LITNSACK'S NEW HOME!!

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

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

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

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.com

STAY UNTIL by J. Marcus Weekley

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. . .

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

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/)