said in my best salty brogue.
“The what?”
“Kelp.” I pointed to the slippery brown piles near the high tide line. “Washed ashore by winter storms.”
The boy frowned. “It stinks. Let’s go home.”
“Ignore the smell and consider this. Kelp is like a forest under the sea. It grows two feet a day, changes the light and chemistry of the oceans, and provides food and shelter for countless animals. It dampens currents and chop, great for surfing. People use it in toothpaste and ice cream and tons of other things. It’s incredible stuff.”
The boy listened closely, eyes widening as he studied the kelp and nodded.
Then he turned to me. “It stinks. Let’s go home.”

Dream Reel, K.Bean

2011-02-02T15:33:00.000-06:00

Dream Reel
By Kyrsten Bean

Laughing into the galaxy of banal wishes she pulls a dream reel from the sky. Wraps a purple streak around her wrist and pulls it into the morning. Awakened by the restless pulses it emits she tumbles backwards into an upside-down world that is unremitting and iridescent. Calm. There is no future in this moment, she cries. There is only now. The purple streak clutches tightly, holding on for dear life. She drags it out into the garden where it tugs itself through snapdragons, lilacs and climbing wisteria. The ivy sparkles with moisture. Get lost, she calls.

Bombs, G. Norton

2011-02-02T15:25:00.002-06:00

Bombs
By Greg "g-nasty" Norton

big old bombs dropping on ya ass
cause I know what I want and i got all the class
so pick up the spliff smoke it up like a chimney
got the the best laugh that i heard so you win me
lets hang out like wet sheets on the line
and get em dirty again cause baby you so fine

Drink, H. Gordon

2011-02-02T15:18:00.003-06:00

Drink
By Heath Gordon

I think I'd make a good alcoholic. I would just start drinking around noon, then I'd keep drinking and drinking. I gotta watch my daughter during the day but she wouldn't notice. We'd have a good old time and paint and draw and laugh about cartoons on tv. I probably wouldn't read to her that much. Well maybe I would, I just wouldn't actually read. I'd look at the pictures and make the story up. Not that I can't read when I'm drunk. But reading is kind of boring. Well so is watching a 4-year old. That's why I'm getting drunk. And I'd probably pass out, which is cool since me and the kid nap in the afternoon anyway. Then I'd sleep off the major buzz and wake up when the wife got home from work noticing nothing out of the ordinary at all.

After 10 Years, J.Sheirer

2011-01-16T22:32:00.002-06:00

After Ten Years
By John Sheirer

"You're insane," he said, his last words to her before turning to leave, his last words after ten years of marriage. "You're like that crazy artist guy who cut off his ear, what's his name, Van Guy or somthing. The only difference is that you've been slicing away my life a tiny wound at a time each day for the last decade instead of just hacking it off all at once."

Red Gold, J.Brooke

2011-01-16T22:32:00.001-06:00

Red Gold
By Jerome Brooke

Empress of the waves, Warrior Queen,
Ruler of the bold,
Lead us to battle, lead us to jewels,
And to red gold.

We are ready to follow,
Ride to the South;
Lead us to victory, or lead us,
To red death.

Why do you cry? Look, find him,
I will surely slay the man,
Find him, the one who has failed,
Who has earned my hand.

Now you smile, now all, all is well,
Queen of the West.
Now my Lady, lead us to victory,
And the test!

San Marcos 1998, M.Rainwater-Lites

2011-01-16T22:30:00.001-06:00

San Marcos 1998
By Misti Rainwater-Lites

Heather was not hot but she thought she could be a model with her skinny pasty body & long lank brown hair. She cooked meat in our tiny kitchen left ketchup splatters on the counter sprawled out on my futon watching deep space nine with her hand in her pants. During the flood an old man came in with a fully stocked cooler. He reeked of wine coolers. I moved out soon after, hating girls more than ever.

Sickle, T. Rowe

2011-01-16T22:26:00.003-06:00

Sickle
By Theodore Rowe

Hang just a little further
Reach
Let it drip
Fall just an inch
Look dangerous
And taste so cold
Shrink in the sun
Then don't come back for months
Ice sickle s.o.b.

Da Bears, Superfan

2011-01-16T22:23:00.003-06:00

Da Bears
By Superfan

Da Bears. Uh, I would like to say dat da bears are gonna win da superbowl dis year and I am very happy to say that, yes in deedy I am. I say uh, final score, Da Bear 132, da Jets 3.

Imperfect Guitar, A.Parmessur

2010-12-20T08:46:00.000-06:00

The Imperfect Guitar

By Amit Parmessur

Sitting on the wild rocks I marvel at the periwinkle,
fully forlorn in the nearby receding tide pool.

The whistling of the dry coconut leaves in the wind
has been accompanying my pregnant thoughts of you,
with the large and strenuous pelicans surveying the sky,
right above my bewildered head—

I have never ever thought you would leave the
land of our bond and ships would become my enemies
How dare that elderly ship steal you from me,
making my eyes scarlet in the indifferent crowd.

Sitting on the rocks with my wild guitar I
sing sweet songs of your improbable return, sometimes
dreaming of you dancing, dancing lithely in a ring
of violets, with frisking lambs, piping shepherds.

This evening I have broken a string
as my fingers are a bit too drenched in anger. I close

my eyes and imagine of you sleeping
on a bed of daisies in our favorite valley over there.

I secretly cut a hair from your peaceful head,
fixing it in my excessively grieving guitar.

I start playing again but the other remaining strings
cannot be as melodious as your versatile holy hair,
rendering my guitar uselessly imperfect.

When I open my briny and heavy eyes,
the tranquil sea surface has turned orange,
the sand is a stretch of yellow lawn
and the periwinkle is gone,
leaving the tide pool as good as a forlorn desert. I go

home like a doomed crab destined for a too salty soup.

Snow Falls, M.McCoy

2010-12-20T08:42:00.002-06:00

Snow Falls

By Meridith McCoy

Here comes the snow. The first of the year. Clean and white like virginity. Before the salt comes in and violates it, making gray sludge. But it will snow again. And be pure. A second chance.

To Dad...G.Nedelka

2010-12-20T08:41:00.002-06:00

To Dad: When December Falls

By Graham Nedelka

"good bye, it's the end of the road"
what a pretty song, my love.
stood there with metal
in your palm
colder than the snow
you caught on your tongue
i did too.
the sun will shine tomorrow
somewhere without you.
it is the warmth the winter
left behind to remind me
how the world turns again.
it is the green grass where
you took a long nap that
december.
watch it glisten from above
upon the lake
the water cooled
your ashes,
ceased your pain.
watch your son shine
and swim with you too.
I would have carried you
when december fell.

Candles, E.Jakpa

2010-12-20T08:41:00.001-06:00

Candles

By Emmanuel Jakpa

glow in the small glasses
on the tables,

yellow lights
pours out the chandeliers,

"Lady in Red"
plays,

gentles
on the air.

I empty my coffee,
and step out

to the lazy
snow drops, falling

lightly,
lightly down.

There
is no wind.

The trees
are all drooping

with the weight
of the weightless snow.

No birds
in sight,

but I hear
a few chirps

as if from inside
bricks.

Birds, H.Freads

2010-12-20T08:37:00.002-06:00

Birds

By Heinrick Freads

Every bird has wings, but not all birds can fly
The blind have eyes that cannot see
Sort of like drinking decaf

Memories of a Mermaid, N.Tallowin

2010-11-08T08:47:00.001-06:00

Memories of a Mermaid
By Natascha Tallowin

A glittering sliver of something was glimpsed on the horizon today
bobbing slowly nearer
like a cork on a rough sea

Every now and then the beauty of it caught the eye of a turning sunbather
And a child even pointed once
declaring it a mermaid

But as the day drew on, interest waned and the beach began to clear.
The glimpse of glitter swelling with the drawing in of the tide
grazed the sand of the shore for the first time
shifting back and forth with the slow rhythmic pulse of lapping waves
Until finally coming to a halt

Moments passed.

The snout of a spaniel snuffled loudly about its form
A dog walker stopped hesitantly
poking, prodding at it with the toe of her shoe

A naked body flopped back
A picture of sullied perfection
luminous skin a wonderful shade of pale,
blue eyes wide open with an expression of mild surprise
A mane of colourless hair lay spattered across the beach, encrusted with sparkling sand
Only the curl of a piece of paper held tight within his hand

With trembling finger tips the dog walker removed the page from his water logged hand.
"I told you not to drown."
It said.

Skin, E.Seehafer

2010-11-08T08:46:00.000-06:00

Skin
By Elaine Seehafer

Tuned in to the
symphonies of depth -
in all that lies below
the glazing surface
of the external -
he peeled back
her outer layers-
as a snake sheds its skin
to be reborn.
His hands gently incised
their path to the river -
her skin extending
and shedding itself
towards the light

Dollop, S.Martin

2010-11-08T08:45:00.000-06:00

Dollop
By Stephen Martin

Inside
my
broken
wrist
I weep
& sleep
ugly little dreams.

Outside
beetles & bottles
litter
black
into
Satan's
open suitcase.

Above the spitting
crow is
laughing
at my
shadow-
self
-inflicted poise.

Below
a polka drab
bouquet
of flies
a filthy mantra
begs
indifference.

Daredevils Covenant, R.Koppelberger

2010-11-08T08:44:00.000-06:00

The Daredevils Covenant
By Ron Koppelberger

He had to stave of the terror of an amazing dare, the exposition of chance. His reliance on the savage choices he often made were addictive and difficult to fend off. Jackson Irish was a daredevil of sorts, he crusaded in dangerous dilemma and courageous disaster.
Jackson found himself near the approaching maelstrom of swirling soil, wheat bloom and erupting air. The tornado inched closer to him with each labored exhalation.
He had parachuted from the tallest building in the downtown Hammock, fifty stories high. Jackson had done the turkey trot with trains and approaching cars as well as hanging from lengths of knotted rope by the underbelly of an airplane. He had swallowed glass and nails, cockroaches and snails, and now, Jackson would ride the black sackcloth of a tempest in towering shadow. The darkness of a dirty demon in undeviating destruction, a tornado in full tilt.
As the monster approached the underpass he had a fortunate flash of inspired fear. His courage in doubt he wrested the rare, whimsical moment to the depths of a simple nervous expectation. He was confident in his abilities. The evidence of his purpose was his constructed resolve, borne of primal passions and the desire to conquer death. His disposition would define a miracle.
The twisted wreckage of an SUV flew over the top of the bridge and with a rending metal crash landed on the opposite side of the tow-lane highway. Jackson watched the tempest as it approached in screaming fury. In the final moment between life and certain death Jackson Irish leaped back beneath the bridge. The tornado roared overhead like a fright train and Jackson held fast to the huge steel I-beams.
The swirling demon continued across the landscape without Jackson as a passenger. Jackson was half-caste, a hybrid of sorts now. In benediction he had consulted with god swearing a covenant with life, in those final moments he had seen the darkness and it’s intention to possess his soul. For Jackson a miracle had occurred.

Fall and Rain, M.Foster

2010-11-08T08:39:00.002-06:00

Fall and Rain
By Meridith Foster

Fall and Rain
One and the same
They always complain
Another gloomy day
But I like it
Sleeping in
As the drops tap the roof
Staying warm under cover
And dreaming

The 31st, F.N. Stein

2010-10-28T16:58:00.004-05:00

The 31st
Frank N. Stein

Boo! Time to get dressed up!
Eat some candy too!
Then walk around again and get some more candy.
Jump in the leaves
Then carve out a pumpkin
And put a candle in it
The doorbell rang
Another trick-o-treater
Cinderella, Batman, and the Statue of Liberty
Quite a trio.
Smiles all around
There they go.
Time for hot chocolate
What's on TV?

The Third Party... H. Johnson

2010-10-28T16:50:00.002-05:00

The Third Party
by Hilary Johnson

When it gets dark it's time for me to go to bed. I don't like watching television. It's too scary. All murder mystery and guns. I like the sex part but not that much. So I lay there in bed. Sometimes I read but it hurts my eyes and it's hard to find good books sometimes. So anyways I sit there and just look at the wall most of the time. And I talk to myself. But one day I heard an answer. And I looked at my cat and said, "Did you hear that?" And she said, "I didn't hear nothing you crazy old coot." And I said, "Don't be rude, kitty." And she said, "Whatever." Then a ghost tapped me on the shoulder and said, "That was me that you heard. I've been sitting here for ten years and finally decide to speak." I said,"I'm sorry, but I didn't even hear what you said." The ghost smiled and leaned in close to me and whispered, "I love you."

Gnomes, G. Kelly

2010-10-28T16:46:00.002-05:00

Gnomes
by Geoffrey Kelly

Teeny Weenie suckers and a pretty little pie in the summmer when it's snowing count to seven tell a lie. Eat a pancake paint a fence. fart on pillows. Alabama. Stinky dog. Hairy pudding, in a blanket. Hairy lips. Even flow. Where did they go?

Hours of Lonely, Anonymous

2010-10-28T16:44:00.002-05:00

Hours of Lonely
Anonymous

i see a reflection
of hate and indecision
temptation, doubt
belonging of vomit
rubbish and treasures all one
oh brother
give me a beer

Jack, E.Ping

2010-10-28T16:41:00.002-05:00

Jack
by Evan Ping

He is looking at the dinner
He is thinking of a time
When the pennies cost a nickle
And the flour cost a dime
He is hungry
He is waiting
He is knowing
He will shine
All you do is light a candle
He is smiling so sublime

Romance Near Water, J.Middleton

2010-08-23T07:36:00.001-05:00

A Romance Near Water
By Jarret Middleton

Waiting at the Portsmouth docks for you to return from the Shoals, I think of waiting for you another time, on a green island far off the coast of Maine. I waited patiently, and you never came. You missed the only boat that day, and slept in your car all night at the pier. Until I came to you in six foot seas, vomiting with the rest of the passengers on the mail boat. A life-long romance occurring so near water truly must involve a few episodes like these, mild, and severe. I love you, dear.

White Heat, J.McNerney

2010-08-23T07:35:00.000-05:00

White Heat
By Joan McNerney

This dry moment
we lay in sweat beds.
Limp flowers turned
into themselves.
Lightning scorches
skies with hot zigzags.
Will it ever rain, when
will cicadas be silent?
Memories of a white room
burning pains…shunts, stains.
A bottle bursts filling the
sidewalk with rancid beer.
Throat of bird
swollen, screaming.

When I Sing, J.Dudley

2010-08-23T07:32:00.000-05:00

When I sing I think of Nothing
By Jennifer Dudley

When I sing I think of nothing
In the apartment alone
On Saturday
Guitar in hand flipping through chords
Tapping rhythm on its wooden side
My voice gets louder, warming up
Lyrics go from hums to words
On the fly it’s blues
Or Jazz
No work here, or news
Oil spills or presidents
I strum
Sing
Close my eyes
And think of nothing

Diddly Squat, B.Panos

2010-08-23T07:31:00.000-05:00

Diddly Squat!
By Barbara Panos

Bankruptcy, divorce
Then Tony the tow truck driver
Lifts his family jewels and sniffles
Mumbles as he hijacks’ the neighbors BMW back to shyster’s Ville,
Unemployed economics’
Buy lemon aide from 2 eight year olds on the corner of here and now where
Scratch my armpit and tug on my undies from my crotch
It all amounts to diddly squat and reality sets in
Aint got diddly squat but got me!

Better, B.Lewis

2010-08-23T07:29:00.000-05:00

Better
By Bert Lewis

Here’s a band-aid, is it better now?
Here’s a whiskey
A dollar
A kiss
Now will you put that pout away?
And come with me to town?

Feast, M.Rees

2010-07-26T09:19:00.000-05:00

Feast
By MaryWillow Rees

We prepare the bed as for a feast
Smoothing the sheets in preparation,
The appetizer

As we slowly work our way through the meal we never want to end
Lingering over courses interspersed with conversation
Savoring each delectable morsel
Laughing with delight then
Beginning again
Never full, often satiated

I don’t remember sharing food or wine with you
We feast

Letter, W.Irving

2010-07-26T09:16:00.002-05:00

Letter
By Washington Irving

Dear Mary,

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXisXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXtoXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXaXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXIXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXandXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXtheXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Sincerely

XXXXXXX

Right and Good, M.Dunlap

2010-07-26T09:15:00.000-05:00

Right and Good
By Murray Dunlap

Ok, so what have I done? Tried to be a good human being and tried hard not to let anyone down. So. Fear I guess. I simply did not want to be responsible for another’s loss. Fear? Strange to be that way, but I assume we all are. Kids trying to be “part” of something. All kids do. And hope to do something good. Right and good. It’s all I know to believe in. Right and good.
The times I have felt most like I’ve accomplished something were when I was a teenager and my team was the State Champion of Track and Field in Alabama. Now, I can’t remember exactly who did what. All I know is that standing with a team of good friends and accepting a trophy for the state championship made me feel that I was a part of something. Now, I’ve had my moments as a writer, but that has nothing to do with a team. Back when I was on a track team with my coach Jim Tate, I felt like I had helped us do something. I was a part of something. It felt good. And my clearest memory is the team needing a few more points, and I, of all people, tried pole vault to get us needed points. And so I did. Amazing to imagine that now. I was in a horrible accident and have trouble walking and cannot run, much less pole vault! But I admit it feels good to know I could at one time keep the balance and speed needed to lift my body about 15 feet in the air and twirl around in order to land on a red mat on my back. Amazing. I cannot run a single step now, so to me, this is literally an impossible act. Pole Vault... Unbelievable! I’ll admit, I’m proud. And of course, proud to have been blessed with such a damn good man and excellent coach such as Jim Tate. The man was in Sports Illustrated for winning so many state championships... I’m in awe. Really. It is as if I was on a miracle team of so many kids doing things they were not supposed to be able to do. A circus of unexpected excellence.
And right and good.

Kite, B.Hornfeld

2010-07-26T09:10:00.003-05:00

Kite
by Brad Hornfeld

Flapping plastic catching air, higher
Elevation
String unwinding
Heat bites my fingertips
Elevation
Feet sprinting, higher
String ends its lift
Tugging at sunned peak like a hooked bass

The Sour Sense...L.Jones

2010-07-26T09:08:00.002-05:00

The Sour Sense Of You
by Larry Jones

hell yes, I'm happy to be retired,

I no longer have to look
into your hypocritical eyes,

no longer have to smell
your bullshit attitude,

no longer have to listen
to your hateful heart,

no longer have to be touched
by your fear,

even though

I will always have the sour taste
of your essence,

in my brain.

Cowboy Verse, M.Berger

2010-06-21T16:18:00.000-05:00

Cowboy Verse
By Mike Berger, PhD

The hero bursts through the swinging
doors, the inevitable gunfight in front
of a saloon. The villain lies belly up
in the street.

Editors despise cowboys dressed in rhyme
and yummy victuals from the chuck wagon.
Forget the sounds of thundering hooves
or sleeping under a million stars.

Why would anyone write such drivel?
It would never be published; it would
stink up pages like a fresh cow pie.
Editors should print up special nasty
rejection slips.

Here's the other side of the coin.

Cowboy poems are a fresh cream puff
all sticky and gooey; appositive delight.
They are what jazz
is to music,
the only real American poem
is cowboy verse.

When I Get, E.R.Winkler

2010-06-21T16:17:00.000-05:00

When I Get Impatiens
by Elaine R. Winkler

At the Farmer’s Market I glide past
the trays of impatiens--not white,
not pink, not pink and white, not red,
not fuschia, not double blossoms--
until I reach orange, yes orange,
my favorite color,
the shade of gorgeous sunsets.
Then I stop and fill my cart.
I take home a whole flat
of little orange plants.
Some go into large pots where
they will expand like yeast,
and several into the big kettle
under the plum tree--
the kettle that is actually an industrial
reject dragged out of the river--
where they will grow taller, wider,
until, by September,
my plants will rise up
like a flaming brazier,
high and full, blazing
under the autumn sun.

Grease, G. Prince

2010-06-21T16:15:00.001-05:00

Grease

By Gordon Prince

Oh, God, that is a nasty pizza slice.
And I need a shower.

State Championship, Rinas

2010-06-21T16:14:00.000-05:00

State Championship
by Rinas

After year after year of tournaments, the Ichione High Basketball team finally made it to State.
Yet now their best player and the reason they was in the championship game, Roman Haddeis, will have to sit out because of a possible torn meniscus he suffered towards the end of the City Championship game.
Coach didn’t want to tell Roman. Roman's our best player, Coach thought, his head sunk on his desk. He's graduating and heading to St. Peter’s College in the fall. A chance like this doesn't come often.
A knock was heard on the door. A 6’7, athletic young man walked in gingerly, limping noticeably as he came in.
“…What’d they say?” asked Roman, almost sounding like he knew what was coming.
“…The doctors recommend you sit out—”
“My leg is fine! I’ve moved well all day—”
“'Well enough' is not good enough! Besides, you feel good now but by game time it’s going to get worse!” Roman kneeled, tears streaming his face.
“Come on, let me play Coach!” he screamed. “You don’t know how much this means to me! I want to win a State Championship for this school!”
Coach looked downtrodden, but he nodded, seemingly considering Roman’s words.
***
Hours before the game began at 6, everyone—from opposing players to the janitor—watched how Roman would look in warm-ups.
“Not good,” said Coach, who turned out to be a prophet: Roman moved around well early, but the more he did, the more he wore down.
“See?” said the doctor, “He’ll only hurt the team. You must deactivate him—”
“No.”
“Y-you can’t be serious! You’ll seriously injure hi—”
“We’ll keep him at the end of the bench. That’s my decision!” After warm ups finished, player introductions done, and national anthem sung, the game started, and, much to the Ichione student group’s dismay, Roman sat at the end of the bench.
Ichione did not adjust to missing him, down 35-15 by halftime.
And as the second half began, the students that made the trip for Ichione was crushed and downtrodden, about ready to head home.
But when the team emerged from the tunnel, they saw Roman warming up. They went nuts, chanting his name throughout the half time warm-ups.
Roman wasted no time rewarding the student body's faith once the third quarter started: he made a jump shot on the first possession. The crowd roared, his teammates on the bench jumping in excitement. On defense, he swatted a ball from entering the rim.
The place shook, trembling with energy.
Roman would soon be substituted, but, after trailing by as many as 30 in this game, Ichione won the game by nine, and the state championship was theirs. When the final buzzer sounded, the players and coaches hugged Roman.
And with the state championship in his hands, they hoisted Roman on their shoulders and carried him around the basketball court.

Helicopters, H.Guest

2010-06-21T16:11:00.002-05:00

Helicopters

by Harold Guest

Chopping overhead, scaring birds and watching traffic
or oil spills
or hospitals
or big crowds
or battle
It always be trouble.

Inspiration, J.S.Ryversson

2010-05-29T14:02:00.000-05:00

Inspiration
By Jakoba Sandra Ryversson

My muse
No one has had such a fine muse
On her perch
At my ear
She changes
She creates
Shifts
Morphs
A terrifying beauty
Sometimes she is a coconut
Sandy hair
Skin so white it shines
Sometimes she is frightful
Mad
eyes
and mad
hair
Talons dig in my shoulder
Uncompromising
lipsonmyear
molten
breath
courses
on my
neck
Bloodpulsesasourexcitementgrowsclimaxnear
and then the satiated
lull of
the end
Of the story, that is.The Man Said He Was German Irish From The South

Because of Don't, B.Derby

2010-05-29T13:59:00.002-05:00

Because of Don't
By Brian Derby

Don't tell me not to cry
Don't tell me to say cheese
I'm crying
I'm singing
I smile because I feel fine
Cigarettes are okay
The decision is all mine
Don't tell me to lose weight or watch TV
The decision is up to me
Is that why I'm so anxious all the time?
Too many suggestions
Too many lies
Opinions forced on me
Unfree to create mine
Is unfree a word?
It is now
Don't tell me its not
It's mine.

Cross Road, R.Riekki

2010-05-29T13:58:00.000-05:00

CROSS ROAD
By Ron Riekki

When I got to college
after Desert Storm
I decided to become a Religion major
because the little glimpses I had of war
made me scared as hell
of Hell
so every course I took in my first semester
was in my major
even though they told me to take the core courses first
but I didn’t care about math or English,
I wanted to figure out why the hell
I had to see a seven-year-old
with a caved-in head.

One of the first classes I took
was entitled “Witchcraft, Magic, and the Occult”
and my teacher was Dr. Hough,
a Harvard grad
who hung out with Mary Daly
and is even mentioned in her book Gyn/Ecology:
The Metaethics of Radical Feminism;
I’d go to his office
and he’d tell me stories
like how he cheated on his wife one time
with a witch,
an actual witch,
and I’d be riveted like I’d never even had a life of my own.

He asked why I was studying theology and I said that I wanted to be more like Jesus,
more like the Buddha,
more like Martin Luther King
and he told me everybody wants to be like Jesus except nobody comes close
and the ones he’s met who most wanted to be like Jesus
were the biggest assholes he ever knew
and he told me that instead of Martin Luther King
I should read Malcolm X
and he gave me a copy of the Alex Haley biography
and an old tape of Robert Johnson
and Charles Bukowski’s South of No North
and pulled out a bottle of moonshine as clear as water
and told me that God is all about letting go.

Grit, H.Peterson

2010-05-29T13:56:00.001-05:00

Grit
By Harrison Peterson

On my toes and on the verge
My mind thinks ahead of words
Grasping for a chance
Past is past and laugh
Through the wondering toil
My pizza in tin foil
Laughs because
Another day will come

The Man Said...G.D.Schwartz

2010-05-29T13:54:00.001-05:00

The Man Said He Was German Irish From The South
By G David Schwartz

The man said he was German Irish
Form down in the south
and he spoke from out his mouth
And all the children who went to school
Looked at him as such a fool
He spoke in spools
And used his British tools
But he was not yet bald
so his good wife called
and she said a word or two
Which were not heard by you
And I am so so sorry lass
That I man unable to repeat the toast

Maine Road, A.A.Wilson

2010-04-19T09:23:00.000-05:00

Maine Road
By Andrés Amitai Wilson

Maine road trots.
Headlights lash
Slaving trees.
Twilight cloud-crash
Stop
Sign
B-l-a-ck…
Gasp!
Cemetr’y.

Passage, J.Glass

2010-04-19T09:22:00.000-05:00

Passage
By Joan Glass

All the way there the ambulance
blasts its sirens, blocking your cries.

You fall asleep, scrunched up
in the back, exhausted,
your tiny, pale body wrapped
too quickly in colorless blankets.

Halfway there, the EMTs
laugh quietly, a private joke
to break up the long hours.

The driver drinks Dunkin Donuts
and does not speak to me at all.
They do this every day.

But out in the world
there are piles of leaves
that will scatter without you.

Silent snowdrifts
will shift and shrink.

Another baby is born into the world.
Her mother screams in agony.

Bottom-Feeder, G.A.Waters

2010-04-19T09:21:00.000-05:00

Bottom-Feeder
By Gil A. Waters

You can suck on my anger
until you choke on my fear
You can spit or you can swallow
I don’t really care

Bend over and take it
You should be used to that by now
after a lifetime of submission
Just do what you’re told

You’re a bitch for the world
so you might as well be mine
Get on your knees
I know you can crawl

Scream all you want
no one will hear
You were silent before
and no one’s listening now

My Alternative Career As...N.Guinneach

2010-04-19T09:19:00.001-05:00

My Alternative Career as a Male Model
By Nan Guinneach

oh look here i am at schiphol sliding an icecream into my mouth
a gaze of lunar intimacy cast out over the baggage carousels
and here again at charles de gaulle my hair coiffed with static wind
another of me on the front of a magazine
a hand i don’t recognise but i remember the tie
the people around me smiling too much too much champagne
where for me it was the eating of it all
the skin type and fights engineered with my boyfriend
so i could change my online relationship status to don’t ask
there’s only one kind of zoo
and now i wait for you to arrive in your probably new suit
oh look here you are
you’ll want to talk concepts and moods
and in the hazardous crack of evening both of us will murmur
it’s ok because i’ve chosen it

Cracker Jacks, N.Mezynski

2010-04-19T09:17:00.002-05:00

Cracker Jacks

by Neila Mezynski

Braids so tight her eyebrows lift. Ribbons, cookie toting, waiting for dad. He brought her Cracker Jacks for the toy inside and games in the red brick house. For sitting at Mother’s feet when fully baked baby comes home. Emerald green, sparkly buttons, stay away smile. The prize in a box of Cracker Jacks, from dad. More: shades drawn in a dark room in the red brick house. He remembered Old Tucson, cowboys and Indians, Cracker Jacks and a small hand holding prize.

Untitled, J.Lamb

2010-03-01T13:42:00.000-06:00

Untitled
By Joseph Lamb

Keys to life,
they may jangle
inconsequentially .
Learn to unlock the
hearts of ten million
souls without consent.
These lonely souls are atavistic,
and need a home.
No destinations for them,
and societies appeal for the
starveling has disappeared.

Daily Chores, D.P.Barbare

2010-03-01T13:41:00.000-06:00

Daily Chores
By Danny P. Barbare

Watering
the
flowers

the
Petunias

on
a
summer's
day

after
the
water
becomes
cold

from
a
hose
that
is
green

especially
when
the
wind
blows

unexpectedly.

Fire, J.Swenson

2010-03-01T13:40:00.000-06:00

Fire
By Jack Swenson

He sat down at the bar and ordered a Diet Coke. She breezed in ten minutes later. "Sorry I'm late," she said. He waved it off.

He looked at her across the table. He smiled. Eskimo eyes. She had squinty eyes. That's why he didn't like her. You can't tell what someone is thinking if you can't see her eyes.

She said what she had come to say. She spoke her mind. At first it was just chit chat. “No more drinking, she asked? Never, ever?” He nodded. “One day at a time,” he said.

But that wasn't it. That wasn't what was on her mind. That came after they had their lunch. "Seen Janet since you've been back?" she asked. He shook his head. "No," he lied.

She pointed her face at him. "I don't believe you," she said. He shrugged. He leaned forward and put his hand on hers. "It's you and only you," he said.

She took back her hand. She started to cry. He gave her his handkerchief. She dabbed her eyes.

He told her a story he had heard in rehab. A woman (with eyes just like hers) was at the front of the room telling her story. She looked worn out, exhausted. She had fallen asleep smoking a cigarette. She was drunk. The house burned down, and her two children were killed.

He shook his head. He looked earnestly at her. His eyes flicked back and forth, scanning her face. "Can you imagine?" he said. "How could you live with something like that?"

They left the restaurant together. When they got outside, he put on his sunglasses. They went their separate ways. She made a U-turn and drove past as he started his car. She waved. He looked both ways, then pulled out and drove off in the opposite direction.

Untitled, K.Ailes

2010-03-01T13:36:00.000-06:00

Untitled
By Katie Ailes

Jesus came into my Starbucks today
Ordered a caramel machiato
skim milk
extra espresso
no whipped cream
Please.
I saw his cross behind him
Like so many sandbags
Dark musky aura
Baggage.
Christ
stirred with his pinky finger out
And burned his tongue when he sipped.
I looked for golden bubbles on his lips
When he said ‘Thanks.’
I must have blinked,
for all I saw was a need for Chapstick.
When he walked out,
I found a splinter of his cross
on the tiled floor.
I swept it into the dustbin
With the rest of the refuse of the
children of God.

Huddle, E.Miller

2010-03-01T13:35:00.001-06:00

Huddle
by
Eric Miller

[Removed by Authors Request]

Creative Displacement, J.Farley

2010-02-21T23:55:00.000-06:00

Creative Displacement
By Joseph Farley

Clickety clack
clickety clack
they keys rattle
a train on track
where does it go?
what does it carry?
Floor sweepings
and disposable verses,
edging, arguing, falling, failing
towards something grander
than the small station
from which it left.

Popcorn, J.Bloomfield

2010-02-21T23:53:00.001-06:00

Popcorn
By James Bloomfield

I'm working late at the office. The office is on the highest floor of a gargantuan tower block, a tribute to the technological achievement of man. Seven hundred offices and four canteens and a television room and a small cinema all packaged in one towering, phallic, steel monstrosity.
I'm alarmed when a blinding flash lights the office from somewhere outside. The mighty glass windowpanes rattle softly in their frames, buffeted by shock waves from a colossal bomb that has just fallen on the heart of the city.
A flotilla of unmarked black airplanes cruise the night sky, barely discernible.
Many more bombs drop and I press myself against the glass in stunned horror, watching as families of buildings fold into dust. At first I holler down to the people below, futilely attempting to warn them of their doom. I pound on the glass with my fists, weeping and yelling out until I am exhausted and cannot cry any longer.
Eventually I feel drained, numbed, and I watch the tireless patterns of dust storms and infernos, hypnotized. I take the elevator to the ground floor and return soon after with a large bucket of sweet, sickly popcorn and a soft drink from the staff cinema. I bring the Director's plush leather chair into my office and I sit down resignedly to watch the anarchy.
I tune the radio momentarily into an emergency broadcast that brings news of a synchronized attack on no less than two hundred major cities worldwide. Everybody knows it is the end of the civilized world but nobody knows who is flying the unmarked black planes.
The frequency of the intense bombing never diminishes and by dawn the entire city is a flattened wasteland.
My building alone never falls.

Cherry Dots, T.Spencer

2010-02-21T23:51:00.000-06:00

Cherry Dots
By Taryn Spencer

My shoes are decorated
with red dots
I hate them
Today I know I won’t be
Wearing them
The girl next to me
Had similar shoes
on her feet
The same expression
on her face
as me
The same look
every victim
wears
Before death
gobbles them up-
Empty, black as the chalkboard was that morning
In class
Beside letters that read
Mrs. Belinda Cash
And the moments I would color
at my desk--
bringing bears and myself to life
with a brown crayon
Desires deadened
by what should have been my first thought--

To run

So close
To base
Like a player of hide and seek
But I can’t move
My feet stuck to the ground
like Bubble gum in between paper after you’re
Chewed-out for chewing it,
Like vapors during the steamy bath Mom gave me
that morning
Minutes between an hour
In that minute, the bus made a final stop
I heard a BOOM, the girl who sat next to me dropped
And I came face to face with endless blots
Of red dots.

Heart Beat Away, N.Liron

2010-02-21T23:49:00.001-06:00

A Heart Beat Away
By Nomi Liron

What does your latest invention do?” Susan asked, as she stood at her office door.

Well,” Harry explained, “My device is something like a reverse pacemaker. When placed within fifteen feet of a person, it disrupts the electric currents which control the heart muscle and sends the person’s heart into defibrillation. The person falls over with an apparent heart attack and dies.”

Can it work through doors or windows?”

“Of course, currents are not deterred by substances. Think about lightening striking a person. The current passes through the flesh. I used lightening as my model when first developing the Heart Throb”.

Can it kill animals as well as humans?

“Of course, I used birds as my test objects.”

“You know, Harry. I don’t think this is a good idea. It sounds very dangerous. I think you should take it apart. You could get angry with someone and in a fit a temper kill them.

Harry smiled and aimed his device in her direction. “Or merely irritated,” he said, watching her grab at her chest and fall over dead.

More Modified 12...M.C. Thompson

2010-02-21T23:46:00.000-06:00

More Modified Twelve-Step Affirmations
By Mel C. Thompson

Just for today, I'll pretend
I'm not fucked in every way
and try to convince myself
you're not a frumpy, sub-human troll.

Just for today let's affirm
that the gods don't hate us.
(Please ignore their bloody hatchets
drawn crossbows and glimmering swords.)

Conclude that your Higher Power
does not revel in the creative joys
of being endlessly inventive
when it comes to torturing you.

Just for today, call yourself
inherently sexy, although alcoholics,
drug addicts, food addicts, sex addicts
and drama queens are all you attract.

Just for today, claim divine prosperity,
although you can't afford a massage
or a psychiatrist or a vacation to anywhere
Greyhound doesn't go. Your big breakthrough

is just around the corner. I feel it
in the very marrow of my bones.
(Okay, that part is completely a lie.
Frankly, I think you're deeply doomed.)

But just for today, I'll try not
to judge you like I always do.
(I usually hate your taste in everything.
Never mind. Let's focus on the positive.)

Just for today, I'll resist writing
a political poem. I can do this!
Let us join hands and with one voice
affirm that nothing we believe is true.

Nothing I believe could ever possibly
be true. Because of that I feel great
Bodhisattva compassion. If I leave you
the fuck alone for just a little while

that would truly be a great act of love.
And, on a closing note, just for today
I'll resolve to use the word "fuck"
a lot less often in future poems.

2009-11-06T05:01:00.001-06:00

Word Slaw is taking a little break while we move across the country. Thanks for your support and we'll see you again soon.

Cussing Poem Maker, P.A.Levy

2009-08-25T09:44:00.000-05:00

The Cussing Poem Maker
By P.A.Levy

The glass slams down empty.
The poet swears in monosyllables
about life, or not being served another drink,
whatever
it’s all a torturous ordeal.
He claims he’s only had a couple,
believe me he’s had his fill.
He walks like he’s roller-skating
on ice, throwing air punches
at metaphors that just won’t behave
and like an Englishman abroad
he’s shouting to be understood.
Humour him like the nutter
with two carrier bags full of yesterdays
that always seeks you out
to sit next to on the train.

Seasons of Lows, D.Christopher

2009-08-25T09:43:00.000-05:00

Seasons of Lows
By Dawn Christopher

What is my conception?
Grasping for an explanation
Conflicting forms of structure
Bound but do not puncture
Can you whisper it to me?
A word, a gesture, your hostilities
Highly polished internal follies
Bubble, overflow, becoming sorries
Rain washes away the woes
Baptizing, cleansing a season of lows
Has the world turned deaf?
Blindsided, ran over, left for dead
My galaxy lies far from here
Where feelings are open, released, trusted
But until my path comes to a close
I will wonder, in astonishment, and become unfroze

Untitled, T.Vincent

2009-08-25T09:42:00.000-05:00

Untitled
By Tom Vincent

Few things are sadder or more pathetic than an overweight dog. The other day I saw an obese Jack Russell terrier. My God, Jack Russells are like little wound up electric motors with no governors. They’re like regular dogs on crack. It has to take some serious overfeeding to result in a tubby Jack Russell. What kind of eating disorder must one have before you stuff Fido so full of Kibbles that his stomach is practically dragging on the ground? Social commentators are fond of pointing out what it says about the USA that a third of our kids are obese. What does it say about our culture when even our pets need to go on diets?

Fourteen, E.Duffy

2009-08-25T09:41:00.000-05:00

Fourteen
By Emily Duffy

number 14
cue ball
cue ball
no significance whatsoever
oriental
oriental

what if my head exploded?
…not figuratively

what if I sat down here
in this place
until I forgot how
to interact with people

styrofoam blocks stretch to the ceiling
to the sky
when I try to climb they digress, compress
they’re not as tall as they seem

that looks like blood on the wall
but it’s paint on the wall, actually
blue blood, red blood purple
these blue jeans have holes in them
it’s ok.

my name and your name
is the same name
and we play the same game

but you’re winning

Curse of Cubs, M.B.Kaley

2009-08-25T09:40:00.000-05:00

The Curse of the Cubs
By Mary Baader Kaley

The curse of a goat?
Not likely. I know the real story.

A lifetime ago, when the Orphans morphed to Cubs long before Wrigley field was dreamt,
a ballplayer met a mysterious woman. In her presence he felt like the most fortunate man alive,
though he did not know anything of her family or where she lived.

Her hair was long and red. Her deep green eyes made it impossible for him to look away.
She spoke with an Irish brogue, and her voice was melody and harmony in one.
And best of all, she loved this ballplayer with his imperfections, his fickle moods.
She kissed a charm and gave it to him to wear during his games at the West Site Grounds.

He wore this tiny charm, a chained baby-blue stone, each and every game. When he had a chance,
he'd look for her in the stands and smile, wink, or wave. She loved his rugged allure,
his hopeful grin.

And his team did well. Back-to-back World Series came their way. Amazing times indeed,
1907 - 1908. And tragic.

You see, women flocked to the famous team. The ballplayer received so much attention,
especially from a dame with dark eyes and sleek black hair. Sophistication effused in her walk;
he didn't know what hit him.

His mysterious redhead knew before any news of the affair had reached her;
at the next game he failed to look her way.

So enraged, she clawed at her neck and looked up at the sky. She invoked a hundred-year
Gaelic curse on the ballplayer and his team, “…Imeacht gan teacht ort!”
In that moment, no one could blame her.

The charm, of course, was broken and lost.

So goes the curse of the Cubs according to my great-great-aunt.
Go ahead, run a goat across the field, re-use dirty socks, kiss your bat before you swing!

No, what works is what has always worked -- wearing one’s true love.

Friends, N.Schultz

2009-08-25T09:39:00.000-05:00

Friends
By Nathan Schultz

What happens to your friends?
Your first day of school,
You start all of your friendships,
They build through the years,
Some grow while some fade,
A few will be revived,
Middle school comes,
You have a basic set of friends,
You think you will be best friends till the end,
High school is here and you see,
A couple of friends like to do things,
That you don’t want to,
You don’t say anything,
You just go through the year,
Slowly drifting apart from each other,
You start to make different friends,
Ones with similar interests,
These friendships build,
Then the day you graduate,
You wonder if these friendships will fade,
You go off to different colleges,
You talk every once in a while,
But it’s still not the same,
You get to college and make some new friends,
They grow and fade,
You get older,
You graduate college and move away,
You get a job and make new friends,
They may not be the best friends you ever had,
But they are what you have.

John Locke, R.W.Pretzer

2009-08-25T09:38:00.000-05:00

John Locke
By Randall W. Pretzer

"You spent your money on a worthless suit….you should have got a book by John Locke…" I said. I was furious looking at this man with his new suit on…..telling me…no bragging to me how much it cost.
"Who is John Locke? Why should I care?" he said indifferently. This was too much.
"Who is John Locke? What are you deranged? He is only one of the most important philosophers…..we may not have a the United States if he never lived." I was just screaming at him now. He just looked at me scratching my head confused as hell I could tell.
"I just want to get a new pair of shoes…..why are you bothering with me?" He said confused. I looked at him and threw my hands up in the air and walked off. I didn't even care about his reaction. The ignorance of society. The moral decay of the education system. How does one graduate from high school….or college…not knowing the greats? Adam Smith? Karl Marx? Voltaire? The men and ideas that have helped shape civilization…give us what we have today. I don't understand. I sat down a nearby bench for I was exhausted….just from being so angry….so frustrated and just constantly thinking about…..it didn't matter anymore.
The bench fell apart as I tried to sit on it and fell on my back. I just laid there. I had no energy left. I turned on my side to get a bit more comfortable and I saw that same man who wanted shoes come out of the shoe shop we were standing next to. I looked at him and he saw me. He paused for a minute and then came rushing over to where I was. I didn't move.
"Excuse me sir….are you all right…?" He said with a sense of urgency and concern I was not expecting. I thought he wished to fight.
"No, sir… thank you….I am just very tired…I need to rest." I said kindly.
"No problem….I know a sturdy bench not too far from here….I can show you…" He said kindly.
"No thank you….I am very comfortable where I am." I said almost laughing for I know I sure didn't look comfortable but I was. I was laying on my side in a rubble of wood from the bench.
"You're welcome..good sir…. Good day." He said kindly and headed back in the direction of the shoe store. What kind of a man was I? You fool. He didn't know who John Locke was and you hated him for it? I was mad at myself now. He was a kind man and I treated him unfairly. It was not my concern he didn't know who John Locke was. He came out to buy some shoes. He didn't want a fight. He wanted shoes. Shame on me.

Developing Hormones, R.Standley

2009-08-25T09:36:00.000-05:00

Developing Hormones
By Ryan Standley

As a junior in a small town high school, I worked at a photography studio. My boss kept himself busy shooting senior portraits in the backroom while I stayed in the smelly red-lit darkroom developing black-and-white passport photos and wide-angle football shots, hallways in passing, dances, and student club pics for the yearbook committee.
Our film developing process began with my boss, Tim, creating a negative by unrolling film in complete darkness, wetting it in chemicals, and hanging it to dry. Later I'd run the dried strip through a single frame projector, flashing light onto white photo paper, removing the paper from its frame, submerging it in starter bath till the image appeared, then stop bath, and wash. The photos were laid out to dry on a table, no clothespin line like the movies.
The job was monotonous till I developed a roll of my boss's naked wife. The pregnant, nipple-concealing pose, popularized in the nineties by Demi Moore and Vanity Fair, covered two rolls, 24 exposures each, including several obvious nipple and hair slips. The unappealing pregnant belly was cropped off. Black and white, shining wet, topless with a serious expression and slicked back hair. The copies I made for my personal files were openly drying on the table when my boss suddenly walked in the darkroom. Tim saw the pictures and froze. He slowly turned green, opened his mouth to speak, barely grunted, and quickly left the room.
After seeing his reaction I felt guilty and ripped up all the prints and went home. Tim and I never spoke of it again, and I found a new job a month later. I forgot all about the embarrassing situation until I saw old Tim at the grocery store the other day. He introduced me to his beautiful wife, and his son, who was twelve, and I suddenly felt very old.

Spider, D.Mahoney

2009-07-07T14:46:00.001-05:00

Spider
By Donal Mahoney

Warm, wet, wrapped
in each other’s
arms, legs,
still for a moment,
we rest,
a spider spent,
lost in its web.

Silence, B.C. Baer

2009-07-07T14:45:00.000-05:00

Silence
By Brian C. Baer

We heard you walked down to the basement and held the cold barrel beneath your chin. Your parents still have pictures of you throughout the house, but down here, the only thing to remind us of your presence is that small hole in the ceiling.
We rolled out our sleeping bags below that mark in the old drywall and lay still, staring up all night. We never spoke. I don’t know, maybe we thought we could hear from you down there where you had stood, that maybe you would do the talking. We had questions, and your parents avoided the topic as a kind of make-believe coping method.
Dawn slowly rolled over the horizon, brightening the basement through a small window nestled against the ceiling. Our ears had become so trained in the moonlight that we picked up every creaking floorboard, every wind gust, every breath from the person next to us, and could, if only for a second, pretend it came from you.
As we could hear your parents moving around upstairs, we all sat up and looked at each other in silence. We had come to you for answers, for explanation, but again you had told us nothing.

Deep Well Story, N.Melissa

2009-07-07T14:43:00.001-05:00

Deep Well Story
By N. Melissa @ HoneyBee

A spider limped by, grumbling to me
“It was a beauty, such a pity.
A bloody fool decided to spoil it for me.
My preys were writhing, while I plan dessert,
but now all is gone, all in the wind.”
Then it exclaimed when it saw that it was me,
the bloody fool who fell in and through the Web.
“Alas it was you, what a bloody fool indeed!”
And so I apologized and admitted my state
while it huffed away, much disgusted.

A fly buzzed over, exclaiming to me,
“Oh my, oh my! Why, it’s my savior here I see!
Thank you Good Sir or it’s the end of me.
But then my Good Sir, you’re not too good yourself.”
And I admitted, “Yes indeed, I don’t feel good indeed.”
“It’s alright, it’s alright, Good Sir don’t you fret!
My friends and I, we’ll take good care of you.
Surely I’ll tell them of you and my gratitude!
For now you wait here while I spread such to them.”
And so it buzzed off, full of such gratitude.

A worm popped by, staring up at me.
“Ah dear me, you’re my second shock for the day.
But I’ll tell you anyway, that the sky is falling!
The chunks had just fallen; there’s the large and the small.
First the large then the smalls, and spared me just by inch!
Had I not looked up, I may have ended up like you.”
I told him, “I’m glad that you managed to make it.”
To which it beamed and wiggled away.

A mouse bumped its’ head and squeaked to me,
“Whatever in the world are you doing in here?”
So I said “I’m sorry” for being in its’ way,
saying that I was lost while looking for some cheese.
“Ah, I see, I see. It happens to me too,” said the mouse to me.
“So I do understand. And those awful traps that they set up for me,
I’m lucky to be here, still able to run free.”
I told it “How lucky” and it agreed heartily
Then off it scurried, after offering bits of its cheese.

An owl perched above, peering down on me.
“Have you by chance, seen a mouse with a cheese?
It ran from your cellar, scared by the lots of you there.
How lucky of me, he jumped in like you did.”
So I told him “I’m sorry, indeed I did see,
But as now you can see, there’s no other but me.”
for I pitied my new friend who gave me some of its cheese.
The owl sighed and flapped away muttering,
“I needn’t to be told what a blind fool I am like you”

“Ah there he is!” I heard them from above,
after all the voices that I made up in my head.
“That ungrateful bastard, who tried to steal our cheese.
Like his unworthy old hag, always up to no good!”
“But we got him Momma, got him for good!“
“What a fool indeed, thinking that he too owns the food.”
“How lucky for us, he’s a fool and he jumped.
There’ll be no need of a funeral, as the priest will condemn.”
And then they walked away, talking about cheese for dinner.

http://incompletemeaning.blogspot.com/

In Passing, H.Day

2009-07-07T14:42:00.000-05:00

In Passing
By Holly Day

I wish she’d come back as a vampire,
or a zombie, or even a dog. I just wish
she’d come back. My grandfather
is so alone it’s just not right.
It’d be something to see my grandmother
floating through the air, white as a sheet
cloaked in black, fishnet hose, Elvira breasts
lips half-parted over razor-sharp teeth
or stumbling across the yard, arms held out
awkward in front of her, fingers weakly grasping
with carnivorous intent, eyes open, unseeing
death perpetually rattling in every moaning step
or running up the back steps, young again, a pup
leaping against my grandfather’s legs
snout upturned in a sloppy kiss, every bit a dog
but with my grandmother’s soul inside, peeking through
every once in a while
to let the world know
she’s still here.

Forever as Nothing, C.Winfree

2009-07-07T14:39:00.001-05:00

Forever as Nothing
By Catherine Winfree

The boy looked around the marketplace. A child couldn't name it. People were shouting, running, knocking on fading doors, and holding up a wrinkled, overused picture. But he could feel it.
"Have you seen this woman?" they would desperately question. Often a threat would slip through the lips of the interrogator.
Havoc. That's what he felt, an unsettling urgency.
Hell. That's what he saw, a frenzying calamity.
It seems only right for the child to notice her. Children seem to notice all the wrong things. He looked across the plaza. She was silent, invisible, nothing. A wide straw hat covered her face as she gazed at the ground, leaning against the stone wall, appearing as if she was built there.
Shouting.
People were shouting.
There was a difference in this shouting today than in the others. For one, it was not the merchants trying to buy off their goods; it was the police trying to find the criminal. Secondly, the boy could feel it.
The sky was soft and dull.
Cloudless, cold, and pail.
Like a white sheet stretched over to hide the face of the dead.
The woman felt a penetrating stare; instincts told her. She lifted her chin. The boy saw tan skin, but it was not dark like his. She started walking.
Effortless.
She made her way to the boy. Bodies subdued in human commotion around her, but not one touched her.
And the shouting. He knew they shouted for her.
A small smirk remained pasted to her face like the way she appeared pasted to the wall, forever invisible.
She stood over the boy. He saw up into the dark cave of shadow surrounding her face. His mouth dropped. She had blue eyes. No one has blue eyes.
No one alive anyways.
The boy did not know the reasoning for this, why the pail demons had to die. Blue eyes mean one thing: Defiance. But the boy did not know this.
She bent down to him. He starred wide eyed into the pail faced woman. Her eyes did not look safe, but stealthy. Full of secrets. She raised a finger silently to her lips, and winked. A secret seemed to spill with the movement.
She walked away the same way she had come. The boy felt something cold and hard in his gripping fist. He looked into his dark skinned hand. In it, laid a coin. He looked up to find the woman, to thank her. She was gone. He searched the wall.
Nothing. She was gone.
They won't find her, he decided.
Never.
She will be hidden.
Forever.
Forever as nothing, except to a child.

The Gratitude...R.S. King

2009-07-07T14:38:00.000-05:00

The Gratitude of the Dead
By Robert S. King

Some murdered men rest in pieces.
I am he who rakes this puzzle of flesh into one pile,
trying to fathom the loose fit of violence,
feeling a million cavernous mouths
relieve history of its debts.

What is eating us is seldom bright or beautiful.
So I say the bowels of earth should be full of light,
that I should bury this dead one with glow worms,
their light dripping down from my shovel,
curling up into little halos
around his brilliant peace.

He might even thank me
were his tongue not tied with worms.

A Horn Unheard, E.Miller

2009-07-07T14:37:00.000-05:00

A Horn Unheard
By Eric Miller

Hattie Williams poured herself two fingers of whiskey, as she always did at three o'clock, fifteen minutes before her taxi would announce its arrival with three honks of the horn. She eased herself onto the sofa, lit a cigarette, and held the photo of Jenna, the seven year old granddaughter of her employers.

She smiled as she remembered Jenna's father, as a boy her age, swimming in the family pool, off the patio upon which she looked through the large window before her. She was so happy that Jenna and her mother had stopped by to swim in the pool. She had just waved goodbye, after having received the most wonderful hug from Jenna. She felt that Jenna was her granddaughter and that her father was her son. As for her employers, Dr. and Mrs. Godfrey, well they were family.

Hattie, the great granddaughter of American slaves in Georgia, had taught herself to read, had raised six children, and had cleaned houses for 50 years, until "the aches" limited her to "tidying." The Godfreys were the only family who still employed her every week because they knew how important it was for Hattie to have something to hold on to.

The television was emitting the endless blabber of political discussion, centered, as always, on the gender and race of each candidate. Hattie used to say that she "never much followed politics, because it just seemed to get everyone all riled up," but on this day, she watched and listened with a new found interest. To choose between gender and race was overwhelming to her. She wanted the woman to be President, but she also wanted the Afro-American man to be President.

She closed her eyes to look deep within for the answer. Her lips formed the faintest of smiles. She knew, at last, what she would do, for whom she would cast her vote, and whose election would be a greater achievement for her country.
She did not hear the taxi's horn.

I Beg You, O.K. Osunsan

2009-07-07T14:35:00.000-05:00

I Beg You
By Olutayo K. Osunsan

By faith I have loved you.
A love that denies its power
To silence the restless spirit.

I have loved you with love
That speaks only with action.
A love that will always be found.

And by this love I beg you
To only love me half as much
As I have always loved you.

Mirror, P.C.Wyatt

2009-06-08T12:08:00.000-05:00

Mirror
By P.C. Wyatt

The child looked into the mirror
A world in smooth cold glass
Grey hair, faded eyes, a stranger’s skin

Tears fall like snowflakes
One or two at first
Shining in the fading light
They form two silver tracks down this unknown face

Blood flows like the tide
No longer stirred by frenzied storms
Of fear and passion and hate
For these things leave no trace

Time is cruel and unrelenting
There is no escape, no respite
No surrender, no victory
No beginning
No end

Blood and tears have dried to dust
No more snowflakes fall
The silver tarnished
The sea is still and calm
Wild waves long forgotten

And between tears, and blood, and dust
A child looks in the mirror
Smooth and cold
And wonders how he got so old

The Widow, W.I.Stoneberger

2009-06-08T12:07:00.000-05:00

The Widow
By W.I. Stoneberger

She watches the homecomings on television,
the soldiers the sailors returning from Iraq.
She watches the wives the girlfriends
waiting for their embrace, tears in their eyes.
And there are tears in her eyes too,
tears of sorrow of jealousy of rage.
She wants her husband to come home.
She wants to wait by the dock by the door,
until she sees him walking toward her.
She wants to run into his arms,
crying and laughing at the same time.
She wants him to take her face
into his hands and kiss her
like its V-J day in Times Square.
She wants him to take back
what he did that night.
She wants them to show the women
of the ones who do not return.
She wants to see how they handle it,
whether they break down
or set their faces into still porcelain,
if they wear their sunglasses
even if its overcast, like she does.
She wants him to come back,
just come back to her.

Flash, G.D.Schwartz

2009-06-08T12:04:00.003-05:00

Flash
By G. David Schwartz

Jay Leno has shown, and commentated any numbed of times, on the fact that a comedian who “trips” over lines will not win the laughter. The reason is that such strutting slows down the joke, gives the audience time to think about what went before.
James Thomas (in Flash Fiction authored with Tom Haguka (N.Y.W.W. Norton and Co, 1992) distinguishes “sudden fiction” from “flash fiction,” in terms of the letters shorter limit (‘by a full thousand word); 17OO dawn to 750)(pg 12).
But we are dealing with 1000 words which could be either Post modern fantasy, with which the includes sci-fi as a subcategory “must always be humorous. By definition it affirms the discount, and inherent otherness of the self, language, and the word,” (62, Olsen Circus).
Such short fictional treatments are pre-novelistic (or pretreatment of the suddenly here, saddest told, scrimmaging gone genie of fairy tales. As is obvious by the mere mention of fairy tales, flask fiction need not be humorous. Fantastic as folklore is not necessarily humorous.
George Gibian in the “Introduction” of The Man in The Black Coat: Russian Literature of the Absurd (Evanston: Northwestern University Press, 1987) calls Daniil Kharms frequently humorous tales “a working out of a simple hypothetical supposition: they are ‘what if’ stories.” (38).
Why does short science fiction tend to be humorist or funny or irony? Why does short-short fiction tend to make us laugh or smile?
We need not get bogged down in discussing and distinguishing theories of laughter. Whether we laugh because of incongruity (Koestler; Kant (177, Critique of Judgment. A psycho-emotional release (Freud, Jokes, Kant, Critique (179) of indenturing with the success of lived-power) over dull (inert) things.
Bergson – the so-called dulled, so encrusted is, laughable, not us) is all the same Both the incongruent analyses and the “not us” analysis deal with comparing and contrasting- the first with comparisons leading to contrasts, the second with contrasts leading to comparison and each rarely on psychic or emotions follow the train of thought which tiers out to be funny.
Wherever we decide to call pierces of fiction which are 1000-words or so will have metanarrative implications. “Short stories” suggest they are minuscule works (which is why Kafka and (some say) James Joyce, two of the best known collected of these pierces, characterize them with one of the following descriptions: “Sudden fiction’ suggests, perhaps that we were unprepared for their occurrence. In terms of science fiction (or any fiction for that matter) being too proponed denotes a trite storyline, a predictable plot or other narrative intercessions) but science fictions, unlike most if not all other forms are palpably unpredictable. After all, scene fiction deals with alien beings, space travel and other undersign yet interesting beings, while they must be coherent in terms of strutted, plot, scope and shape so they could be afforded to be more daring than mainstream fiction.
But while the term ‘sudden fiction’ suggests our unprepairdness, the term “flash fiction' sugars the rapidity, snap, crispness that is within the narrative itself.
If sudden fiction catches us unaware in the sense in which we are not prepared, flash fiction catches us unaware in the sense that we could not have been prepared.

Always in Transit, J.Wright

2009-06-08T12:03:00.000-05:00

Always in Transit
By Jackson Wright

Always in Transit
An ever changing scene
An interstate view
From the passenger’s seat

Sun and sound flash by me
Time is left behind on the road
The face of all my families
Beg me, “stay”, but I break hold

Don’t try to understand
The gypsy blood in my veins
Use the Key of Wander
To break the Lock of Same

Always in transit
No slow around the bend
Always in transit
Always til the end

Sometimes slowing
Sometimes speeding
Always going
Always leaving

Nasal Noes, G.Bosacker

2009-06-08T12:02:00.000-05:00

Nasal Noes
By G. Bosacker

It's never nice to pick your nose,
You can pick a wife or a rose,
and then quite sensibly
the right card, your teeth or new clothes,
a guitar, a friend or your foes,
and often, quite privately
that icky stuff between your toes.
Pick garden weed that stubborn grows
and winning numbers I suppose
or your butt when no one knows
but mothers and teachers agree
it's never nice to pick your nose.

Different Angles, R.Goity

2009-06-08T12:01:00.000-05:00

Different Angles
By Roland Goity

I apologize for the meal. The recipe’s rather overdeveloped. Plus I’ve had difficulty focusing today and I’m not sure about that pan.
It’s fine, Honey.
Not terrible, I guess.
I’ve had worse.
Shutter up, kids. It’s fine, Honey.
How was your day, Dear?
Rather boring. No real action today.
No?
Not as far as catching anyone in the act. Security didn’t request tapes or anything. I did see a pregnant woman’s water break and a kid pick his nose so hard he needed a trip to the first aid station to stop it from bleeding.
What about you boys?
Shot three dudes today up on the mountain. Two skiers and a snowboarder. The skiers were easy, but I had to shoot the snowboarder a bunch of times.
Good, good. It was a nice day for it, wasn’t it? Nice and clear.
Yeah, I got some killer shots off.
Hey, I shot more people than he did today. Like six or seven.
Who were they?
Some young women. A couple of guys.
Were they clothed?
Hel-lo! It’s called adult entertainment. It was an orgy. Shot them all at once at first, and then individually. Shot some extremely close up. Didn’t take long. I shot them all in a flash.
I still can’t believe your father lets you be exposed to that.
Can’t filter everything, Honey. A young man’s gotta pay the bills somehow. Try every angle.
Can I please be excused?
Yeah, me too?
Not until you both finish off your peas there.

Such was the conversation that evening at the Camera family dinner table.

The Highway, S.Kjaerbaek

2009-06-08T12:00:00.000-05:00

The Highway
By Stephanie Kjaerbaek

Her mind stirred up old routes.

Tall trees embrace clear skies;

While the stars hypnotize.

The dream drowned in a lake.

He told her softly,

“Release me from my pride;

Take me for another ride.”

She held her thumb up,

As she scanned the horizon,

And the abandoned highway.

Free ride doomed him at sunset;

She stood out in morning light

With her dark look and light eyes.

Dead Moth, M.Betts

2009-06-08T11:59:00.001-05:00

Dead Moth
By Maria Betts

A home cooked dinner, breakfast in bed
all the things you said
true love last's, now were a thing of the past
our love songs, our evil tounges
when we wern't there for each other.
so leave this to linger, to slowly die off.
i'll just be your dead moth.

Figures, R.Spuler

2009-05-08T16:20:00.001-05:00

Figures
By Richard Spuler

Figures of speech
would have us say
“good-bye”
with Hollywood chagrin
and tough line-liners
(the kind that really
only come to mind
on mornings after).

Figures of silence
would have us act
(good-bye)
with pantomimes
and saintly gestures
(the kind that really
only happen once you're
dead and cherished).

Figures of despair
would have us die
g-o-o-d--b-y-e
severed again with
every drawn breath
(the kind that—pro-
longed—gives
better ratings).

Figures of compassion
would have us live
good-bye
for having been
at the crossing
(the kind that, if you're
lucky, happens once
before you're dead and cherished).

Host, G.Moore

2009-05-08T16:19:00.000-05:00

Host
By George Moore

Fair trade canisters of coffee beans the size of kettle drums make about the same sound, with a bit more base, if we empty them of the weight of our desires. We have seen the truth in the jungles, rich with steam, but is that latte or mocha? And then what will they live on if we refuse to eat their cattle. Under the right leadership, any enemy becomes a friend. They would have to shave, of course, and promise never, ever, to talk of group living again. There's fairness and fairness, after all, a difference of languages. What can you expect of a man wrapped in a shower curtain? Certainly not the truth. Such silences are part of the culture, they say. The big green leaves are hiding something security forces refuse to see, an insect hatching its eggs under their skin. If it’s part of the culture, this spice of weddings and the tough stuff of rope, then what is that skinny needle doing in the moonscape of the Senator’s daughter’s arm? If more of the world could cook, less of the busyness of its creatures would strike one as productive. Gringos are sleeping again on the steering column of the isthmus, and the rivers that once transported secrets upland are silvery with rain. The seed, the seed, the natives are crying. Here the children are bloated like snakes on a feast of mad cows, while borders waver. At the end of the day everything will be shared, and we'll buy back anything you don't use, including your sister.

The Drug, C.V.Platt

2009-05-08T16:18:00.000-05:00

The Drug
By Connie Vigil Platt

Corinne lay on the bed. The sheets twisted around her. Sweat dripping from her forehead.
“I can’t do it. It’s too hard. I can’t give it up.” She whimpered.
“Yes you can. I have faith in you. It won’t be much longer now.” Her friend Sara told her. “I’ll stay here with you until you can be on your own again.”
Once Corinne was a happy-go-lucky waitress, then one day she showed some of her writing to a friend. That friend told her how good it was and she should send it to a magazine. Then she showed it to another friend and that person also told her she was wasting her time waiting tables, she could be the next Charles Dickens or somebody like that. She got up her nerve and sent it to a magazine and forgot all about it.
Sara told her, “Writing is a terrible drug but selling is worse. Once you get started you won’t be able to stop. It’s worse than Heroin. That’s all you’ll want to do. So be very careful my dear.”
Corinne was surprised when she got a contract for the first story she tried to sell. She was so excited; she had a drawer full of manuscripts. All she had to do was send them off. She got a few more contracts and she was hooked. Now all she could do was sit by the window and wait for the mailman to come.
Sara was right, the drug had a hold of her and would not let go. Corrine was hooked on selling her words.

Sober...R.Leese

2009-05-08T16:17:00.000-05:00

Sober as a Drunken Judge
by Ross Leese

the days stagger over the hills like black hearses on a merry go round.
there is no sun in my mornings, nor am I likely ever to pray for any.
I can be arrogant beyond all human reasoning.

I am black tongued and cancer eyed, the rain rides my back
like debt. I pay back the devil, pay back the banks, pay back the soulless soldiers
dying for god, queen and country here there and everywhere (the poor bastards).

I am selfish and provocative. I am immediately steadfast and interchangeable.
I am a bad poet and a good fool. I have grey hairs and brown toenails. I am handsome
but never make an effort. I have long eyelashes and walk with a swagger.

End of Winter, A.Brooke

2009-05-08T16:16:00.001-05:00

The End of Winter
By Anne Brooke

Rain tumbles down. Every drop scars his skin but he pays it no heed. It’s irrelevant. Because he’s waiting for her. He’ll go on waiting for her for as long as it takes. Behind him, the wall he’s leaning on feels like the only support he has. There’s nobody around and he’s glad of it.
It’s midnight. February. The end of winter. The house he’s gazing at – her house – is dark. Nobody at home. He doesn’t know where she is. Maybe out with friends or something. She always was a people person. Still is, he imagines. Not that he really knows what a “people person” is. Whatever, he doesn’t think he’s ever been one.
Nothing to do but wait.
Reaching into his pocket, he takes out his cigarette packet and then his lighter. The flame is a small welcoming beacon in the darkness immediately around him. He wishes he was warm but the smoke gives him a hint of the comfort he once possessed. A memory of her. While he’s smoking, a car drives past, doesn’t slow down. He hunches himself further into his jacket and feels the rain ease down his neck. When he’s finished the cigarette, he crushes the stub out on the pavement with his boot.
Nothing else to do now.
He shuts his eyes. In the fragile barrier he’s created between himself and the rest of the world, he remembers.
The soft touch of her skin, the mole at the top of her leg, the way her eyes crinkled at the edges when she laughed. He’d always loved her laughter. It took him out of himself, made him think there might be more to life than anything he knew. She made him dream. He liked that.
He’d never dreamt she might leave him. He’d always feared it.
When he opens his eyes, for a moment his vision is blurred. But blinking restores the clarity.
Nothing has changed. He should go home. He’s being crazy, and he doesn’t like the way that makes him feel.
He’s just propelled himself away from the wall and has taken the first few steps of the long walk home when lights flash at the corner of the road. A moment later, her car draws up opposite him.
He waits.
She gets out.
He waits again.
Finally, she walks across to him. Under the street light, her fair hair glistens in the rain. She’s wearing a green coat. He hasn’t seen it before.
As he stares down at her, he knows she’s remembering too. He has no idea what he came here for or what he’s going to do now. Maybe seeing her once more is enough. He doesn’t know.
Before he is aware of the movement, her hand is stroking his face. Her fingers feel cold. He wants to touch her but understands he no longer has the right. He should leave. He will soon.
‘Go home, Jack,’ she whispers. ‘Go home. It’s the end of winter.’

www.annebrooke.com
http://annebrooke.blogspot.com.

Crickets Sing, J.Wright

2009-05-08T16:15:00.000-05:00

Crickets Sing
By Jackson Wright

Even in the city, the cricket still sings
Her song goes unheard by the ears of false kings
The bass line hum of dusk
Always present but never heard
Playing every night to an audience of none

In the approaching autumn air
Swirling the footsteps of the dreamers
Her voice fades into the black
Like the songs of so many

Sing on, for the winter comes
Play on, in the face of drums

After the clamoring cymbals rust
After our kings lose their might
The songs of the dreamers
The chorus of the crickets
Will remain dancing in the night