A Tiny And Colorful Literary Journal

Archive for November, 2011

David Tomaloff, 11/28/11

Photo by Kierstin Bridger

 

Three pieces by David Tomaloff

 

Shifting Power 

Sundresses and summer have replaced her boys and winter.  She walks lighter along the shore, casting names into the sea—beginning again, one by one. 

Super Bossa Nova

I dreamt of you, a pirate ship, dark and fast approaching. I was a Royal Naval Fleet, no match for a galleass such as yours.

Absolutely Shore

Windows make bad lovers, though they tend to make great cops.  The salt makes its way to my lips, reminds me which side I’m on.

David Tomaloff is a writer, photographer, musician, and all around bad influence. His work has appeared in fine publications such as Mud Luscious, >kill author, Connotation Press, HOUSEFIRE, & elimae. He is the author of the chapbooks 13 (Artistically Declined Press), A SOFT THAT TOUCHES DOWN & REMOVES ITSELF (NAP), Olifaunt (Red Ceilings Press), EXIT STRATEGIES (Gold Wake Press) and MESCAL NON-PALINDROME CINEMA (Ten Pages Press). He resides in the form of ones and zeros at: davidtomaloff.com

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Nicole Monaghan, 11/21/11

Strapless

Homage to a lost love–the wrong one.  His lips on her bare shoulders, saying they tasted like cream.   New love’s mouth now, tasting wounds.

 

Blanc

She said that’s what I want:  slate truly clean.  Never having been mistaken, pain inflicted and doled out, never having painted wrong, scars like colors.  

 

Nicole Monaghan is a writer and editor.  Find out more about her and her work here:  http://writenic.wordpress.com/about

Mark Rosenblum, 11/14/11

Two pieces by Mark Rosenblum

 

Rock Star Skinny

Everywhere he played, she was there.  Front row.   Devout fan, he thought.  But there was more.  Someday she would tell him he was her father.

Rock Candy

He studied hard, scholarships–future of his choice.  Graduated, stressed his way up the corporate ladder.  The money up his nose, bleeding that never stopped.

Mark Rosenblum–a New York native who now lives in Southern California–misses the taste of real pizza and good deli food. His work has been featured in Tiferet, Boston Literary Magazine, Everyday Fiction, Eclectic Flash, Pure Slush, Flashes in the Dark, Six Sentences, Nanoism and PicFic.  He has work upcoming in Sleet Magazine, Yellow Mama and Six Minute Magazine.  He also appears in these anthologies: It All Changed in an Instant, Thinking Ten—A Writer’s Playground, The Best of Eclectic Flash 2010 and the upcoming Pure Slush Volume I and Daily Flash 2012

Barry Basden, 11/7/11

11/7/11

Seven pieces by Barry Basden

 

Alpine Snow

Farther south, the snow’s pristine, but the Hürtgen’s dirty, trampled. We wait in holes, our weapons freezing, staring into darkness, afraid they’re coming for us.

Bare It In Trafalgar Square

D-Day plus 3, wounded in a Normandy hedgerow. After the morphine, I could remember her hands guiding mine inside her dress, but not her name.

Big Apple Red

Shore leave in Times Square. The man on the motorcycle says, Climb aboard, sailor boy, I only want to kiss the head of your penis.

Cancun Fiesta

Mariachis, piñatas. Having fun? she says. I can smile but still I see the gunship, the burning van, and the baby, dead in my arms.

Chapel of Love

We don’t wait for Taos. We visit Billy the Kid’s grave, then exchange vows in Sister Grace’s trailer. She feeds us cupcakes and Kool-Aid afterwards.

Coney Island Cotton Candy

She licked the pink stickiness off her lips, aware he was watching her mouth. She’d get in his car but first they’d ride the Cyclone.

Puerto Vallarta Violeta

The empty beaches, moonlit water, iguanas. Nights alone in the casa. Nobody but us, not even your entourage. Here, let me help you with that.

Barry Basden lives in Texas and his writing has appeared in many fine places. He edits Camroc Press Review and has never had a manicure.

Len Kuntz, Leslie Roberts, 10/31/11

Ten pieces by Len Kuntz

Limo Scene

Her wrist corsage scratched, Pop Rocks exploding against her hot breath.  She said, “You kiss like a spaghetti monster,” but made me a man anyway.

Nude Beach

We swam naked in black water.  The moon bent something inside me.  She went under, never came up.  Now I walk the sand nightly, waiting.

Lady Like

I used to study them—bright bruises the color of mustard and plums, shaped like continents or crafty creatures—mother’s artwork on a flesh canvas.

Room With A View

On the ship’s deck we disrobed.  Dolphins dove below us.  Voyeur clouds and a lone gull were our only witnesses, the baby blooming inside you.

Angel Food

Like a too-fat ballerina in your bouncy seat, you claimed the air, gurgling, just twelve months old, already the giddy thief who stole my heart.

Walk Down The Aisle

Friends suggested getting high, thick socks for cold feet.  “Check the exit,” they said.   “we’ll be waiting.” 

But you were the best thing. 

Still are.

Rock Candy

She was heavy, but mine, clinging to me like a life raft while little Michael sang “Ben,” my first kiss a cave I fell through.

Naked Truth

The strap was leather, long, dyed black, with tooled scrolls of cactus and bulls.  The buckle hurt the most.  My father, he could really swing.

Café Forgot

Spider web hair, false teeth and a cigarette stitched in her hand even with an oxygen tank. This woman who made me less than whole.

Innocent

The baby looks preposterous, huge watermelon head, shrimp-sized torso.  All my crimes come to roost, me thinking, Sins of the father, the doctor saying, “Sorry.”

Len Kuntz is a writer from Washington State.  His work appears widely in print and online at such places as The Literarian, Boston Literary Magazine, Elimae and PANK.  Every few days he writes about life and other things at lenkuntz.blogspot.com

Two pieces by Leslie Roberts

Sand Tropez

I still find this in my swimsuit and remember the castle we built in the south ofFranceand how the waves crashed over it.

Fuchsia Shock Crème

“Look mommy,” you giggled, “I colored the kitty!” Turns out nail polish remover burns cat hair right off; the poor thing was pink either way.

 Leslie Roberts is a college student living in small-townTennessee and dreaming of a big-city future.

Joe Kapitan, Sara Lippmann, 10/24/11

10/24/11

Three Pieces by Joe Kapitan

Lady Godiva

Cold in here tonight. Not many guys, mostly the regulars. This damn wig sucks, but it’s what they say they need. Horseback, brass pole, whatever.

Dive Bar

Jukebox full of country. Baby’s gone, money’s gone, pride’s gone. Booze still comes around. Now barkeep says I’m done. There aren’t enough quarters. On earth.

Case Study

Students: This forgettable strip bar, Memphis Dolls, contains thirteen people, staff plus customers. All thirteen wish they were somewhere else. Why do we self-hell? Discuss.

Joe Kapitan: architect, Clevelander, college football fan, microbrew drinker, writer of short fiction appearing online in PANK, Wigleaf, SmokeLong Quarterly, Necessary Fiction, Emprise Review, etc. and pending in print at Fractured West and Bluestem.

Four Pieces by Sara Lippmann

Tomboy No More

When the gypsy moths arrived her father walled waists in silver tape but the old maple died from defoliation. She climbed out her bedroom window. 

Starter Wife   

No one promises cotton candy. Still, find me anyone bustled in tulle and stuffed like a present that doesn’t feel worth a cloud, feel something.

Bahama Mama

Their hotel had one of those kids’ clubs so parents could drink away their vacation, staring past the pool, silent, swirling celery snappy as whips.

Chocolate Cake

Take a lover! Who doesn’t want to eat it and have it? As if frosting by the forkful won’t dissolve in the mouth but replenish.

Sara Lippmann is a writer in Brooklyn. Follow her on twitter @saralippmann

William Henderson, Nicole Monaghan, 10/17/11

10/17/11

Two Pieces by William Henderson

Rising Star

Left of the Dippers. Not there yesterday, or there yesterday, but mostly invisible. That light is what I think about when I think about you.

Bare It In Trafalgar Square

Thousands of pigeons. Men with black umbrellas. Tourists with maps and cameras. Me in a trench coat, and then me not in a trench coat.

William Henderson lives in Boston where he is often tooling around with his children, Avery and Aurora; musing about love and writing and parenting on his blog (hendersonhouseofcards.wordpress.com); tweeting (@avesdad); practicing yoga; and waiting for his ever-after ending.  He has published nonfiction in The Rumpus, The Fix, Annalemma Magazine, Sea Giraffe, Zouch Magazine, Specter Literary Magazine, Dr. Hurley’s Snake-Oil Charm, Revolution House, and Xenith, among others. Also, NAP Literary Magazine will publish Henderson’s first chapbook in January 2012.  You can reach Henderson at wil329@yahoo.com

 

Two pieces by Nicole Monaghan

Onyx Rush

No lampposts for blocks.  Click-click, neck hairs knowing danger follows in a baseball cap.  I hurl heels into the lightless night, dash toward anything else.

Sunset Prism 

They say survival instinct.  They say adrenaline.  They say flashes of life in stills.  No, just memories of color, of impossible beauty on ordinary evenings.

Nicole Monaghan is an editor and an award-winning writer.  She’s been published in numerous online journals and in print anthologies.  Find out more about her here: http://writenic.wordpress.com/about/  Links to her online work are here:  http://writenic.wordpress.com/my-publications-writing-prizes/

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