Archive for the ‘2009 — 1.2 (Spring)’ Category

Dayton by Woody McCree ~ep


17 May

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Where Were You? by Steven Brown ~ep


17 May

I was there…Where were you?
As the clock ticked its rhythmic tune,
As I–stood with only hope before a road so new…
I was there…Where were you?

As I – tirelessly struggled,
In my–acrobatic juggle of…
Everything that the world threw…
I was there…Where were you?

When I–entered our bed, my only pleasure was to please,
As the artist that is me with the greatest of ease,
Began to sculpt you a statue of everlasting truth,
I was there…Where were you?

When the children came,
When they cried at night,
When they looked to us for a guiding light,
When they longed for peace and needed us to come through,
I was there…Where were you?

When the battles raged, and I fought my way to the top,
With the world in my hand to hold or to drop,
When it all became too much,
When I was scared and confused,
I was there…Where were you?

When it all came crashing down…
When I fell from the top and I smashed to the ground,
When I picked myself up…broken and bruised,
I was there…Where were you?

Well there’s one thing I know to be absolutely true…
And it’s the Devil’s gonna come to collect his due,
And you’ll look to find comfort in these eyes of blue….
But… I won’t be there for you.
 

In a Distance by Taryn Courtney ~ep


08 May

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Leap of Death by Rachel DeYoung ~ep


08 May

The man straps himself in back of me like a baby harnice. I slide on the goggles over my head as the wind is literally blowing us around inside the plane. I officially hate my husband now. His sick humor lead to a surprise skydiving appointment for my 30th birthday. At this point I am ready to knife the instructor and the man holding the camera in front of me and tell the pilot to land the plane. If only I had a knife. As I am imagining my plot of escape the man strapped behind me starts stepping forward and I begin to stumble. My legs turn into jell-o. I can’t move my body, my arms feel like the bones are literally shrinking and I am no longer able to hold up my own arms. He continues to step forward as my feet refuse to move, I wish I had put crazy glue on the bottom of them. The wind is so harsh I can barely talk to tell him to stop, that I can’t do this, and go on about getting a lawyer and sueing him for every penny he has if he jumps off of this plane. The guy in front of me insists on filming this entire ordeal and gets two inches away from my face when we approach the side door of the plane. My head is almost entirely out of the door. All I see is blue, the blue sky and the cause of my death, the ground. I turn my head to look at his face and see his huge grin of enjoyment. I would pay to smack it right off of his face. My eyes begin to water up and my heart is no longer racing, it’s going too fast to even be beating anymore. That’s it, I can fake a heart attack, just pass out, have my body become completely limp and end this whole–
“You ready?” he asks suddenly.
“NO! WAIT!” I said drastically. I couldn’t catch my breath. I couldn’t even remember what I thought about for my excuse to get out of this.  I was going to die, this is it. I’ll never go to Bermuda or take that 14 day cruise to Alaska and see the polar bears. I’ll never be able to get the chance to fit into my favorite bathing suit. My kids! I’ll never see them off to high school, college, marriage, grandchildren. I hate my husband, I hate him! 
“Here we go!” He says and takes the leap to my death.

Black Light Profile by Katherine Tjarks ~ep


08 May

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Thimble by P. J. German ~ep


08 May

Vomiting ghosts, you are in deep.

You only (save) the money that
      created
you.
Never do you save the drowning. You are blind, to their call;

deaf to our wave.

Palatable proposals plaster you;
yet,
when eaten, they resemble apples.

Snakes bleed from your veins

when you are pricked with truth.

A shard of genuineness would be but a thimble upon your grave.
1.27.09

6.10pm

The Tale of Love’s Magician by P. J. German ~ep


08 May

The fog clung to the forest ground like a tree’s roots cling to the dirt for dear life. Deep in the middle of this dark, foggy forest is a tower where a magician resides. For years, in the highest rooms of the tower, he has been creating potions upon potions and selling them to folks in the town, mostly for healing and love. The latter was requested the most from him, and it began to take a toll upon the poor magician’s heart. He decided he wanted a true love for himself, specifically meant for him. He said to himself one day, ‘If I am going to create a female, I must get parts of a female.’ He went to the graveyard, looked at some sites and found a woman he once knew of and dug up her grave. He took from her a fingernail, hair, and a piece of her heart. He went back to his lab in his tower and began to create a potion with her parts in the stew. He said to himself, ‘I must create this woman to counter me.’ He plucked a strand of hair from his head, and with his wand he withdrew a piece of his heart. Tossing those pieces of him, and a bottle of his love potion into the stew, he began to whisper words as he stirred all the ingredients together, ‘Firt don lee tun  sifth’; which means, ‘Life unto death, I give.’ He continued for a few days checking in on the cauldron, stirring it often.
      After a week of tending to the potion, he awoke one morning with a beautiful young lady beside him in bed. That day, and for many days after, she followed him wherever he went: into his lab, into town, into the forest, and many other places. She took orders from him and did whatever he wished. She cooked him meals thrice daily, baked special deserts, went shopping for him, and cleaned the house, among other tasks to fulfill his needs.
      Months went by and the magician began to feel lonely once again. His heart grew empty the more time he spent with his lady. When he was able to sneak away from her for a few solitary moments, he said to himself, ‘What I have is not true love. True she tends to every need I desire; however, there is something missing in my life. Clearly this female is not my true love. I will create a concoction that will take her spirit away and back to the grave.’
      That evening he created a magical poison that did such powers as he intended. He awoke the next morning, alone and depressed. He spent some time mourning his loss of love until one day he awoke and said to himself, ‘There is no reason for me to be so sad. I have proven I can create a female with my magic and I ought to try again.’
      That evening he returned to the graveyard to dig up the remains of another female he once knew of. At the graveyard he spoke with himself as he searched for another female, ‘Despite all the attention I received from the previous lady, not once had she pleased me in bed. I must find one who can do such things for me, for that must be where my heart is lacking in happiness.’ He walked the sites and paused at one he seemed pleased with. He dug through the earth, opened her coffin and spoke, ‘This time, I will not take fingernails from her as I do not need her attention from her hands.’ He instead took hair, a breast, and a piece of her heart. He returned to his lab and placed into the new stew the ingredients of the female, a strand of his hair, a piece of his heart, and a bottle of love potion.
      In a week, he awoke to a female lying beside him. Immediately when he woke, she wanted to please him physically. She pleased him every way he desired in bed, and he was very happy.
      As time drew on, however, he realized most of his time was spent with her and the relations they had together. He was unable to complete many tasks including creating potions for the townsfolk, fetching food from the grocer, and cleaning his tower. As much as he enjoyed his time with her, he still felt empty deep within.  Once again, he created the poison that would send the lady’s soul back to the grave and had her partake of it one evening.
      For a second time, the magician woke in the morning alone and depressed. His soul was heavier after the second female as he had an intimate relationship with her, and connected in ways only two people who are truly in love ought to connect. He tortured himself with his thoughts day after day as his depression only deepened. It was not until a wise wizard who was a friend of the magician came and visited. He spoke to the magician, ‘Why do you torture yourself in such ways, friend? So you screwed up. Forgive yourself and move on. Give true love another chance. It will come to you; I am sure of this.’
      When his wizard friend had left, the magician thought upon the wise words of counsel for a few days. He finally came to the conclusion his friend is correct, he ought to give love another chance. Thus, he visited the graveyard a third time.
      He spoke with himself when he found a site he thought would work, ‘I took fingernails of the first for service. I took breast of the second for pleasure. Neither of those worked; therefore, it is clear that love must come from the mind.’ He withdrew from the third female, hair, heart, and a slice of her mind.
      After mixing the potion with the new ingredients along with his hair, heart, and a bottle of love potion, he awoke the next week to another female. This relationship lasted longer than the first two. She was able to stimulate the intellectual growth of the magician. Through her, his healing and love potions were made stronger than before. He created, with her help, many new potions; potions so affective he became rich and famous. Folk from all across the land near and far came specifically to his tower to purchase his incredible potions.
      The days turned into months, and the months turned into years. Nonetheless, for a third time, he became unhappy once again. He discovered fame and fortune cannot fulfill the demands of the heart. So once again, he concocted that poison, and sent her soul back to the depths of the earth.
      At this point, the magician became very angry in his depression. He cursed the heavens and the earth. He blasphemed all the things he once believed in; magic, potions, astronomy, and many other things magicians believe. In his fit of anger he destroyed his lab. He threw everything out of the window, burned them to ashes and dust, and decided to sell his tower. He wanted nothing to do with magic, nothing to do with potions, nothing to do with love; and worst of all, nothing to do with anything at all. The magician simply did not want to live without love.
      Later in the week, a young lady stopped by the magician’s tower. She said to him, ‘I hear you are selling your tower. I am interested in purchasing it. What is your offer?’ He told her his offer and she agreed to it; however, she continued with a request of her own, ‘I, Magician, am a lonely young lady. I have never lived with anyone but my own family, and my family is a tragedy in of itself. I have been lonely for many years and I simply could not bear living in this great tower all by myself. Could you be so kind and to dwell in this place with me, as it was once your home as well?’
      The magician thought upon this request and came to the conclusion, ‘Ma’am, I have nothing going for my life. I gave up my craft, I gave up on love, and simply put, I gave up on life. I have nothing left to live for, but find it meaningless and foolish to end my life. I will stay here and serve you.’
      One morning, after many months of service to the young lady, the magician woke up to a revelation. He arose from his bed, showered, dressed, groomed himself, and proceeded down the staircase to the young lady’s bedroom. He rapped upon her door and waited for her reply, ‘Yes?’
      ‘May I come in Ma’am? Are you decent?’
      “Yes, I am. Please, come in.’
      The magician opened the door and found her tending to her hair and face as she often liked to do. He went beside her chair, knelt down, and spoke, ‘I love you!’
      She replied, ‘Thank you, Magician.’
      Her reply struck him deep within, ‘Thank you? That is it? That is all you have to say?’
      Although his frustration churned, the young lady kept her composure, ‘Well, what would you like me to say?’
      ‘How about, ‘I love you too’?’
      She turned to face him, ‘Magician, you have sought to produce true love thrice times. Thrice times did you fail. What makes you so sure this time?’
      ‘Thrice times I tried to produce true love. Thrice times did I fail. Thrice times did I seek to make myself happy. This time, with you, I never once sought to bring happiness upon myself. I only sought to make you happy; and when I see you happy as a result of the things I do for you, I am happy. That is how I know it is true this time.’
      The young lady smiled at the magician and aptly replied, ‘Then Magician, I love you too!’
 

Carousel by Rebecca Varley ~ep


08 May

Gloomy day. Typical. The children are never satisfied. Screaming and fighting against youth. Little do they know this is the time to treasure. The tracks are especially irritable today, all the corners are jarring. The turns, especially fast. Every passenger too consumed to revere the beauty around, yielding even gloomier perceptions. Even the parents are particularly obnoxious today. They aren’t even pretending to admire their children. One is screaming business on a cell phone, remembering to look up at his now downtrodden little redhead only once, just in time for her to let out a bloody wail. One of the mothers is too consumed with hedonistic details of the previous evenings outing to notice her only son has burst into a violent tearstorm, having accidentally chosen the deceptively beautiful front horse, adorned with gold and flowers, but undoubtedly the fastest, most dangerous of the bunch. He continues to scream and she continues to disgust me. And life goes on. And the cycle continues.
      Another group of unsatisfied mongrels, sticky fingered and rotten, cotton candy escaping from their mouths, climb aboard mocking the shrill carnival music and its attempt to bring cheer to a world of decay. Chuggachugga skiiiiiirt.
      Fastforward to another group. This one full of pukers and pouters. Fastforward to ungratefuls. Fastforward to gloomers. Screamers. Fighters. Ignorants. Spoileds. Each their own little unfortunate downward spiral. Skiiiiiirt.
      And all along, I’m stuck here witnessing it. Alone. Completely. Totally. Utterly.  Alone. Never, do they choose me. I ward them off well. Chugga shriiiiek.
      Rewind to before they switched me to the back of the inside track, right behind the bucket seats. Before I stopped rising and falling. Rewind to when I was in the middle behind a beautiful gold number, on the outside track, perfectly positioned. When tempos and speeds were right, the corners were always a delicate balance of fast and slow. When I rose and fell gracefully, in synchronization with the then loveable sounds that resonated in the air. The children were children then. Innocent. Sweet. Laughing and gay. Enough to make one envious of their purity.
      Fastforward to right now. The last group of kids for the evening is stumbling around, their stomachs full of tilts and whirls, attempting to find some balance by riding out an old childhood memory. The music is slightly less brash than usual and for some reason the shrieks seem dulled. And I see her.
      She is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Her eyes are intense and sincere and tell me she’d spotted me long before now. Long before today. She is not a fluke. She is purpose. My purpose. She is here to set me free.
      She is heading my way. She is humming melodically, sweetly, some gorgeous big band number full of brasses in tender embrace. She gracefully positions herself, side-saddle and faces outward to the world, seeming to admire the bright lights and fresh air. No one is around but she and I and it could be no more perfect.
      Gingerly, she runs her fingers of the smooth metal of my positioning pole, running her fingers down to admire the crevices of my mane. She is admiring the idiosyncrises.
      She is a see-er. She sees life. Beauty. Balance. It is obvious in her mannerisms.
      Scooooot Scooooot. The turns are gentle. Scooooot.
      We ride together for what feels like three minutes of endlessness.
      And to me, it is.
      My existence starts and stops today. Now. In this moment. Completion.
      Silence.

A Morning on the Elevator by Meredith Fuss ~ep


08 May

      Someone bumped the back of her four inch heel as they shifted to the rear of the elevator as she moved her foot and stepped forward slightly, waiting for her fourteen floor ride to be over so she could escape the mixed scents of people and their obnoxious slurping as they sucked down coffee and all their talking as if each person were the most important person there, when the same person who kicked her heel pinched her butt, and she brought the point of her heel back and up as she bent her knee and nailed her intended target, for she heard his gasp of pain as she reached the seventh floor where old Mr. Williams stepped in and joined the ride, but the poor man was so old he has lost some important functions in his aging, such as control of the muscles in his buttocks because all the people who regularly rode this elevator had to fear his flatulence and though they had become accustomed to holding their breaths, they all still wanted to pass out, so today she was just happy she was standing next to Ms. Potts, an old lady she was sure spilled a whole bottle of perfume on herself every morning in a failed attempt to disguise the horrible odor of moth balls which permeated her clothing, but at least she didn’t have to smell Mr. Williams’ gas which nauseated the rest of the elevator crew making them thankful to step off to their various floors to begin the work routine, yet here she reached floor nine and Bill got on, no doubt on his way to floor fifteen to harass the barista at the coffee shop, but she was glad it wasn’t her anymore because she’d gotten into enough trouble six months ago when they’d run into each other at that very same coffee shop and he’d uttered a few pretty words and in her vulnerability fell for him, but only because Michael has up and left her without warning, but now Bill was here and she was trying to avoid his open gaze, for he was always so blunt and open and didn’t care who saw what, so he tortured her with that stare floor after floor, reminding her of those few months that she slept with him because she was angry with Michael and thought that would be an effective way of getting back at him but it didn’t work because Michael ended up with a pretty little brunette and married her and got her pregnant, and Bill went after the trampy barista, and she just smiled in bitter relief when she reached the fourteenth floor and could escape the elevator.

The Rogue by T. J. Glaser ~ep


08 May

He creeps along the floor without a sound
A master of deception never to be found
A warrior found only in the darkest night
One that is always out of sight
His footsteps are careful and delicate at best
Always moving, never stopping not even to rest
He slips from the streets and into a home
Sneaking into their humble dome
He arrives upon the one to kill
A task he was chosen to fulfill
And draws a blade and raises it high
And cuts the throat to silence his cry
And just like that his task is done
Now the time to escape has come!
His hand drops a single powder of flash
And into the night he makes his dash!
He scales the rooftops with greatest ease
Leaving the guard with nothing to seize
Just like that he’s gone, out of sight!
The rogue vanishes into the night.