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INTERVIEWS An Interview With Peter Cassidy by David Hoenigman An Interview With Ken Wohlrob by David Hoenigman
FLASH FICTION The Glassblower by Olivia Kate Cerrone Man With Music in a Chamber by Sunita Reddy A Man Needs by Robin Sewell Ferris Wheel by Kara Vernor
SHORT STORIES The Convincing Corpse by Faith Gardner
CREATIVE NONFICTION Unknown Places by Owen Tucker
NOVEL EXCERPTS Crayons, Play Dough, and the Efficacy of Bear Mace by Dresden de Vera
POETRY Leaves in December by Michael Lee Johnson Sundial Kit by John McKernan Congratulations by C.J. Opperthauser On Building a Campfire by Helen Peterson
» Continue reading January 2011 Issue…
Peter Cassidy
Peter Cassidy wrote this charming children’s book in honor of his toddler daughter, Emily Clair Cassidy. “She is so adventurous and not shy. I thought that she and Cole had a lot in common.” Originally from Timmins, Ontario, where his story is set, he now teaches pre-kindergarten for the American Embassy Housing Compound in Tokyo.
Please check out this radio interview about the book and its background.
Buy the book from Amazon：A Mole Named Cole and a Whole Lot of Hole
What projects are you currently working on?
I have just finished writing the sequel to Cole
» Continue reading An Interview With Peter Cassidy by David Hoenigman…
Ken Wohlrob is the author of Songs of Vagabonds, Misfits, and Sinners, a new collection of short stories, and The Love Book, both published by Bully Press. He was the co-founder and editor of Bully Magazine for six years. His work has also appeared in Opium, The New York Press, Six Sentences, and Go Metric. You can show him some love at www.kenwohlrob.com.
What projects are you currently working on?
I am still hip-deep in the multimedia project centered around my new short story collection, Songs of Vagabonds, Misfits, and Sinners. Each of the stories are set in New York
» Continue reading An Interview With Ken Wohlrob by David Hoenigman…
There’s a spilled bag of stale popcorn on the apartment floor. Cray’s channel surfing makes the living room glow a chameleon hue. Remy lays out on the recliner and mouths, “Fuck. . .Fuck. . .Fuck.” I sink further into the sofa and mutter aloud, “We could sell our blood.” “I don’t like needles,” Remy says through hands that bury his face. “But you have tattoos.” “Different. Try again.” I scratch at my temple. “We could make a deposit at the spank bank.” “The what?” “We could sell our sperm.” Remy springs forward
» Continue reading Crayons, Play Dough, and the Efficacy of Bear Mace by Dresden de Vera…
Listen to a podcast of Michael Lee Johnson’s “Leaves in December.”
Leaves, a few stragglers in December, just before Christmas, some nailed down crabby to ground frost, some crackled by the bite of nasty wind tones.
Some saved from the matchstick that failed to light. Some saved from the rake by a forgetful gardener.
For these few freedom dancers left to struggle with the bitterness: wind dancers wind dancers move your frigid bodies shaking like icicles hovering but a jiffy in sky, kind of sympathetic to the seasons, reluctant to permanently go, rustic, not much time more to play.
» Continue reading Leaves in December by Michael Lee Johnson…
Sometimes, as if it were a man, you’ve got to get on your knees to coax a flame. Get too close and your eyes will water, breathless circle around and feed it, build up the weak sides stick by stick. Listen to the crackle, give it what it wants, a little air old love letters, compromising receipts, then nudge the ash back in place. Soak up the heat, roast your marshmallows quick. Do everything right, it’ll die on you anyway.
Helen Peterson
About the author:
Helen R. Peterson has been published in over 100 online and print journals, both nationally
» Continue reading On Building a Campfire by Helen Peterson…
Put it together with shadows So it can strangle another Tiny one Disguise it as a tree Without leaves Build your house With the shadow of a pine Burn It The sundial loves holidays April Fool’s Halloween Good Friday Give it a transfusion Of blue shadow Those lines Around your eyes are not Maps They form the sundial’s nest The migratory birds carry twigs And dip their shadows in every River and every lake Just look At yourself in a field at noon The field is not a nudist colony Sir You have no use for that telescope Any longer Your body itself Makes a fine sundial Your own Body As you open
» Continue reading Sundial Kit by John McKernan…
It seemed like a good place to meet. It was public; violence was unlikely. In front of this looming, spinning backdrop, she waited, the wind whipping her trench coat against her knees. Was this real, or a movie she had once seen? One of many she watched while crocheting on the orange shag, her father cleaning rifles at the kitchen table. On screen her heels were taller, her hair longer. But perhaps this was the autumn light. Ten minutes past. “You want to take a ride?” She paid the boy with a handful of change from the bottom
» Continue reading Ferris Wheel by Kara Vernor…
Listen to a podcast of Faith Gardner’s “The Convincing Corpse.”
My boyfriend Jack likes to pretend I’m dead. At first the ice baths before sex and the blowjobs in the graveyard seemed weird, but now I like pretending I’m dead too. Jack’s ten years older than me and works as a medical assistant. He’s visited palaces in Nepal, seen the Northern lights over Moskosel, and rode elephants through muddy rivers near Chiang Mai. He’s so dreamy.
When Jack gets home from the hospital, I immediately start running the bath on cold and fill the buckets with ice from the icemaker.
» Continue reading The Convincing Corpse by Faith Gardner…
My husband tears a suitcase from the closet, rests it open against the bed. The immediate future is decided. We are quiet, all talked out. I find my car keys and leave. At the studio, we keep the furnaces burning day and night for the glass to remain melted. It doesn’t matter how late I stay. He’s gone to her now, tired of sneaking around. I take a blowpipe from the shelf. Into an oven of magma, I dip the pipe and gather honey at its tip. My forearms sear above the work gloves. I roll the pipe up and
» Continue reading The Glassblower by Olivia Kate Cerrone…
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