LITSNACK

LITNSACK'S NEW HOME!!

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Sun, 01 Nov 2009 19:43:00 +0000

Litsnack has moved across town. Our new address is:

www.litsnack.weebly.com.

Please come visit us. But don't forget the housewarming gift. We still need to cover some stains on the walls.

BORN INTO THIS? by Jason Fisk

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Fri, 30 May 2008 13:28:00 +0000

Born into this? Yeah,
I watched the documentary.
I didn't mind Bukowski's antics
until he was sitting there on the couch
with his girlfriend.

He got mad at her
and the spat escalated into
a drunken argument.

The next thing I know
Bukowski's sitting there,
sideways on the couch,
in his bathrobe
kicking his
woman.

Like a spoiled child
getting pissed
at someone
and kicking them.

Not a drop of his drink
spilled as he
scooted himself across
the couch
and relentlessly kicked
the love of his life.

Jason Fisk lives in Chicagoland with his wife, daughter, and two dogs. He tries to find time to write between changing diapers and cleaning up poop. He is currently teaching English to students who would rather read graphic novels than learn how to write a proper sentence. You can visit his website at jasonfisk.com.

LIFE by Spencer Troxell

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Tue, 20 May 2008 16:48:00 +0000

At a certain point

You put your head down.

Not in defeat,

But to work.

You put your shoulders into it.

You make your calves ache.

When you were little,

Your face was a full moon

Receptacle: a plate to catch rain.

Now your face catches sweat

Streaming in dirt

Down from your hat band.

You are building something

You will never complete,

And that is the way it should be.

Spencer Troxell lives in Cincinnati with his wife and two sons. He's 27. His writing has appeared in many places, and an e-book of his poetry called Mule and Horse will be available April 1st. courtesy of whyvandalism.com . visit his blog for more stuff: spencertroxell.blogspot.com

THE SULLIED ART by Gary Lehmann

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Thu, 17 Apr 2008 18:58:00 +0000

When George Caleb Bingham’s opponent

in the Missouri Legislative race of 1847

did some particularly nasty things

in the election campaign,

Bingham declared that he would

strip off all my clothes and bury them,

scour my body all over with sand and water,

put on a clean suit

and keep out of the mire of politics

forever!

One year later he ran for the same seat again

-- and won.

Twice nominated for the Pushcart Prize, Gary Lehmann’s essays, poetry and short stories are widely published – over 100 pieces per year. The Span I will Cross [Process Press, 2004]. Public Lives and Private Secrets [Foothills Publishing, 2005]. His most recent book is American Sponsored Torture [FootHills Publishing, 2007]. Visit his website at www.garylehmann.blogspot.co m

STAY UNTIL by J. Marcus Weekley

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Tue, 15 Apr 2008 16:09:00 +0000

It’s amazing how you can’t get away from love. Even in a zombie movie, the heroine has to fall in love with a doomed hero who sacrifices himself so she can live. I’m craving beef. You can’t get a steak without blood, even well done, you know the blood has cooked around the meat, seared into it. I need someone. You feel it, inside, like something turning at the back of your throat, not quite a taste, because it’s before you’ve bitten into anything, but there, where your tongue meets your throat, there you know love. I want to taste you.

Currently serving time at Chili's in D'Iberville, Mississippi, J. Marcus Weekley also knows how to quilt, draw, and photograph, and is teaching his sister about sashing strips and binding. His work is in from four years, Look Out Below and Other Tales, and Texas Dance Halls, among others, which may be found at www.flickr.com/photos/whynottryitagain2 or www.lulu.com/whynottryitagain.

FROM THE EDITOR'S DESK. . .

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Mon, 07 Apr 2008 13:48:00 +0000

MICRO-FICTION'S FIRST COUSIN

As your editor, I am always on the look out for new cultural experiences that will enrich your lives. My most recent discovery is a website that provides what is essentially literature's newest version of creative non-fiction, albeit of the micro-variety.

The website is called JamsBio and the link to my page can be found at www.jamsbio.com/user/dtricarico.

If you've ever been listening to music and said, "I love that song. . .it reminds me of the time. . ." then JamsBio is for you. They ask participants to write up their memories concerning various songs, artists, and albums. The site is still open and anyone can join.

The opportunity to write about music and my memories and the discipline needed to do it in a short space was a very powerful combination. Each piece is like a compelling little story about the writer's life and their connection--usually emotional--to the music they have listened to throughout their lives.

There's some good reading here. And some good memories.

Check it out.

We will return you to your regularly scheduled LITSNACK in a few days. Thanks and remember, at LITSNACK, it's "Easy in. Easy out. Nobody gets hurt."

FAILED ATTEMPTS by Troy Stith

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Sat, 22 Mar 2008 15:10:00 +0000

Julia drove towards me on her daily commute to work. I had seen her plump cherry red lips and silky black hair everyday for the past five years, and I still don't think she noticed me. Her vanity plate blessed me with her name. Dreams of her tender blue eyes and milky white face kept me warm on cold nights; waiting for her arrival the next day.

Standing on the side of the road in my usual yellow, black and red, I watched her attention turn to my cousin in crimson and white. Always coming to a complete halt; taking him in before moving on. He was so used to the public praise that he stood solemn as if he didn't even know they existed.

I was used to living in his shadow but I was only asking for her gaze, he could have the rest. Too many days had my life revolved around her passing me by, only to be disappointed by her loving attention towards my rosy cousin who treated her like the rest and didn't flinch in her presence.

At last my day had come. My cousin couldn't stand on his usual corner that morning thanks to sewage construction that had popped up over night. He was replaced with orange and ass-crack. She was bound to notice me. Thankfully the sun was out that morning to bounce nicely off my reflective yellow. Only a blind man could have missed me.

Julia rolled up McArthur at her usual time sipping her morning coffee. Suddenly placing her coffee into the cup holder, she reached across for her purse on the passenger seat. Answering her cell phone, Julia rolled right past me again heading towards 'crack' corner. The road wet from a freak summer night rain.

My failed attempt at love ended that day. I heard the dump truck's screaming brakes before I heard the explosive finale. An ambulance rushing to the scene splashed mud onto my sanguine chest, a stain that I kept for my remaining days.

Troy Stith (troystith@hotmail.com) lives in the confused city of Columbus, OH where he has lived all his life. Enduring daily eight hour soul sucking sessions, Troy spends his free hours spilling forth observations of the absurd world we live in. Never locking himself into one genre, exploring all depths of the glorious field. His short “What A Ride” was featured on Thieves Jargon (www.thievesjargon.com) or you could check out his weekly comic strip R.O.M.B.I.E. – Robot with a Zombie Brain (www.drunkduck.com/R_O_M_B_I_E__Robot_with_a_Zombie_Brain/)

SOIR BLEU by Gary Lehmann

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Sun, 09 Mar 2008 05:19:00 +0000

dedicated to Edward Hopper

They’re drinking on a patio surrounded by a marble banister

itself surrounded by the sea. Japanese lanterns pulse light into the scene.

A man in a tux is drinking wine while looking over his companion’s shoulder

at a clown with five red stripes painted in irregular patterns down his face.

A flapper girl in heavy rouge is looking down her nose at the clown.

She is leaning back against the marble banister to flatter her silhouette,

but neither the captain nor the sailor are paying her any attention.
A cigarette hangs from the clown‘s mouth. His red hat rests on the table.

AM ABLE TO by Andy Riverbed

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Sat, 01 Mar 2008 05:08:00 +0000

show my ass

to people

in the street

because I

have nothing

to do now.

Andy Riverbed no longer frequents schoolyards; instead he spends his time in confessionals feeling the hierarchies of church relate with his little problem: World of Warcraft is a bitch. Learn to live the good life!; join the Andy Riverbed mailing list at andy.riverbed@yahoo.com or check out his sexy body at www.myspace.com/ylarivera

IF THIS IS THE END OF THE WORLD, OR MY HEART, WILL YOU WIN? by J. Marcus Weekley

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Wed, 13 Feb 2008 18:22:00 +0000

A gab with two soldiers at a border, between two countries whose brothers know how to fight well. And rest. Their weddings will be like a closet full of coats in a country full of deserts and no camels, mountains, only fountains with rusty rocks, coats of the finest sheep’s hair, and pretty, the ladies love the pretty.

I begin to tell you about the time I talked with two soldiers, at a border, between two countries, and already the sun is gone, behind a cloud, waiting for your answer. Will you marry me? I think. Therefore, I am alone. I wanted you. Because you loved me first. Before Jupiter. Before the birches behind my back yard. Because moms and dads don’t know how to love their kids in the same way. Before that.

And then, the soldiers were killed by a bomb, set off by an old woman carrying her shoes in her hand. Why did she do it? Carry them like soft fish, a wet secret she wanted everyone made akin to. I want to laugh. This is my secret. I want everyone to laugh, to smile and say, "How are you? I’ve missed you. Welcome, brother."

Currently serving time at Chili's in D'Iberville, Mississippi, J. Marcus Weekley also knows how to quilt, draw, and photograph, and is teaching his sister about sashing strips and binding. His work is in from four years, Look Out Below and Other Tales, and Texas Dance Halls, among others, which may be found at www.flickr.com/photos/whynottryitagain2 or www.lulu.com/whynottryitagain.

i've taken by Andy Riverbed

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Wed, 06 Feb 2008 06:10:00 +0000

I’ve taken:

I don’t know how many

walks

around the campus;

looked for girls to enjoy,

trying

to kill the time between

working

the rest of the day.

can’t handle the wait

tomorrow brings; to

empty

slots off my daily plan.

No more

dependable pay.

THE WEIRD GODS by Spencer Troxell

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 18:41:00 +0000

The weird gods climbed down from the moon, past low-hanging clouds and upon leafless treetops. Their unusual boots first touched ground in a parking lot in the city. The snow crunched.
“Probably we should eat.” Said The First. His beard long, his eyes
like strange reflectors.
“Probably indeed.” Croaked The Other. They stepped into the
shadows, and it wasn’t long before they found a meal particular to their peculiar sensibilities.
“To do down here, not much.” Said The First again. It was usually The First that broke the silence, and usually The Other that replied. This is how it had been for countless ages. The Other grunted in affirmation.
They stalked down the sides of the interstate. Vehicles hissed by on the wet concrete, illuminating the odd figures in flashes with their headlights. The gods stepped over fading soda cans and discarded plastic bags. A deer--blown open and decomposing--laid awkwardly in their path.
The Weird gods exchanged glances as they stepped over the corpse.
There was a small, silver diner up ahead. The First said, “I see
it.“ The other grunted. The bell on the door rang as they opened it.
There weren’t many patrons in the diner. The Weird gods took a seat in a corner booth. They looked at one another.

Eventually the waitress arrived, and, somewhat startled at their
askew appearances, asked them what they wanted.
“Just coffee.” Said the first.
“Coming, they should keep.” croaked the other. The waitress nodded in understanding and scurried off.
“Does you have the item?” Asked the other, breaking regular
formula.
“I does.” Said the first, withdrawing from his person a strange
little leather bag with a tight drawstring around the top. He carefully undid the drawstring, and plunged a cruddy finger inside. He withdrew a quarter. The Other smiled, and nodded in approval.
There was a little jukebox at the end of the table, next to the wall, as there is in so many roadside diners. The First pressed the arrow buttons on the bottom of it, and examined the lit up selections carefully before coming to one that seemed to satisfy him.
“Ah.” said the first.
The other grunted in response. The first dropped in the quarter, and pressed a button. The Weird gods folded their hands in front of them, and waited for their coffee. Just as they had done once a decade, for the last three.
The song playing ended, and a new song began. Their coffee arrived, with a pitcher so they could refill their cups as they wished. As the first notes of the new song began, thin, crooked lines began to spread across their faces, as the weird ones gave themselves to smile; a once a decade practice.
Patsy Cline sang, “I used to have big money, that was many moons ago…” And the weird gods drank their coffee. When the song was over, they got up quietly and went. They drank no more than two cups of coffee per, and left no tip.

Spencer Troxell lives in Cincinnati with his wife and two kids. He is pursuing a degree in Psychology at the University of Cincinnati, and works at a bank part-time to supplement the income brought in by his long-suffering, beautiful wife. His work has appeared at Why Vandalism, Thieves Jargon, Zygote In My Coffee, Word Riot, Eyeshot, Mannequin Envy, and a few other places. He keeps a blog at spencertroxell.blogspot.com

CAUGHT IN A TRAP by James Lineberger

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Mon, 28 Jan 2008 19:34:00 +0000

i hadn't thought she would recognize him
but this morning
when i was watching the king's first vegas special
on turner tv
she wandered in and stood there
for a bit and then
she started laughing and crying and said
oh i love him so
but aint he spose to be dead

James Lineberger is a retired screenwriter, sometime playwright, and full-time poet. His work has been widely published in both print and online.

THREE SIPS by J. Marcus Weekley

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Wed, 23 Jan 2008 15:37:00 +0000

a response to Espada

Millie wasn’t even named
in the church pews,
silver candelabra, crosses
just out of reach.

Several times hands
coaxed her pale body
in unholy places,
but Millie made no face,
while the girls with warm
hands whispered.

Millie danced with air in her bedroom,
naked arms cleaving space,
each step clumping time.
One day she’d give
me three sips, all for me.

Her father, an American businessman,
wanted to paint a mural
over Millie’s bed,
dabbed oil skin
of the hanging traitor
glowing in the sunset.

Once Judas twisted mid-air
and pigeons stopped and stared,
Millie poured the wine
into her palm,
held it out,
and bid me drink.
"There," she offered,
"Three sips."

Currently serving time at Chili's in D'Iberville, Mississippi, J. Marcus Weekley also knows how to quilt, draw, and photograph, and is teaching his sister about sashing strips and binding. His work is in from four years, Look Out Below and Other Tales, and Texas Dance Halls, among others, which may be found at www.flickr.com/photos/whynottryitagain2 or www.lulu.com/whynottryitagain.

TROUBLE by Andy Henion

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Wed, 16 Jan 2008 14:31:00 +0000

The new boss calls me into his office, in this case an extended cab pickup. He’s a small, energetic man with manicured fingernails and an associate’s degree in construction management. His father is the one who hired me, fourteen years prior, but is now semi-retired and fishing for marlin off a tropical coast. Like mine, the father’s fingernails are lumpy and discolored from years of meeting the business end of a hammer.

Is it cold out there or what? says the new boss. He puts significant emphasis on certain words and makes exaggerated expressions. In his hands is a gourmet coffee drink with a green sippy lid.

Your dad and I shingled in ten-below, I say. The old man took three bundles up the ladder at a time.

Yeah, yeah, he’s a legend. And he’s got the arthritis to prove it. The new boss takes a sip of his coffee drink and thumbs a drop of spittle off the steering wheel. It’s a brand new truck, special edition, glossy black with cream seating.

So, the new boss says. I understand you’ve been having some trouble.

You understand wrong.

Putting a drill bit through someone’s hand? Punching out a man at a playground? That’s not trouble?

Depends on your perspective.

Well my perspective is this. That man at the playground happens to be a friend of mine.

Then teach him some manners, I say, and stare at the new boss and his wide eyes until he looks away.

To the windshield he says, An employee who runs around maiming people would be considered a liability. A shrewd employer would not be wise to retain such an employee.

Out the window I see Hank standing near the truck, unable to look into the cab, and understand that he is the muscle in case things get out of hand. I shake my head. As the foreman, I hired Hank when he was still a teenager and taught him to hammer a nail straight.

Say the words, you fucking android.

You’re fired, says the new boss

There, I say, pulling the utility knife from my pocket. Wasn’t so hard.

I twist the blade into my palm. His face opens. Blood drips and splatters about the cab as I genuflect.

For the blood I have given this company, I say.

You crazy bastard! says the new boss. My truck!

And for the blood of my laboring brethren. Who must continue bearing your gross ineptitude.

Blood is covering wide swaths of the cab at this point, and I realize I’ve cut a bit deep. The new boss is pawing blood from an eyelid and motioning frantically for Hank. The coffee drink has spilled on the dashboard, smelling like a goddamn Christmas tree.

I step out to meet Hank, blood dripping from my fingertips. He’s a big kid, with a neck like a stump. I place my wounded hand in his, the other on his shoulder, and tell him it has been a pleasure.

Pleasure my ass, says Hank, smirking. You stay out of trouble now, you hear?

"Trouble" is the fifth installment in Henion's "Angry Suburban Guy" series. The first four ("Animals," "The Boss," "Sick Fuck," and "A Night in Vegas") appeared in Thieves Jargon.

FROM THE EDITOR'S DESK. . .

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Wed, 26 Dec 2007 18:08:00 +0000

LITSNACK GOES ON HIATUS. . .

Litsnack will be going on hiatus until early January to celebrate the remainder of the holiday season.

But when we come back in 2008, look for stories from Andy Henion and Spencer Troxell, as well as poetry from Andy Riverbed and more from James Lineberger.

Feel free to continue submitting throughout our hiatus, however. We'll need something to do in the new year!

And remember: at Litsnack, our motto is: Easy in. Easy out. Nobody gets hurt!

AFTER HE'S GONE by James Lineberger

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Mon, 24 Dec 2007 00:35:00 +0000

after he's gone
i find myself alone in a church i've never
set foot in before
which once belonged to the methodists
but has since been taken over
by the newly formed lighthouse tabernacle of god jesus
the door hanging open by one hinge
and i go to a scratched-up pew at the back and kneel
the way they do at calvary
lutheran where my wife attends
but there's no rail and i'm on my knees on the floor
barely able to see over
the pew in front of me when all of a sudden
i hear a mumbled petitioner nearby
his supplication rising in an tremulous echo to the broken plaster ceiling
and i pull myself up higher trying to see
who the voice belongs to but there's
no one there
only the prayer
and then as i'm trying to make out the words
i realize it's my own helpless orison
crying no more please god no more take me let me die
but in the bleak silence
that follows i hear my old self emerge again
adding a cold ps that trails
like the angry farewell of one woman or another
to the james
who used to be her lover
saying fuck you then fuck you just leave
me alone

James Lineberger is a retired screenwriter, sometime playwright, and full-time poet. His work has been widely published in both print and online.

FROM THE EDITOR'S DESK. . .

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Wed, 19 Dec 2007 23:12:00 +0000

THE LITSNACK PHILOSOPHY

Great poems explode like fireworks
Great stories explore change--specifically in people, places, or ideas. There must be transformation!
In great language, syntax is lean, word choice economical
Use specific nouns and strong verbs
Kill adjectives and adverbs
Great stories use all of the traditional plot points (exposition, inciting moment, rising action, climax, falling action, conclusion)
Or, if not, they at least answer all of their own questions (that's Chekhov, baby!)
In poems, create emotion through imagery, figurative language, and specific, evocative details
Same for stories, except add strong characters and vivid setting
Do the above, and theme takes care of itself
In short, good literature doesn't have to be long
Our motto at LITSNACK: "Easy in. Easy out. Nobody gets hurt."

See ya at the watering hole.

--Ed.

VOICE by Stephen Lewis

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Tue, 18 Dec 2007 17:15:00 +0000

I slid down her voice
onto carpet painted gold
from the window.

A vinyl couch,
antennaed television,
ten feet from her room.

Morning,
the way her brass bed frame is layered
by the sun.

A dress falls simply,
the color clouded
by a halo of light
till her voice stopped.

Stephen Daniel Lewis lives in Lawrence, KS and works in a library. He edits a magazine at www.robotmelon.com.

VEX by Timothy Gager

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Sun, 16 Dec 2007 00:37:00 +0000


Robert’s friends
were surprised when he
started passing out
and doctors diagnosed him
with Syncope.              

“You on anything?” his latest
doctor asked.

“You mean currently?”

“No. Immediately.”

“Oh, if this is some sort of hi-fi
exam to see if I’m taking drugs, I
don’t want any part of it.”  Robert loudly scratched
under his rough flannel shirt.

“Just want to know why you are passing out.”

“I do, too.”

“Anything out of the ordinary happen, which lead to
this…stress? Not sleeping? Hmmmm, it says here that
you work in construction. That’s a strenuous job.”

“Well…”

“Well, what?” the doctor asked.

“Well, I don’t know.”

“It is extremely important that you be forthcoming
with this information. If there is something you are
trying to tell me…”


Dr. Snickens was not young; he was old school, the kind of
doctor that carried a black bag. Crusty chicken skinned,
round-glassed, mean Doc Snickens. Robert felt weak.

“There is something you need to say,” Snickens asked.

“Well there is one thing.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t…”

“Spit it out!” Snickens snapped and shoved Robert back
on the examining table directing the office light off his
head mirror into Robert’s eyes.

“Spill!” he shrieked.

“Spill what!”

“Something!” Snickens yelled. “I smell something.”

“It has to do with Vex. VEX!” Robert wiped the rolling
sweat off his forehead.

“Vex?” Dr. Snickens’ eyes were points of a pin.

“Yes, Vex… It’s latex clothing. I ordered some stuff
from them, a latex bustier, some undergarments and
that was the start of it.”

“The start of what?” Snickens squealed.

“The dizziness, the clothing, whatever…” Robert
admitted.

“What? Are you still wearing them?”

“I don’t know.”


Snickens moved in for the kill, towering over Robert who
was slowly curling into a smaller and smaller ball. He
currently was a tennis ball. “What were you wearing last
night when you first lost consciousness?”

“NOTHING, NOTHING!”

“You wore nothing?”

“No something. I wore something.” Robert squirmed
under the glare of Dr. Snickens interrogation.

“Yes, tell me what it was.”

“I was only thinking about it and that made me dizzy…”

“BULLSHIT!” When Snickens shouted the mirrored
apparatus fell off his head.

“I was just thinking…”

“You are slighting me. I cannot treat you if you won’t
be honest! Is there something in your shirt pocket? Show
it!” Snickens held out his hand.

“Okokokokok…it's THIS!” Robert’s shaking hand
unbuttoned his shirt revealing a small latex patch that
was adhered to his heart.

“Oh, I see. I knew I smelled something.” Snickens
replied. “You have a case of bad juju. You'll be better
when you get rid of it.”

“That’s all I have to do?”

“Burn it if you must, but get rid of it and anything
similar.” Snickens yanked the patch off Robert pulling off
some of his chest hair.

“Ouch!”

Snickens spun hard on his heels to leave. “See the
receptionist on the way out. She’ll have some after-care
instructions for you.”


Timothy Gager is widely published on line and in print for
both fiction and poetry. His "Punchless Jimmy Collins" was
a notable story in the 2007 StorySouth Million Writer Award
and "reply to someone who said all my poems are sad" was a
finalist in the 2007 Binnacle Ultra Short Award. He runs
the Dire Literary Series in Cambridge, Ma. and lives at
www.timothygager.com

WITH AN ON-MY-BACK SMILE by Christine Kiefer

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Thu, 13 Dec 2007 19:41:00 +0000

like a school bus perched
on a warehouse roof
how did I get here
to climb on scaffolding
watch sunsets from castles
where stars line city sidewalks
I ride in elevators
dance for dollars
crush bottles on mosaic tile
cut my fingers on crooked
lipstick smeared mirrors
and stand at tops of hills
willing to throw myself down
tumble like Jill and break
my spinning top parts
I got here with clenched legs
crisscrossing over your heart
and I open them only
as if to say stay

LAS VEGAS, NEVADA by Sue Christian

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Wed, 12 Dec 2007 21:29:00 +0000

some sad lost soul
from every city
on the planet
kissing his last dime
good-bye
or tying a slip-knot
with some stranger
in the hot sandy middle
of nowhere

Sue Christian lives and writes in the shadow of
the Matterhorn in Anaheim, California.

JOY by James Pierce

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Mon, 10 Dec 2007 22:05:00 +0000

“And the signs along the highway all said
Caution: Kids at Play.”
--Meatloaf

Joy parked her VW bug up near Cowles Mountain and, before long, we were both in the passenger seat, going at it while Springsteen’s “Thunder Road" played on some quiet FM station and a perfectly round, full moon watched over us in a sky devoid of clouds. She did this thing where she bit my earlobe and whispered that she loved me. It drove me crazy. Curved slightly on the right side of her mouth, her lips gave her a look as if she were always slightly amused. I wanted to touch her every time she smiled, put my hands on her body just to feel connected.

Months before, I saw her at an all ages club, and worshipped her while a band called DeadEnd covered Billy Idol’s “Eyes Without a Face.” We’d been seeing each other ever since. She was smarter than I was, more experienced, and I still benefit, all these years later, from the things she taught me. Often while we were driving together, Joy would stop at a red light, and then—with a look of raw lust in her eyes--reach over and squeeze me on the knee. I realized over time that Joy’s every movement was intended so that I would learn.

During a pause, Joy turned her body to avoid the gearshift, her lips grazed my flesh (they felt like fire on my cheek), and she moaned a little in the back of her throat in a way that stopped my breath. I placed my fingers at the back of her neck, felt the soft intersection where her hair met her skin, and grew drunk on how her throat smelled like the cinnamon she’d had in a hot apple cider from Starbucks. I inhaled her scent, and then I pulled toward her me.

Gently, she rolled beside me and looked in my eyes. She seemed sleepy but content, as if I’d satisfied her in some profound and necessary way. “You’re so open to me, she said, almost sadly, “so innocent,” and then she touched my face with her outstretched fingers—her skin on my skin like a medicine, healing me.

This one night in her car, while we were parked on the mountainside, staring up at a moon that was bright, but offered no answers or insight, was long before the sky above us fell, long before I knew what was down the road, long before Joy pulled her car over to the side of the street not far from where we first made love just to tell me that there would be no more parking, that his name was Michael, and that, eventually, I would get over it.

James Pierce's work has appeared in various print and on-line journals including Flashstory, lingo, and The Dirigible. He calls Dubuque, Iowa his home, and wants you to know that the important parts of this story are true.

DID YOU KNOW. . . by Christine Kiefer

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Thu, 06 Dec 2007 17:08:00 +0000

of the roads I walked
along barefoot or the vines
I swung from with weak arms
and a sunburnt face?
have you seen me
with my little knack,
point to north, south
east, west in a foreign town?
Have you thought of me wanting
to be good at you, enough to
never find the breaking point
that place where the red wine runs down
the wall after the glass shatters and the stem
lies quietly twinkling on white carpet
while there’s an ache in the stomach
like way back at the beginning when
you starved yourself to feel human
and celebrated your blood, your sweat
and every damn pain to know you were alive

Christine is an attorney in the Midwest. Her work has been featured in various e-zines, including Thievesjargon, and can be found here: http://middleofusa.blogspot.com/

SNOW JOB by David Carver

dtricarico@guhsd.net (Daniel Tricarico) — Mon, 03 Dec 2007 19:50:00 +0000

When Fat Tony Corona pulled the gun, the cocaine was still on the table.

“Well, Chico,” he said, grabbing the blow and shoving it in the dufflebag. “It’s coming home with me.” He coughed one of his patented throat-full-of-mucus coughs. “And so is the money.”

“And if I try to stop you?” I said, not really scared as much as pissed off. I sat down in a chair at the dining room table. I watched him grab the cash and pitch it in the bag on top of the drugs.

“I’ll send flowers to your funeral.”

“Compassionate,” I said, oily with sarcasm.

“I’m thoughtful that way.” Finished with his packing, he took a seat opposite me at the table.

Fat Tony and I had been doing business for years, but lately he’d been using more of his own product, which had only made him nervous and sketchy. For example, I knew on good authority that he’d shot up an arcade, thinking that the bleeps and blips of the games were the oncoming sirens of law enforcement. He had also gone into debt, and was in big time to the usurers downtown. Rumor had it that if he didn’t pay, they’d soon be greasing the chassis of their Lincolns with his innards. And now here he was, taking my money to get himself out of his own scrapes.

But what was I going to do, tell the cops that I was robbed by the guy who sells me my blow?

Not hardly.

I’ve never looked good in prison orange.

“Can’t we work it out?” I said, as I dropped my hand beneath the table and worked it around the .45 I kept strapped to the bottom of the table.

“Not this time, Chico.”

My palm was sweaty, but eyes never left him.

I had a choice to make here, the kind you can’t take back.

Fat Tony laughed. “And what’s so funny is how life has been treating you lately. First I screw Sheila, then I screw you.”

My wife Sheila and I had only been separated a week.

Her idea.

“I didn’t know about Sheila,” I told Fat Tony.

“Sounds like there are a lotta things you don’t—“

Suddenly, the air exploded and my ears rang.

Tony’s eyes shut immediately, too soon to realize I’d made my decision.

David Carver enjoys flash/micro fiction almost as much as reruns of Happy Days. He lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan. This is his first published story.