Short, Fast, and Deadly
i46
Edited by Joseph A. W. Quintela
24 October 2010
Featuring:
Paul Vincent Andrews
Aliza Greenblatt
Robert Laughlin
m.g. martin
George T. Mormann
Christina Rodriguez
Jenny Rossi
Copyright © 2010 by Individual Authors
All Rights Reserved
We Fall Asleep in Water
take me to the delta
wrap me in taro leaf
give me back
i don't want to
burden the sun
again.
by m.g. martin of San Francisco
At the Last Moment
We hold each other close, a perfect dancing pose. The stars above us twinkle and the wind around us blows. Our dance is causing my skirt to defy gravity and his shirt to come undone. All modesty is lost, my head is tucked under his chin. This is our moment, our last moment, I say, the first truth I’ve told him. But he will never know that.
We are falling, dancing and the earth rises up to meet us.
by Aliza Greenblatt of Devon
Shuttle from Rockaway Park
The Devil eats children
sunflower seeds & Malibu
under dirty subway lights
making us laugh like
stretched t-s hanging over
a drunk man's knee
by Christina Rodriguez of Queens
Sweet Disasters of our Prophetic Youth
We stuck armymen's plastic bases into sandbox battlefields and burned them into green and tan casualties with your daddy's bic lighter.
by George T. Mormann of Joliet
A Director Retires
He announced that his final play would express his final opinion of human affairs, after a lifetime of experience and deliberation. Secretly, he had already decided on The Tempest.
That night, he finally met his future son-in-law.
The next day, he announced that he would direct King Lear.
by Robert Laughlin of Chico
Clocking out at 12:35 a.m.
When cigarettes no longer bring you pleasure
try madness,
the obituaries,
or bad customer service.
by Jenny Rossi of Newport
Zelda on France
Most never get a room of one’s own or drown eternally on Pernod with Zelda weeping. Scott wakes up, takes a sip, types a few words about moving glows, empty mansions, and ferry boats. Zelda runs in, nervous and hot. "Scott all you do is type and drink with that limp dick of yours." "Things were harder in Paris." "Fuck You." "Can’t, typing."
by Paul Vincent Andrews of Detroit
