Short, Fast, and Deadly

Short, Fast, and Deadly
Issue Seventeen
Edited by Joseph A. W. Quintela
4 April 2010

Featuring:
Jennifer Hollie Bowles
J.M. Brandt
Catfish McDaris
Frank Miller
Nicole Monaghan
Sam Robison
Ray Scanlon

Copyright © 2010 by Individual Authors
All Rights Reserved

=reality is connection=

by Jennifer Hollie Bowles of Knoxville

Donald

A Boston-bound Amtrak headlight snaps into view at East Junction. Donald balances on one leg, leans forward toward the train while extending his other leg back like an ice skater, doffs his ever-present baseball cap to the oncoming Acela, and curls his tongue out and down beneath an upper jaw totally devoid of incisors. This man is a living gargoyle, I think, and realize that we don't have much more to talk about.

by Ray Scanlon of Rehoboth

Roping Flies

Arrested for running over a turquoise raccoon. I thought of Dillinger's pal Homer Van Meter. He roped flies in jail. I unraveled my shirt for a lariat.

 
by Catfish McDaris of West Allis

Respite

touching moments
soften the hard-angled, bolted rage
strangling life in county jail
 
by Frank Miller of Bloomington

Not Dead Yet

The fat man bleeding on the Union Square subway platform was not laughing. Neither were the policemen. The man with the knife might've been laughing. I don't know. I never met him. But I was. Oh, how I chuckled, chortled & snorted! I did not guffaw at his fat nor bray at his blood. Nor did I cackle at the cops or titter at his attacker. I laughed and sighed because no one had died on the Union Square subway platform.

by Sam Robison of New York City

Cherry: The Painting

You call me "calm" or even the strange word "composed", which I've always felt was more suitable for the long neck of a violin, not tom-boy girls like me. I won't dare to call it "mask" because it's much less dramatic, even "facade" makes me squirm. It's a beautiful painting; the glossy face of a girl - unsmiling lips and dull eyes. Created by you, an unknown artist. I'll hang it in my bedroom, but I won't like it.

by J.M. Brandt of Columbia

I’m Writing My Own Eulogy

After Natalie was fired from her job as head chef, she started hitting the liquor cabinet hard. Sometimes it would be vanilla vodka with Crystal Light Lemonade. Sometimes it would be Seagram’s Dark Rum with pineapple juice. On horrific nights, she’d fix herself some bruschetta to accompany a Shiraz or Merlot. To those of you sitting there holding tissues on your black pants, here’s the thing -- knock the act. 

by Nicole Monaghan of North Wales