in Buy Print Editions, Issue 100 (6 November 2011), Poems, Prose, Word Art, Writers from China, Writers from Colorado, Writers from Illinois, Writers from Italy, Writers from Maryland, Writers from Massachusetts, Writers from New Jersey, Writers from New Mexico, Writers from New York, Writers from Pennsylvania, Writers from Spain, Writers from Wales | Permalink
Respects Paid
Sentiments never arrive on cue as do baskets plump and high, angling for position, blind to purpose. Cellophane-wrapped candies, oranges arrogant and bright are collectively urged upward by cardboard props and outward, splitting straw. Juice-oozing bruised fruit soaks through the typo on a tag. Contemplate eating forty-nine apples and equal number of pears.
Deadly
It's a 1-round bout between reader and author. You've got 3 minutes. Bring it. I want to be jabbed in the face, punched in the stomach, and feel an upper cut to my chin. I want cut lips. I want to taste blood. At least one eye should be swollen and partially shut. I want the impact of your punches to linger after I limp out of the ring. Hell, if you can't do that to me and do it quickly, you're in the wrong game.
by Bruce Harris of Scotch Plains
Digging
Digging up rocks, throwing them aside, planting it, watering it, soaking it, overflowing it, making sure it doesn’t wither, but grow, grow up. More water, more water. Maybe too much water, don’t know. Don’t know what happened. Don’t touch it. Don’t pull up what’s left. Let it be. Walk away. Don’t look back. Walk away. Please.
by William J Fedigan of Ridgewood
Index Cards
Index cards? No one uses index cards these days. No one, that is except old ladies.
And, murderers…
The street is dark, the pavement wet. You are alone, aren’t you?
“Psst.”
What was that?
“Psst. Hey you, you like a good mystery?”
You turn around. You see no one.
“Well, do you?”
You swallow hard. “I guess,” you manage to squeak.
“Then check this out…”
http://www.pinetreemysteries.com/PTstories/issue4/PTindexcardpg1.html
by Bruce Harris of Scotch Plains
By the Tide
On the beach was no one and waves and sun and birds. When I was sitting I ate an apple and threw it away and then a gull came and picked it up. It stood close, watching me sideways with a leg up and choking down the core while I talked too much. The water broke white over my feet and left a wet shadow as far as I could see until it sunk below the sand. I watched this happen for a longer time than I ever imagined.
by Zachary Koch of Fanwood
Love is
belt-in-mouth
self-surgery, a prayer
built from pulse and time.
by Jennifer-Leigh Oprihory of Jersey City
ABC's of Addiction
Counting days again. Lost track though. Never been good with numbers. Words? They work. So I play with them:
Alcohol Begins Cycles. Dope Eliminates Flaws. Getting High Inspires Jokes. Killer Lines Make Nightly Outrage Palatable. Quitting Requires Stamina. Taxman Unexpectedly Visits When X-rays Yield Zigzags Around Brain Cells.
The ABC's of addiction are pretty straightforward. It's the aftermath that's fuzzy.
by Joe Whalen of Lambertville
Impromptu History Lesson
My father tried to explain how inbreeding among royalty led to the fall of the Hapsbourgs. Every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way. I remember he used my cousin Bobby as an example, I said, Eew, made faces until he substituted my cousin Josh from the other side of the family. At a gathering Josh flirted, "Are those real pearls?" I was 12, grinned, asked if he would like to run them across his teeth.
by Elissa Gordon of Elizabeth
*Italicized words found in Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
No Neutral Corner
There was talk. There was always talk during the weeks leading up to a championship fight. But, never like this. Fight day. The champ looked across the ring at his opponent. Challenger. Wasn’t he the man who broke the skull of Blundell, of the Telegraph? The bell for round one. A phantom punch no one sees floors the champ. The crowd jeers and boos as the referee begins counting. For the next 10 seconds he’d be safe.
by Bruce Harris of Scotch Plains
*Italicized words found in The Lost World by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Close Your Eyes, Go Anywhere You Want
Ten hands
of S. Rachmaninov
spilling from clouds
to tap each bead of mist
as Concerto No. 2
fills the plains
like the hum of a box fan.
by Adam Gianforcaro of Glassboro
Off the Radar
Two weeks silent
wondering what words
hide behind billboards
waiting to arrest me.
by Judy Shepps Battle of Kendall Park
No Write Turns
The professor addressed the class. "This is a creative writing course, no? Wherever I look I see road signs, 25 words or less, 20 words or less, under 500 words, or if you can believe it, 420 characters or less! It’s stifling, smothering, unrealistic and down right restrictive. What’s next? One-word sentences? How’s this: Fuck. Shit. Good?"
A student walked to the blackboard. In capital letters he wrote, EXCELLENT.
by Bruce Harris of Scotch Plains
June 1995
Boy. Girl. Teenagers. Walking. Hands. Blushing. Walking. Rain. Thunder. Running. Overhang. Huddling. Thunder. Downpour. Closer. Lightning. Closer. Hands. Girl. Boy. Blushing. Huddling. Closer. Closer. Teenagers. Lightning.
by Eirik Gumeny of Montclair
Twice Discharged
Honorably discharged from the century’s most unpopular war, the boy returned home a man. It wasn’t the killing, the maiming, the torture, or the inhumanity to which he was exposed and that was all consuming which had caused the transformation. Hell, he’d endured far worse growing up in the projects. It was that damn stray bullet, discharged from a stolen handgun, which struck down his mother, his dear sweet mother.
by Bruce Harris of Scotch Plains
About the Author
Dear Ms. Ott,
Everything I write is autobiographical. See you soon.
Two weeks prior, Ellen Ott had sent the following letter:
Dear Mr. Byrne,
I don’t usually send fan mail, but I must tell you I am enamored with your fiction. Truly blown away by your creativity. Of course, I’d never want to meet any of the characters you’ve created, after all they are morally reprehensible, scary, and frankly, nuts.
by Bruce Harris of Scotch Plains
Strand
Cleaning out the boxes,
I came across a strand
of your hair,
not thick enough
to hang myself with
but
not thin enough
to burn
either--
by Phil Lane of Parsippany
A Bowl of Trouble
Murder of crows, pride of lions, trouble of goldfish? I wanted to see for myself: a month’s allowance and a dozen plastic baggies later, I was the proud owner of a bowl chock full of fish. Little guys didn't seem like trouble, really, just swimming and blinking. Twitching. Blinking. Floating. Less blinking. When I jammed the toilet disposing of evidence, Mom found out. Then I found out how much trouble goldfish are.
by Carrie Cuinn of Hamilton
Sentry Duty
Mute mouth.
Eyes water.
Daylight ends.
Fear doesn't.
by Judy Shepps Battle of Kendall Park
Tea Party
"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
