Old Yellow Couch – Benjamin Soileau
Tuesday, August 12, 2014 10:50 — 2 Comments
So I come out the bathroom and I see that little fool doing sit-ups with his feet stuck up under my mamma’s armoire. I can hear all the china rattling around in there each time he pulls himself up.
The Man Who Couldn’t Hold His Own Cigarette – Timothy Schirmer
Monday, August 4, 2014 10:05 — 1 Comment
It used to be that whenever I lit a cigarette, this man I was sleeping with would smoke half of it without it ever leaving my fingers. He would take hold of my wrist and bring the cigarette up to his parted lips like a child taking a big sip from a straw that led into a cup his mother was holding.  At parties, people thought this was something to talk about, how the man I slept with didn’t like to hold his own cigarettes.  A woman I didn’t know remarked, “What happens when your girlfriend is away? I mean, […]
THE PHARMACIST’S DAUGHTER – Larry Silberfein
Wednesday, July 9, 2014 11:49 — 14 Comments
I wrap a baby’s laugh in a blue box for my gal and say, “Happy Birthday, Sweetie. I love you more than real whipped cream.â€Â
Fighting Willa Mae – Elizabeth McGuire
Wednesday, July 9, 2014 11:45 — 0 Comments
Her squinty eyes are growing furry. Her face suspicious, with salmon lips pursed like crinkled wax paper. There’s a sustained wobble when she stands. At ninety-two she’s an orb behind the wheel, bobbing just below the surface. Chugging along to church in the morning. Dinner in the afternoon. Middle of the night awake, balancing across the floor of her ship, heaving sideways towards the lifebuoys, a table, or the back of a chair. Fighting to keep her vessel upright.
Deadline – Mary Pat Musick
Thursday, July 3, 2014 10:07 — 0 Comments
Will liked that the park was neglected, and inconvenient for anyone who knew him. The few visitors were strays, like the woman on the bench a buckeye tree over, closer to the gate. For several weeks she had arrived on Fridays, at noon, in a tatty coat and hat, sat a half-hour or so looking expectant, then dallied out, alone. He was intrigued.
My Mom: The M.I.L.F. – Matthew Dexter
Wednesday, June 25, 2014 14:07 — 0 Comments
During the first wave of thunderstorms Mom promised we could touch her boobs–if we wanted–but first we had to prove our maturity by snorting a pyramid of fire ants during lightning strikes. She licked the coconut Popsicle and nestled the frosty rectangle into the slats between the rotting wood of our porch. It was white and icy crystals glistened in the dusk. The tips of our noses were sunburned with darkened freckles. Fireflies searched for places to hide. Termites scurried as Mom shut the screen door to quarantine the mosquitoes.
A World on Wheels – Deepa Bhandaru
Wednesday, June 18, 2014 11:24 — 0 Comments
He had never sat in a chair like this before, a chair that let him swing from side to side, a chair with an axis on which he could rotate like a globe. Round and round, a world on wheels. He always thought sitting meant keeping still, and he avoided it when he could, but with this chair he could sit and spin, sit and swerve, sit and scoot across the floor. When he first sat down, he wheeled halfway to the door, but Miss Malti flashed him a reprimanding look, and he ground his feet into the carpet, determined […]
Good Enough – Elizabeth Evenson-Dencklau
Monday, June 2, 2014 11:41 — 1 Comment
A phone vibrates from across the room, the tone inaudible from its resting place beneath the trousers he’d dropped. As he rolls off her, she can feel the cheap motel mattress. A cold trickle of sweat carves a path down her leg before seeping into the sheets. Turning her face away, she buries it in the pillow, inhaling the scent of sweat and aftershave. The man turns, the phone in his hand still buzzing insistently, like the last mosquito of summer.
Sergeant Congo – Luke Percy
Monday, June 2, 2014 11:33 — 1 Comment
Thembi caught him by the wrist, drew him back under the covers. She flattened his hand against her swollen belly. Their little watermelon was using his legs. “Close your eyes,†she whispered. “Can you feel him, Tata? Do you think he can hear the rain?â€
The answer isn't poetry, but rather language
- Richard Kenney
