by Theodore Wheeler

When he saw the flat-bed trailer parked at the curb in front of his mother’s house, Scott Ritter’s stomach sank. Papier-mâché sombreros and dozens of novelty Mexican flags were packed on a trailer at the curb, along with snow cone and cotton candy machines. On the side of the trailer was a hand-lettered sign that read M&M Ministries: Games, Music, Choirs. Scott crouched next to the sign, pinching the wire frames of his glasses to make sure he was reading it right, then looked at the ad again. Petting zoo, puppies, and story-telling. Silent auction. Auditions for cherub, youth, and adult choirs. Cinco de Mayo floats!

“Oh, God,” he thought, straightening to read the sign again. He took the newspaper clipping from his pocket. A man at work had shown the classified ad to him. “Listen to this,” the co-worker said. “Christ Centered Mobile Ministries. Win prizes or C.C. Bucks. Free concert. Baby items, bicycles, books, clowns and clothing. Coloring contests.” Scott had laughed himself, reading derisively, “BYOT: bring your own trike!”

(more…)

by Jilly Dreadful

My mother slaughters rabbits.

My mother breaks their necks and spines,

Feels life slip between fingertips.

She played piano when she was young.

Such sturdy fingers.

An apron she wears to stave off blood.

Not that rabbits always bleed,

When she cripples them as they still breathe.

“But sometimes,” she said, “spine snags skin.”

Their mammalian hearts, so used to beating.

I had a fondness for rabbits.

Their soft fur and wet eyes.

The unexpected presence of claws.

“Blood is surprisingly thick in rabbits,”

My mother says.

by Jilly Dreadful

by Geoff Schmidt

On the upper bunk awash in its moonlight, Sherm whispers to his cockroaches. He sits cross-legged; they line his legs. Franklin tosses in his sleep below. He’s been in and out lately. Never out for long. Each time back he’s a little crazier. He’s only been back for a day this time. He’s already talking about pipe bombs and poison. Sherm doesn’t want to wake him up.

The cockroaches tell him about their night, the food they’ve found, the eggs they’ve laid, the lovely cracks they’ve scuttled through, the really interesting interior wall of Warden Brown’s office with its slightly crumbling drywall.

Tell me more about that, whispers Sherm. Does Warden Brown ever hear you?

Oh no, the cockroaches chuckle. We’re very sneaky.

What is Warden Brown doing while you explore the inside of his wall?

Well, we can’t see him, but he mostly makes phone calls, anyway.

What does he say?

Who’s coming, who’s going. We knew Franklin was coming back days before he did, they say proudly.

Is anyone leaving soon?

The roaches shift uncomfortably. No, Shermie. You’re not leaving.

What about Vi?

No, Shermie. She’s not leaving either.

Sherm runs his hands through his bristly hair, looks around the moonlit cell. The walls are old stone, cool and rough, the mortar flaking onto his sheets. The bars of the window are crinkled with rust. Franklin snarls in his sleep.

(more…)

by Will Dowd

Will you be a reader, a student merely,

or a seer?

—Henry David Thoreau

Seers win a trip to the school psychologist.

Tell me, son, about your alternate ending,

the one you scribbled in the margins.

Tell me about the night of first snow,

the flurry of strange footprints,

the grunt at the window sill.

Tell me about Thoreau’s white body

drifting across the night sky

at the end of a fishing line.

Tell me about the tall

reeds of downward

rushing stars.

by Will Dowd

by Kirk Curnutt

The first thing he did after tossing the shotgun, ditching his F-450 at the quarry, shaving his goatee, and dyeing his hair, was Google himself.

Three hours and two hundred miles earlier, Jarvis Murple had shot his father and three of his father’s poker buddies at point-blank range. The men had mocked his negligible skills at Omaha Hi once too often, Murple had snapped, and now he needed to know if he was wanted for murder or merely attempting it.

What he couldn’t quite admit was that he was also eager to see what people were saying about him.

(more…)

by Anna Clarke

I’m reading, I suppose, and I notice

a middle aged couple sit down quietly

to butter their bagels. Their conversation

is limited to weather and the glare of the sun

hitting the window beside them.

I don’t think they’re tired,

I think they’ve just run out of things

to say. Silent on Saturday,

nothing but baked goods between them.

What happened here, somewhere

between her red curls and his long legs,

maybe found in college, a park,

a loud, smoky road-side bar.

I notice a fly that lands on their table.

They both try to brush it away, missing hands.

by Anna Clarke