Short, Fast, and Deadly
i53
"The Year in Review"
Edited by Joseph A. W. Quintela
Cover Photo by Lizza Dauenhauer-Pendley
12 December 2010
Featuring:
Thomas Cochran
Christopher Ficco
Bruce Harris
Shelly Holder
Jessica Knauss
C. Martinez
Ben Rasnic
Eric Sentell
Tanuj Solanki
Robert Vaughan
Christopher Vola
Copyright © 2010 by Individual Authors
All Rights Reserved
A suicide bombing
occurred at a volleyball game
in Pakistan, killing at least 95
and injuring over 100.
by Thomas Cochran of West Fork
Grinning Irish-American clown makes me laugh despite the sea turtle paddling through brown sludge. Those turtles will burn alive.
I read "Memento Mori" by David Sedaris, looking up in enough time to see my dog exhale for the last. I lay sleepless in the dark and have over-brewed Assam for breakfast.
It’s freezing when my sister holds the door for two women who lose their smiles when I wrap my shawl over my hair.
by C. Martinez of Denver
The sign says, "Please Don’t Climb." Most people take out their frustrations buying souvenirs and beer. But June couldn’t stop imagining herself in that seat. She took a rope and scaled the monument. Atop the platform, she slipped, landing, broken, under the warning sign.
The notice was eclipsed by the Eyjafjallajöküll eruptions. Why road-trippers in the US paid attention to that, I’m not sure.
by Jessica Knauss of Tucson
"How quaint," she said, "tea for two."
For the first time in her life, she was in love. They raised their mugs in a toast.
"To us!" she shouted. "Say, what’s on your mug?"
"Hello, Darkness, by Howie Good. You know, Deadly Chaps. Hello? Where have you been?"
"What?" she replied, "What in the world is Deadly Chaps? I never heard of it. It sounds so ominous."
He said nothing. His look told her it was all over.
by Bruce Harris of Scotch Plains
Another evening spent
walking along the outer perimeter
of police tape
sucking the yellow
out of a full moon.
by Ben Rasnic of Bowie
Inspired by the March 16th fire at the Kasubi Tombs, Uganda
White means unarmed but the package fired all up again. Hatred no one had the bravery to claim, only a shadowy truck, faceless outlines. Do you fear our sorrow? Mutessa I Are you haunted by our wailing? Mwanga II What tears burn you more than these on our cheeks? Chwa II What charcoal path led you to this destruction? Mutessa II We will soak this sacred ground with our spirit and make you small in comparison.
by Shelly Holder of Duarte
The zhag-zhuk of the helicopter sounds. I get up. I start running under it, chasing it. What is left of the village runs with me. Fatima too. I am glad she survived. I look up again. I stumble. We stumble. We run. We cry out to the Americans, as if they can hear us. Ashfaq has tears in his eyes. They fall to the sodden ground. Is he looking above for his drowned children?
Then, two bags of rice fall. Just two.
by Tanuj Solanki of Bombay
Tears turned to muddy creeks on Rodrigo’s dusty, fourteen-year-old face. His vision filled with his parent’s dead, bloody faces. Sweat froze his eight-year-old sister’s hand to his own as he pulled her through cactus-laden darkness that slashed and bit. The American border, an illusory haven, was miles away, but the Americans would just send them back. In the camps the gangs would make them look like his parents.
by Christopher Ficco of Aurora
Joe and his lover Tony were laid off in January. In the fall, when don’t ask, don’t tell was repealed, they raced down to their local army headquarters in the Village, asked to re-apply, wanted to serve America again. By the time they’d filled out the paperwork, the laws changed. That night, they celebrated their 10th anniversary, dancing at Splash.
by Robert Vaughan of Milwaukee
Mutation. Human infection. Spreading. Thousands dead. Societal frenzy. Spreading. Vaccine shortage. Grave concern. Vaccine surplus. Societal sigh of relief.
Mutated Vaccine. Infections spreading. Millions dead. Societal scream. Vaccine fear, face masks, gloves. Too late.
Millions dead. Great jobs available. Less demand, lower prices. The bright side of H1N1. We should do this to ourselves more often.
by Eric Sentell of Springfield
Coarse, oily pores couldn’t stop you from getting to the age where you got whatever you wanted. You wanted a dick. You had a dick. You kept it alive by gripping. And no matter what you wanted to be--blogger, martyr, Neo-Con, limp-wristed Blue-Stater--the core of your mystery, this dick, was always your real vocation. You spent the year in a laptop’s glow.
by Christopher Vola of New York
