Tag: vol. 2

Poetry: Ace Boggess’ “Has the Music Faded at All?”

—Lawrence Watt-Evans, Night of Madness The walls have learned a low hum—basso, staccato—like a tuba stuck in a wind tunnelor so many elephants endlessly marchingaround the perimeter.The opposite of a canine whistle,it marks its moansin sensible waves setting cinderblocks atremblein aftershocks.A little of the shake, rattle & roll,rockin’ in the unfree world,more twisting, less shoutingexcept…
Three Fictions from First Presidents: Joseph Scapellato

James Madison James Madison stood on a log shaped like the limb of a great man. He was as short as the tallest American mushroom, yet more withered. For several days he had ridden from camp to town to camp in the woods outside Washington City, to assess the state of the British invasion. Every…
Three Poems by Dan Chelotti

Depth of Field There are four triangular slotsto hold the pictures downand some have been there so longthey’re stuck. They could take usanywhere. Back, back beforethe sand in the hourglasswas replaced with ash:a playpen in the middle of a field.The fly in the room buzzes.It won’t come back. The standof birches on the edge of…
Poetry: Matthew Harrison’s “Learning Circles”

I learned to dance by dropping soap in the showerand catching it. You should see me cut a lineon the raised floor that flashes beside the roller rink.A head spin: that’s something I don’t do, but I do noodle.Windmill. Worm. The Manic Alligator. I learned to roller skateby sliding in acrylic socks across the polished…
Four Crash Studies by Scott Teplin

*Ed.’s Note: click images to view larger size. Chopped Shadow Clamper Tire Drop Shadow Gap-Toothed Shadow Scott Teplin is an artist living in Brooklyn, New York. More: teplin.com.
Three Poems by Joseph Mulholland

Transmigration, Volume One Did you recognize the sensation of olive meat hugging its cold pit for warmth? Her blood-belly protrudes over the ruined slipstream—secrets of torn flesh pinpush in the gunshot light. The walls of this open hymnal shine jukebox-pink—she adjusts fingers under the elastic band, glassglued to inconstancy, afflicted. Your morning electric chair shrinking…
Two Poems by M.A. Schaffner

So Morbid, So What? -1- Okay it’s not death but the long preludeof appointments, tests, and troubling results,followed by additional procedures.It’s called a crab because it moves sidewaysand picks almost delicately with its clawswhere instruments can see, if not respond,until the final stage of tearing outwhat weakness it finds, which is everywhere. Here’s more knowledge…
Fiction: Amanda Goldblatt’s “The Way We Feel Sometimes”

First I’m confrontational with shift workers. The pharmacist asks for my signature, if I have any questions, if the dosage is correct. “Obviously,” I hammer. She is small with rosacea. I am not tall; I feel tall in her presence. I watch her wilt. Give her what she wants. Regarding any transaction, I’m taciturn. When…
Fiction: Daniel J. Cecil’s “The Stages of Orbit”

-1- Jonathan was drawn back by a force when the airlock opened. It was the vision of the kitchen floor, which was another opening, and another loss of air—something he wasn’t quite expecting the weight of. That day was like this one. The lack of oxygen was what he felt. When his friend returned home…