The Concept of Pervasive Evil – by Ashley Bovan

dissatisfaction	sanctification
insatiableness	spartan
saturnalian	sagittarian
satyromania	sacramentarian
spermatozoan	sanitation
instantaneous	safetyman
supernaturalness	statistician
scatterbrained	systematization
sabotaging	establishmentarian
slaughterman	samaritan
skateboarding	statesmanship

The Moviegoer by Dennis Kelly

“There is a clock that never strikes.
There is a cathedral that goes down
and a lake that goes up.”
—Arthur Rimbaud, “Childhood,”
Illuminations

Once upon a time—I was a boy
Dead in the rosebushes—all summer
I had black eyes—and a yellow mop
Without parents—or a royal court

I was insolent—running along
Azure and verdure beaches—full of
Shipless waves—Greek, Slav, Celt
Shades in the balcony—of the Bijou

Actresses—gorgeous giantesses
Ida Lupino—up on the silver screen
Pilgrimages to—that other Land
Where princesses—were tyrannical

Sultanas—Hollywood queen bees
Strolling in the aisles—jewels glowing
In the dark—red velvet curtains in
The little theaters—like the Granada

Without boredom—those verdigris hours
Who needed a western sky—for sunsets?
With all the moviegoers—buried upright
In the balconies—overgrown with images

The curtains going up—fabulous elegance
Reels turning—sluice gates opening
The magic beasts—eternity of hot tears
The smell of popcorn—it made me blush

But now I am—the troubled scholar
Sitting in this dark armchair—brooding
Branches and rain—beating themselves
At the windows—of my quiet library

Even with Blue Ray—giant Flatscreens
I am just a pedestrian—dwarfed now in
Melancholy silence—abandoned child
On the jetty—left behind by high seas

(First published here).

Newborn by Lauren McBride

So tired	Of baby’s tears
Up late again	I grow weary
Why do you cry, my little son?	Are you hungry?
Are you wet?	Too hot? Too cold?
Here, let Mama hold you	It’s late. Please go to sleep.
He stares at me	Then he coos
and sucks his thumb	lays his head on my shoulder
relaxes in my arms, asleep	his hair so soft against my cheek.
Good night, my little one	Sweet dreams. I love you.

Lauren McBride’s work has appeared in the contest chapbook the Drabbler #14, the Aurorean, Mom Writer’s Literary Magazine, and online in various Ezines. She was chosen first runner-up in Crossed Genres’ flash fiction contest of July 2009 for her story, “Go-Green Grass”.

The New Tree by Dennis Kelly

“I was planning a novel

in which two different

species on another world

needed to communicate,

one by light and image,

the other by sound & word”

—ptdiep

they cleaved me—back again

I don’t know how—but they did it

one into two—then two into one

the two that was—too much for me

the two that was one—troubling me

a unique collaboration—doubling me

the denouement of one world—dying

this exsanguination—of another world

all that was not me—my own doing undone

this strange doubling—this unique

collaboration of light & image—joining

sound and words—heads & tails

pairs of I Ching coins—yin yang

tossed in the air—thrown on a rug

split down the middle—joined as one

a pair of trigrams—magic hexagram

t’ai / peace—my laughing bellybutton

rubbing buddha’s belly—making a wish

for me it was—the new me

goodbye to all that—that wasn’t me

there in bed—new jonah and lazarus

contemplating—collaborating

The Healing Tree by Dennis Kelly

“The concept was already

within me, it was inevitable”

—ptdiep

they cleaved the tree—inside me

the murmuring of death—that was me

and I dreamed—of another world

it was my doppelganger—double trouble

and when I woke up—I wasn’t me

I was lost in—the house of pain

a mansion with—many dark rooms

many dark rooms—waiting for the other

teaching me—what I surely didn’t know

nor did I want to know—the hell inside

cut bones, split muscles—bloody nerves

it was all a big mistake—I said to myself

wishing I’d never—made the choice

it sounded so simple—just a valve job

a mere tune-up—and you’ll be brand new

but it wasn’t that easy—pain-killers don’t

kill the pain—pain had its own plans for me

and for a week—pain pinned me down

like an Indian swami—to a bed of nails

I screamed silently—beneath a moon

a thousand nights—Maria Ouspenskya werewolves

no longer a man—more a wounded animal

and they saved my life—for another day

Seventy Years Before by Romella Kitchens

	Seventy Years Before
An earring falls from a pear tree		the gift of moments is within this
	Old man, what say you?
The earring was from a maiden		a slight girl who climbed the tree
	In what century was your longing?
She climbed to meet her lover.		You were young then, too.
The earring was lost in a kiss.	We cling to our “historical” limbs.	Her skin was  sun-hued
She came the next day		you left not to be found
	Old man, was your fear in “more”?
A century later the earring falls		a woman looks over a great wall
A woman clasps it  as if…	To hold on is to know…	yet, you gather yellow pears and…
	Go home.

Romella Kitchens has had poetry published in Iodine Poetry Review, The California Quarterly, Chiron Review, Lilliput Review, Ship Of Fools and others. She has four published chapbooks. The latest chapbook was published by Pudding House Press in April of 2009 and is titled: “The Red Covered Bridge.”

Down by the Lake – by Ashley Bovan

Under a nearby weeping willow	a flock of geese pad and poke
a push-chair rattles along	Alice wipes mud from an off-green park bench
two bedlam kids squawking	then she rests
Vicious seagulls hunt for sandwich fragments	Exhaust fumes, and hums and grinds, from the morning motor-rush waft over
Alice fidgets and then heads off to the rose gardens	a discarded sheet of kitchen roll sticks to her shoe
The flowers sway like nodding dogs in the backs of cars	She listens to echoing Greensleeves again and again piping out from the ice cream van over on the promenade
Up-wind an old boy fires up his acrid briar	it’s time to move on
She takes the tarmac path around and up to the rockery tasting the hint of salt blown in from the bay	A brittle crisp packet rattles, trapped in an exclamation-mark-like tree
She wanders through the patterns of rocks	Her arms droop by her side
and she catches her hand on a clump of nettles	Reluctantly, she prepares herself for the long walk home

Ashley Bovan lives and writes in Cardiff and starts studying for an MA

in Creative Writing at Lancaster University in October 2009.

His website is www.ashley-bovan.co.uk

In Such a Place as This, by Jessica Lafortune

even in this	godforsaken place
there is stirring evidence	of life, like
the frog who came	just after the rain
and remains still	clinging to the glass
the lizards	beating a path to safety
rustling in the grass	outside my door
the squirrels	giving chase
playing tag	recklessly
in the street	irrespective of cars
and then there is me	alive, barely
running in place	depending on the day

Carbon River Valley by Dennis Kelly

The way the light—slants downward
Northward over—the mountain range
The escarpments—the forested ridges
A winter light—low over the river

Mostly we were there—during summers
Parking the car—on the road leading into
The rainforest—on the northern side of
Mt. Rainier—covered with fir and cedars

Ten years ago—we hiked across ancient
Riverbeds of smooth—rounded boulders
And white-bleached stones—and rocks
To get to Chenuis Falls—on the other side

Standing in the middle—between the two
Sides of a long swath of—glacial debris
Looking up at the ancient—granite towers
From down below—terminal moraine awe

One could hear the river—the mountains
Communing—with each other like Forces
In the I Ching—caught up in hexagramic
Flow of huge spaces—both old and new

Pausing for a cold beer—in the shadow of
Some giant boulder—leaning back and
Looking up at it all—our time together
So brief and fine—like a snapshot

Lunatic by Jessica Lafortune

driving	on empty
aimlessly	restless
crazy	as the full moon
shadowing	reflecting
all that	I pass
is	meaningless
temporal	vanity
like	a lunatic in the land of
midnight	sun
I am	alone
vanishing	in depravity