INTERVIEWS An Interview With Erin McNellis by John Sibley Williams An Interview With James Rahn by Timmy Waldron An Interview With Matthew Revert by David Hoenigman
FLASH FICTION Flame by Carol Deminski Caitlin’s Boots by Mark Reep
CREATIVE NONFICTION Escape by Jesse Cheng The Negative Zone by Matthew D. Perez
SHORT STORIES Bloodnight by James Rahn
POETRY Reaction by Jekwu Anyaegbuna 66 by J. Bradley What Smog Covers by Anne Butler Man’s Life by Francesco Grisanzio Hibiscus by Deepa Iyer This is the hard part: by Phillip Polefrone The Way, To (1) by Jake Syersak Gaslight by Carleen Tibbetts Why
» Continue reading May 2012 Issue…
In her essay collection Impossible Loves (Rock Paper Tiger Press), Erin McNellis touches on such varied subjects as Christian mystic Simone Weil, Georges Bataille, Timothy Treadwell, Burning Man, and Werner Herzog without losing focus on the embarrassing, complex and impossible emotion that feeds most art—love.
Erin McNellis received a Ph.D. in English from the University of California, Irvine for her research on forms of attention in 20th-century American poetry. She blogs about poetry, ethics, and pop culture at http://uncomplicatedly.wordpress.com.
You speak of “Wisdom” and how it affects us, its consequences, its light. In a few words, can you summarize your
» Continue reading An Interview With Erin McNellis by John Sibley Williams…
James Rahn taught fiction at the University of Pennsylvania for fifteen years and has an MFA from Columbia University. His stories and articles have appeared in several magazines. In 1988 he started the Rittenhouse Writers’ Group in Philadelphia. His collection of linked stories Bloodnight is an earnest and gritty rendering of the broken Jersey resort towns in the ‘70s.
You grew up in Atlantic City?
Yeah, a strange place and a strange upbringing. When I was growing up, Atlantic City was becoming a ghost town. Tourists were traveling farther, to newer trendier places. The summer season in AC got
» Continue reading An Interview With James Rahn by Timmy Waldron…
You haven’t lived until you’ve swallowed a clam on the end of a string and had somebody pull it out of your stomach. And they just don’t pull that sucker up slowly; it’s more like they’re starting a lawn mower. But that’s not the worst of it. Worse is having cigarettes snuffed out on your arms, or being buried up to your neck in the sand and feeling the high tide begin to lap your face. Still worse are the paddles: sawed down, shellacked lifeguard oars. You take forty of them in your six weeks prior to Bloodnight–forty blows to
» Continue reading Bloodnight by James Rahn…
I saw a man win the lottery and I thought Now I will never win. His luck was mine: the drink he bought me is my one hundred and thirty nine million dollars. My fortune was to help this man, fawn-trembling with windfall and birth pangs of new wealth, uncollapse in a street. Moonbat, he said from the ground, fingers in my hair, call all your friends, we will drink all night, I am a millionaire. I can’t, I said, I have no friends. We will buy you some right now he said, but then I stepped back gasping, philanthropy
» Continue reading Why I Do Not Call Anyone Ever by Julia Whicker…
To generate reaction, let us make trees grow inside a hot refrigerator.
Some trees may go witty, selling their complexions for pennies to survive.
The surviving trees will give birth to doves which will lay green eggs into snowy nests, crooning.
The dead trees will reincarnate in charcoal, and burn every anus of retrogression to dark ashes.
The non-surviving-non-dying trees will build a cult where saboteurs like them worship faceless gods.
About the author:
Jekwu Anyaegbuna is an alumnus of the Farafina Trust International Creative Writers’ Programme, facilitated by novelist Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie in Nigeria. He graduated from the University
» Continue reading Reaction by Jekwu Anyaegbuna…
My daughter says she is cold, but I do not have a daughter. Yesterday at the traffic light a homeless man stumbled through cars, tried to sell flowers. Sometimes from a cracked window you can hear a saxophone, but not see the player. All passing faces look familiar from a certain angle— you might see a child who reminds you of you. The city is saddest at night, and that is when fires happen.
About the author:
Anne Butler is a Virginia-born, Los Angeles-based poet and actor/singer. Several of her poems will appear this summer in Illuminations, Spillway Magazine, and
» Continue reading What Smog Covers by Anne Butler…
The four fingers of both my hands crimp the edge of the narrow writing table between me and the prisoner. We tuck our knees in close to avoid touching each other. It’s been five minutes, and already my sweaty legs are cramping up. I ask Rico to tell me about his mother. He snorts, then clops his chair around sideways, angling himself askew. Everything is clouded in the dirty light of the jail’s attorney conference room. The sheen playing off the shaven scalp on Rico’s profile—one of the shooters had a big, bald head, according to police reports—seems
» Continue reading Escape by Jesse Cheng…
You filled the room like carbon monoxide. I cough like a chess board, hesitate letting go of my drink before I finish my next move.
With each step, red felt rolls out behind you; everything becomes a kneel bar.
I’m playing hang man with your name on this napkin.
Chloe says Papa Razzi’s homeless, probably a convicted ped-ass too. Telan says Shut up, here he comes.
Child, where’d you get those boots.
Chloe rolls her eyes.
Telan says They were my sister’s.
He nods. Grab a shot?
Okay. Telan puts her feet up on the table. Papa crouches, fires away. You got a buckle broke.
The sun’s in Telan’s eyes. I know, she says. They’re beat.
He shakes his head. Just need a little work. I know your sister.
Everything stops. Telan’s hands are someone else’s. They slip her shades on, bring her
» Continue reading Caitlin’s Boots by Mark Reep…