Archives

August 2007

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Fiction: Rude Awakenings by Terry Sanville

The Final Game by Mark Gelbart

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Non Fiction:

Three Writing Books and Why You Should Own Them by Justin Schwan

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Poetry:

Creation

by

Margaret Grady

Cut me a moon of silver longing
And sew it to the sky
So it will not shake or hang its head
When the winds go sailing by

Cry me stars of diamond droplets
And weave then in the air
So they will not fade or wash away
When the sun is bright and bare

Breathe me a sky of silken black
And toss it to the heavens
So it will not be smothered or cast away
When the grey smog chokes and deadens

Walk me a desert of wanderlust
And breathe it to the winds
So that all will not be finished
When the beat of hearts begins

Grow me mountains of solitude
And root them in the earth
So that all will no be swallowed
By the weary voice of words

Whisper me islands of icy white
And float them o'er the depths
So that all will not be melted
By fair summer's fevered breath

Sculpt me a sun of clarity
And hand it from the blue
So all unknown can be revealed
When the world is born anew

Knit me a field of gentle touch
And cast it o'er the land
So that all will not be frozen
By cold winter's icy hand

Sing me a forest of reverence
And know its every seed
So all once lost can be regained
When the world recalls its need

Dance me seas of purest blue
And whirl them to the deeps
So the air will not be silent
When the world has gone to sleep

Weave me a wind of hopeful things
And stir it in the heart
So all will not be cold and still
When the lands grow dim and dark

Dream me a world of heart, of soul,
Of a love so pure and true
And even if we be far apart
I'll do the same for you

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Vagabond's Vision #16

by

Felino Soriano

The smoker was asked to perform elsewhere.
He with the gray-black twirling falling ash and
rising, elderly smoke crawling toward graying
clouds exhaling particular particles and offensive aroma
claiming lung capacity and capsule shaped blends
of oxygen sliding the pipes of moistened throats.

The smoker refused.
Infuriated, the obstinate asker asked again.
Refusal appeared anew, leading to altercation between tongues,
between brandishing vernaculars of shouting expletives.
Minutes later, moments after wrestling ideas between colliding
coldly, the asker breathing heavily, within an act of odd
folding over, asked the smoker for a slender cigarette.

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Mauthausen Concentration Camp, 2006

by

Jenny Molberg

I can feel the ghosts
I see them in black and white
heaving cinder blocks
ascending "the stairs of death"
a weak prisoner at the top stumbles
one by one they fall
a tangle of skeleton
human dominoes
above the gas chamber door
a cold simple sign hangs
creaks with rust
and reads "Krematorium"
as I enter, I turn once more
to peer behind the barbed wire–
lush mountains, unnaturally green
a small village, fields of sunflowers
reaching like 100 giant fingers

inside, a lit candle
on a stretcher that rests half-in half-out
an oven
in the courtyard there are statues
a bronze skeleton howls at the sky in agony
an S.S. officer
metallically cold
beats a man with the butt of his gun
there is a wall
with flowers and pictures
an entire Italian village
dead
scrawled onto a barracks door:
"If there is a God, he must beg
for my forgiveness"

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It is Night

by

Mathew Friday

So the sun is about to set
and all that is left is a tiny arc of light
blue. The deepening darkness is drawn
from the east. Like a closing eye,
the Cyclops sun winks out
and in the blue-blackness there opens
thousands of tiny eyes. It is
night.

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Bug Love

by

Bryon D. Howell

Crawling like a Spider,
searching for your pray;
throughout your wicked web,
and searching night and day.

You're flying like a Wasp,
in hopes of hearts to sting;
you hurt the ones you love,
and pain is all you bring.

As pesky as a Fly,
I swat you off my arm;
but yet you will return,
and with a sweetened charm.

An avid as an Ant,
on the hunt for food;
you leave no stone unturned,
you're ruthless, bold, and rude.

Like a Praying Mantis,
just praying to go on;
humble on the surface,
Satan when I'm gone.

Crawling like a Spider,
when we are far apart;
I have insecticide,
but I don't have the heart.

You're flying like a moth
and will eternally;
I just wish you would land,
and spend some time with me.

I guess I will ignore
the bugged out things you do;
as bug-like as you are -
I'm still in love with you!

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Art:

The Girl

by

Hilltop Wilkerson

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Unfinished Dolls

by

Nyssa Wells

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Music:

Teenage Death Girl by Noah Lee