December 21, 2018

M. Stone’s Passionate Poetry

M. Stone’s Passionate Poetry

Tryst mid-afternoonthe hotel corridor is quietoutside our room where feeble lightdulls bleached sheets later on when the sky is dueto erupt and hasten darknesswrapped in a fog shroudI have a fifty-mile drive home but right now I am malleablebeneath your calloused palms I am a well-fed bird eager to settlewithin the coarse and tenderthe flesh-and-bonenest of you Unincorporated Places at night you drive, alert for deer and drunkswhile I gaze west, my retinas gather the glowof stray porch lights and second-story windows  from communities tucked into collarbone hollowsalong the interstate, which reeks of a paper mill some of their names I mispronounce, but you nevercorrect the strange syllables in my mouth Tenuous is the Thread chaos barely constrained by butterfly wings that make figure eights yet tectonic plates gnash their teeth and continents break  could be a low-flying planeor seismic…

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December 18, 2018

Robert Hamilton’s Carefully Crafted Poetry

Robert Hamilton’s Carefully Crafted Poetry

Easter Vigil I had imagined it otherwise.Not as we are, on the white sandpossibly surrounded by peacocks and peahens.I meant the other thingwhich I no longer remember. The year Igor Markevitch diedthe batons of conductorsturned to asps and slithered offuntil spiked to death by the cellists.A pistol cracked in B-flat.Aldo Moro was no more. The cognoscenti raisedtheir little coffee cups;thei rsaucers whiteunfractionable hosts.Pop the trunk: Morois not there, for he has risen.The brigades reddenand limp off, firing Kalashnikovs into hollow desert. Asice locked Lake Como’s secretsdeep within, no one sawMarkevitch descend to Hadesin the form of a bee, orMoro,saints, and Caesarswho swatted him away.The peahen’s voiceis a cry for helpbut Lazarus cannot help her,waiting as he must for his second death,knowing full well what to expect.Romano Prodi staggers from the gravesmiling fatly. He smells of eucalyptus.Like bits of…

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December 6, 2018

“Deception Pass” by Daniel Edward Moore

“Deception Pass” by Daniel Edward Moore

Deception Pass   In the daggered dreams of moonlight, in what cannot wait till morning.   A driver on the bridge’s back, on the way to the worksite’s weary yawn   leaves his car and leaps like hope into water’s frozen hands.   On the spine of Deception Pass, courage leaves prints on the bones   and mercy is late for work.   *** Daniel lives in Washington on Whidbey Island. His poems have been in Spoon River Poetry Review, Rattle, Columbia Journal, Western Humanities Review, and others. His poems are forthcoming in West Trade Review, Duende Literary Journal, The Inflectionist Review, Magnolia Review, Isthmus Review, The McKinley Review, Glass Mountain Magazine, Columbia College Literary Review, January Review, Under a Warm Green Linden and Yemassee. His books, “This New Breed: Bad Boys and Gentleman” an…

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November 29, 2018

“Storming Normandy,” A Short Story by Cindy Layton

“Storming Normandy,” A Short Story by Cindy Layton

Editor’s Note: A pivotal World War II battle was fought on the beaches of France in the summer of 1944. The Normandy invasions by the Allied Forces resoundingly defeated the Germans, who occupied France, but the cost in lives was immense: over 425,000 lives were lost. Yet for the survivors, many more lives were “lost,” as Cindy Layton’s story recounts. Storming Normandy From the doorway I watched as Dad held the gun in his palm, inspecting it, not like they were old friends but business partners. It looked old but still deadly. Where did he get that? His bony fingers ran alongside the round barrel while his eyes traveled along the length of its metal frame. The door to the safe was open, exposing envelopes and a metal box. A purple velvet bag, showing the…

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November 28, 2018

Flexible, Fluid Verses from Ariana Turner

Flexible, Fluid Verses from Ariana Turner

  Bent   I can bend and break, mend and make amends, start riots and cry out— in surrender of once feeling stifled.   I can close my eyes and still see what is gained, lost, and corrupted;   for what is done does not die. It festers and flourishes— seeps into the hollows of every passing moment;   for pain itself is simply a shelter that serves to protect the past from the threat of being forgotten.   And yet how can I ever want to straighten my back   when I am stronger through this weight I carry?     Finite   You were not the orange hue from the streetlamp. You were the streetlamp as we lay upon my parents’ driveway on nights that were heavy with humidity and our quick, quick…

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November 7, 2018

Daniel Lev Shkolnik, Typewriter Poet

Daniel Lev Shkolnik, Typewriter Poet

Photo Credit: Tori Merkle Photography We met Daniel in Harvard Square, where he stood at the corner of Mass Ave and Brattle, typewriter poised to write a poem for a dollar. We asked him to write a poem for our dog, and what he pounded out on the old manual keyboard was sublime. We asked for more, and a correspondence ensued – Boston, New Orleans, Florida – and produced the following excerpts from his impressive body of work. Here’s how he describes his writing: As for the story of how I came to write poetry in Harvard Square: it has everything to do with my love affair with New Orleans, which started three years ago when I hitchhiked from New York to the Big Easy. New Orleans is a place where there’s an established legacy…

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October 21, 2018

“The Radio’s On,” a Short Story by Kevin White

“The Radio’s On,” a Short Story by Kevin White

He said he was going into the den to pay some bills. He took his beer with him and kissed his girlfriend on the head and said he would back in time to go to bed. She did not say anything but she probably smiled. He went into his den and shut the door and went to his desk. It included pencils, paper clips, an old transistor radio he never used, tissues, a phone book. He sat for a while, sorting out all the paperwork, when his cellphone rang. It was her again. He had to answer. “Hello?” “Hey, Kevin.” “Hey.” “I’m…surprised you picked up. I’ve been trying to get you.” “I’ve just been busy.” “Doing what?” “Just…things. Nothing, really.” They were treading worlds of the past and they were doing it too lightly to…

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October 17, 2018

Ghostographs: An Album by Maria Romasco Moore

Ghostographs: An Album by Maria Romasco Moore

NOTE: Ghostographs is a chapbook of short fictions inspired by old photographs by Maria Romasco Moore. It will be published November 1 by Rose Metal Press. The following review was written by Simran P. Gupta, Fictional Café’s Poetry Barista. Ghostographs: An Album by Maria Romasco Moore   The Perfect Book to Welcome Fall Reviewed by Simran P. Gupta The sun is setting earlier and earlier, the temperature is dropping steadily, and it’s time to pull out our long sleeves and warm socks. If you’re like me, you’ll switch from your favorite sweet iced coffee at Starbucks to all the drinks that symbolize fall and its accompanying chill: hot apple cider, cocoa, herbal teas, all things pumpkin. And of course the return of hot coffee! I’ve always been fond of dedicating October to books that make…

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October 8, 2018

“Rearguard,” A Short Story by Robert Perron

“Rearguard,” A Short Story by Robert Perron

Jana backed off from Barry’s fart. No odor but a blast, a massive rip that blossomed the seat of his Royal Robbins convoy shorts before undulating out a leg hole. Okay, maybe she imagined the blossoming and undulating, but not the acoustics. Barry, a meter ahead, uphill, his left boot perched on a stone set in the trail for that purpose, twisted his body and said, “Sorry.” A wide tan hat protected his balding pate and shadowed the mien of sincerity on his salt and pepper face. “Quite all right,” said Jana. “Some things can’t be helped. I suppose.” Barry turned, applied hiking poles to path, and lifted his right foot. Jana let him gain several steps, and several steps later he ripped another, his head making a half turn and his shoulders shrugging. Oh,…

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September 17, 2018

The Poetry of Wayne King

The Poetry of Wayne King

Editor’s Note: The featured image is Wind in the Maple by Wayne King. “Wind in the Washline” and “The Prevariating Day” Copyright 2021, by Wayne D. King, Published by Moosewood Publishing Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. Wind in the Washline Peace Comes on a Breeze Spirits Rise, Hope is Reborn The Washline Dances The Prevaricating Day Summer in the North Country A warm breeze, briefly noted. Through pine and hardwood, Crossing fields of corn and Unmown grass portending hay Cutting, courting, cunning Teasing, testing, trimming As if intending to remain, Yet only taunting. June days, behind us now, Beckoned us out, out Out to shake off winter Stubbornly liberating spring A month of April showers, Ours for but a pair of days, Dried to hard baked soil by May Constraining wildflowers Still pushing, prodding, poking…

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