One Secret Thing – by DONNA DALLAS

  One Secret Thing   Live in this they said as they placed me neatly onto the pink rose-budded bedspread in the room with white and more white so I would be well and release festering thoughts that wake me in the night sweating thick to the point of oil shaking to some madness of…

The Inexorable Lion – by CLARK ZLOTCHEW

The Inexorable Lion Clark Zlotchew   We’d  descend the steep incline At the end of Westerly Drive, Abandoning civilization, For the savage realm below.   We’d labor through trees and brush, My three sons, Eyes wide with anticipation, And I, Tribal patriarch, chief of hunters, Filled with manly vigor.   We’d ford the nameless brook…

The Cookie Jar – by MICHAEL MORRIS

The Cookie Jar   Little Bill constantly snatched his grandmother’s homemade treats. Every day after school, he went to his grandparents’ house, and did his homework at the kitchen table while his grandmother fed him two cookies and a glass of milk. He was never allowed more than this, but too often he could not…

Chance / Woman – by THOM YOUNG

Chance   he gave his only son so that a wretch may become a treasure he gave his last dime to play A2 on the jukebox again and again for there was something left a magic a chance one more time to get up and kick life in the teeth.   Woman   if you…

Owed to Continuation of Species – by PETER BRACKING

  owed to continuation of species   banks you gotta hand it to ’em (and you do you certainly do) banks would slice off your testes rip out your tubes if it were not for their ever grasping need (banks) to claim your first born and any and all subsequent birthings *** Peter Bracking tells…

Poetry – from MEGAN MEALOR

Ripening   mother was our madness   and our curves even her silhouettes were silver           mother could grow marigolds                               in November   she was our snake charmer   our static cling   (Previously published in the Mother’s Day 2014 issue of Broad!)     Little Punk   The wrathful kid with…

Days on Lawndale – by MATTHEW J. LAWLER

Days on Lawndale   Oh those days on Lawndale, The summer sweet weed smell and 40 ounce behemoth breath left its mark upon me like a flame searing flesh. I was in the present moment more attentive than ever, Now reflective upon feeling a certain fire of uncertainty, A vivid emptiness internally.   Identity was…

Butoh / Barbarians – by CARRIE REDWAY

Butoh   I saw a Butoh dancer once snap her back in mid-step jerk her neck to the side I gasped it was surreal but part of the dance.   My spine is an old witch’s crooked cane.   I am afraid that I might lean too far and like a leather belt, crack– vertebrae…