Finding his calling by Matthew Borczon

Barry had really wanted to be a priest, but he only got as far as learning the sympathetic handshake. The one with two hands and a gentle pat on the back of your hand. Soon after he joined the seminary he fell in love with a local girl who worked in the coffee shop he…

4 From Brian Rihlmann

HOLLYWOOD BABIES we have all suckled at her plastic breasts flowing with narcotic milk sugary sweet on screen even junkies store clerks and people like us gleam with something we don’t see in the mirror but oh the weaning the horror of L.A. streets the tedium of the office job the rusted edge of real…

God, Those Days by Ian Copestick

I’ve just walked past a kid, playing in the Street. Running madly around with a Look of pure determination on his Face. As he rushed past me I heard Him making whooshing  noises. I Don’t know if they were gun noises, Bomb blasts or whatever. It just Brought it all back, a child’s imagination. I…

A Library Card Is A License of The Mind by Kristin Garth

Her polka-dotted patterned calves gallop prepubescent paths, story time, equine imitations in kitten heels.  Scalloped peep toe cardinal toe reveals define universality, woman you want to be — not property in homemade dress, cardholder in a world of yes.  Type font card stock, signed, squeezed, tiny envelope pressed palm to Hello Kitty purse, gift of…

Existentialism in Noir by K. A. Laity

A few years back I was on an existentialism panel at NoirCon that went a bit off the rails (those who were there may recall why) so we never really got deeply into the topic. It’s hung around in the back of my brain pan for a while and two recent reads pinged a few…

Televised by Eoghan Lyng

Watching across the tv screen, I watch your eyes flickering, Standing beside you, the tentacles of time. As the sound of cars drifting outwards, whispering changes, Amazed we cannot sleep. Drifting we sleep. I swear I saw your face change, the mirrors savaged night’s long waters. Slaughtered, the characters are dead. Drunken debris pacified A…

Olde England by Ian Copestick

It’s a gorgeous summer afternoon The park is filled with dogs and the people Walking them. There’s not a cloud To be seen in the big, blue sky and There’s not a breath of a breeze to be felt. On the horizon is a high church steeple And if it wasn’t for the modern houses…

There by Robert Ragan

I was sitting on the couch playing a video game about to unlock a magical secret door when my own front door was kicked off the hinges. Agents rushed inside and drew their weapons on me. My hands were clenched around the controller. Two of them watched over me as the rest of the team…

Steven Ball’s Bastard Island by Alan Savage

Like a director of some impressionistic unscripted film, Steven Ball has created what I can only describe as field poetry, with a soundscape that blurs the lines between the conscious waking world and the mystical world beyond the veil. The instrumentation is never intrusive, hinting at possibilities rather than finalities. The songs are pieced together…

Afghanistan 2010 by Matthew Borczon

I once spent the whole afternoon looking for the amputated leg of an English soldier. I searched the loading dock they wheeled him into the hospital from, I looked in the room we put his gear when he came in on the helicopter. I searched everywhere their lieutenant told me to, all the while thinking…