Under the red glow of the foundry, I searched for my wife. The whole city over, red ambient nothing, and only one man had seen her, a drunk in a union bar.
"Just you give me the man’s name," I said.
He said, "That’s a lot of names to count."
I collared him hard with a right. Everyone was looking at me, expecting me to do more.
I only got a few licks in before a mob threw me out.
Elle was waiting for me on the street.
by Joe Scott of Lawrence
The Johnstown Drought
The Johnstown Blizzard
I woke up with my hands and feet wrapped. I had lost four of the fingers on my right hand. I just had a thumb. Some people said thank God I had that one, but they didn’t think that statement through.
Elle told me about how I got too drunk and horny, and so she threw me out of the house in the snow.
I said I was sorry.
She said my hand grossed her out.
I said I was sorry.
She said she couldn’t love me anymore.
by Joe Scott of Lawrence, KS
The Johnstown Flood
I wondered if Elle was somewhere in the tow of the water or if she was one of the people riding a roof on top of it.
"How are you," she said.
I showed her my mangled hand with my thumb pointed up.
She sat down next to me, and from that hill we watched Johnstown get swept away and wiped clean off the earth, perfectly erased.
"I bet you wish I was down there," she said.
"Sure," I said.
by Joe Scott of Lawrence
Henry’s Romance
You wish that the stars between branches would turn to berries so you could pack them home to the kitchen, bake cobbler for the people you love and give them a taste of your recipe, but each time you hike out beyond the bean rows, you sit on a jawbone of limestone. Your feet are stones in the cedars. You are committed like the railway at the edge of the pond. There is no way home from here.
by Al Ortolani of Lenexa
Not Breakfast
I think I had been having dreams about her. I think I had been having dreams where I ran as hard as I could but all it did was give me an erection and nobody wanted to touch me.
Déjà vu started:
"I don’t fuck anybody, ever," she said.
"Neither do I," I said.
Déjà vu stopped.
"Good," she said, "Then we’re on the same page."
I was only trying to be agreeable, though.
by Joe Scott of Lawrence
Three Funerals in a Week
My numbers are defeated by seven, eleven. I wait for the chance to pass the dice to another player. But the croupier compels me to try my luck again.
by Tina Hacker of Leawood
