Issue ten// Rani M. Moesq

Wastage

Dead

Twen

ty

th

ree

Splat

turd

a fly

on

a swat

splat

ter

dead!

A

step

too

far

Gone!

Left

loose

thread

caught

in

wind

from reaper

Cruel

cut!

© Rani M. Moesq 2011

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Rani M. Moesq has taught English language in a number of countries. She has lectured on aspects of English Literature, has written the book, lyrics and music for two musical comedies and had poetry, short stories, essays and books for children published in Singapore, Australia and New Zealand. A member of the New Zealand Society of Authors, she is a full-time writer and is at present working on a novel set in pre and post-war Singapore.

Issue ten// Phylinda Moore

Just Before

a tornado
the air turns green, pink, or sometimes yellow
like a bruise

animals still, birds quiet
listen
in heavy waiting air
watch
steel grey clouds wall across the sky

the animal in you is wary
look
the hook snares the ground

if it comes
sound runs a freightliner over paper
you throw
to the ground– your only,
tenuous hope
and pray
God spare you
this destruction

© Phylinda Moore 2011

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Phylinda Moore lives in Philadelphia. Journals where her work has
been published include: Bogg, The Rambler, RiverSedge, and Sierra Nevada College Review.

Issue ten// Donal Mahoney

Sitting Shiva in a Hotel Lobby

For a year this image has haunted me.

Over and over I hear on the gramophone

Cohen put in my ear

“Feature this:

On a crowded elevator

a strange woman in a baseball cap

unbuttons your fly.”

That image is on the ceiling every night

as I sit shiva in the lobby

of this small hotel,

a hookah, like a tired cobra,

coiled at my feet,

a shamrock in my buttonhole

dead from the last parade.

Night after night,

I think about this strange woman

as each hour I watch

the doors of the elevator

part and give birth.

I observe each new guest carefully,

hoping the woman in the baseball cap

will tire of the rain and ride up

in the elevator and register.

I want her to sit in the lobby

and talk with us.

We who are guests here forever

have eons to hear

what she has to say.

We have paid our rent in advance.

We can afford to sit here and see.

© Donal Mahoney 2011

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Donal Mahoney has worked as an editor for the Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. A Pushcart nominee, he has had poems published in The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, Public Republic (Bulgaria) and Revival (Ireland).

Issue ten// Garrett Ashley

Nell

He says, "Plans are only ruined as they are made."

I say, "We have a week to worry, long enough to rest."

They say, "But it may rain, or something. The wind

Will pick up and catch us having fun."

I say, "So we will reschedule."

They say, "We shouldn't make plans at all."

He says, "Plans are only ruined as they are made."

She says, "The tents are packed and the wind will blow

Them away.

I say, "Let the wind blow, that is the way of nature."

They say, "We'll have blankets, and a fire if it's too cold."

I say, "And darkness to protect us from the animal and the stranger."

My mother comes into the room, tears on her cheeks, she says,

"Nell is dead; there was a gas leak, now they're all gone."

I say, no I think—we think—maybe it's better

That we never make any plans at all.

Reflection

Blue is the ugliest color, mercury

Blue with a hint of delight

And a fusion of circumstances

I have not controlled.

The color of an eye—not a pair, one

Open pupil wide, seeing

Through the angry lines, but

Never hearing, it turns white,

And loses sight, deserving, probably.

I hope that eye never loses

The memory of the things it has seen.

© Garrett Ashley 2011

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Garrett Ashley lives in MS and studies English at The University of Southern Mississippi. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in more than a dozen publications including Brain Harvest, The Bloody Bridge Review, The Smoking Poet, and M Brane SF. Currently he enjoys juggling cats.

Issue ten// Brandon Copeland

On this banal plain

what is that saying?

oh.

darkest before dawn?

and i will keep

holding out my tongue

because each ending

is a different flavor of darkness

no abyss or bliss

just shades of existence,

in the twilight

and the morning repeating

© Brandon Copeland 2011

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Brandon Copeland, 29, is a social justice activist and writer
originally from Kentucky. His website, Nascence, can be visited here.

Issue ten //Derrick A. Paulson

Scribbled Extinct

This morning at the corner coffee shop I overheard the tail

end of a heated conversation in a booth adjacent to mine

between a triceratops and an astronomer. I had assumed

they were discussing their choices in beverages when I first

sat down, had even snickered to myself at the ironic thought

that this armored dinosaur could be drinking a turtle mocha. I

had also quickly stifled a laugh into the crossword section of

my newspaper at the association between “stargazer”

and “Starbucks” (as well as at the coincidence that the

former was the answer to four across). “It doesn’t matter how

cold it is,” the astronomer said, exasperated. “What’s

important is the size of the thing.” “I, for one, am opposed”

snorted the triceratops, “whole textbooks will have to be

overhauled, forthcoming ones recalled, all because of a

minor classification discrepancy.” “Minor?” repeated the

astronomer, “there’re tons of things that would’ve had to be

considered planetary in our galaxy alone, including some

asteroids, if Pluto had stayed a planet.” “Don’t mention

asteroids,” shivered the triceratops. Then, to regain his

composure, he said coolly: “I thought the term ‘dwarf’ was

dysphemistic in contemporary times?” I sipped my cold

coffee, scribbled “extinct” into fifteen across. “It’s completely

fine to call Pluto a dwarf planet,” said the astronomer, “it’s

not going to get offended and start protesting the IAU

committee’s decision—leave it to the misinformed mass to

do that.” His remark was as pointed as his companion’s

horn’s. “Do you imply that I am missing something?” the

triceratops asked as he rubbed the thinning bone of his frill,

unable to check the agitation in his voice. “Your tenure

doesn’t ensure your competence,” replied the astronomer.

Even I could sense there was something akin to an elephant

in the room. I tried to focus on my crossword, to ignore the

silence that followed. The clue for fifteen down: “Cretaceous

ceratopsid” seemed so familiar, yet, for the life of me I

couldn’t place it. When I looked up again the astronomer

was turning a melting ice cube from his emptied glass over

and over in his hand, and the triceratops was gone.

© Derrick A. Paulson 2011

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Derrick A. Paulson (26) is a M.F.A. candidate in creative writing at Minnesota State University Moorhead. His previous works of poetry and prose have been included in Lovechild, Red Weather, and the Gander Press Review.