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“Come with me,” my dad said as he grabbed me by the shoulder and steered me toward his car. “Were you one of those kids who broke into Crystal’s Bar?”
“I was in the car.”
Silence.
The sun shone in my eyes as the chief of police questioned me on his front lawn. I told him almost everything that he wanted to know.
The chief took out the Miranda rights which were printed on a card.
“Read it.”
I read them.
“Any questions?”
“No, sir.”
The sun bore into my eyes.
In the background I heard someone beating her rugs.

Jim Krotzman is a retired English teacher at Watertown (WI) High School. He is a struggling haiku poet and fisherman.

Under a table at the library fair, she had found in a cardboard box a book of 425 poems about the death of the poet’s child. “Row, row, all the way from the Pale of Settlement to the crematoria,” she now read aloud. I kept getting up to look out the front window, take a leak, play with the cat, seek employment. Each time I returned, she was smaller than I remembered. I shrugged, or howled, as the music dictated. Empty scraps of paper fell periodically from the sky. To this day, I’m surprised that there’s no “e” in lightning.

Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the forthcoming poetry collection The Middle of Nowhere (Olivia Eden Publishing). His latest chapbooks are Echo’s Bones and Danger Falling Debris (Red Bird Chapbooks). He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely.

 

“When I’m gone, bury me under the oak tree, it’s my favorite place.”
“But you’re not dying.”
“Everyone’s dying.”
“I don’t want to talk about this.”
“No one wants to talk about it.”
“You do.”
“I don’t. There’s some things a person doesn’t want to leave to chance.”
“Why the oak tree?”
“You know why.”
“We kissed there.”
“It’s where I learned to live.”
“What if I die first?”
“You won’t.”
“You seem certain.”
“I won’t walk this earth one minute without you.”
“That’s stupid. I’d want you to live fully. I’d want you to be happy.”
“I would be.”

Mariah E. Wilson is a writer from beautiful British Columbia. She has been published in The Loch Raven Review, Every Day Poets, The Kitchen Poet, Walking is Still Honest, Luciferous and The Corner Club Press, for which she is also now the Poetry Editor. 

Mariah’s Facebook

She held up a sign that read F-O-O-D! I handed her two bucks, but she stared at my McDonald’s bag.

“Thanks for the bucks, honey, but I thought it was food you were bringing me.”
7-Eleven was down the block, Krispy Kreme was across the street. “But that’s junk food,” I said.

“Yup, that’s just junk food,” she answered.
“How about the Cress Café?” I asked.
“Oh, hon, that’s too expensive,” she said.

She grabbed two $10 bills from my hand and ran across the street, her gray hair, shopping bags, and the cardboard sign flowing behind. She never looked back.

Jane Schulman writes poetry and short fiction. She works as a speech pathologist in a Brooklyn public school with autistic and emotionally-disturbed young children, teaching them to find and hone their voices. 

Imagine what bargains were available when God held a going out of business sale. Human bodies, he startlingly announced, are made of stardust. He pointed to a photo of a nebula. “If you give this cloud another 10 billion years,” he said, “it will go to school and chew gum.” You can ask anybody who was there, and they’ll tell you how to spell archipelago, but me, I got tangled up in all sorts of shadows despite remote keyless entry, and then the apple tree, somehow still intact, bloomed, and, just like that, the bells that ring for whom rang.

Howie Good, a journalism professor at SUNY New Paltz, is the author of the forthcoming poetry collection The Middle of Nowhere (Olivia Eden Publishing). His latest chapbooks are Echo’s Bones and Danger Falling Debris (Red Bird Chapbooks). He co-edits White Knuckle Press with Dale Wisely.

Direct quote from The New York Times “John Dobson, and Inventive Itinerant Guide to Stargazing, Dies at 98.”

In our convertible en route home from a Yom Kippur camping trip in Sinai while living in Israel, my husband and I dodged a gauntlet of rock throwing, orthodox boys positioned upon a precipice outside an observant village. We vowed to remain at home on that holiday ever after and, holed up indoors the following year, felt safe from the projectiles of fanatically devout youth. But as we heard the rumble of tanks in the distance, we were soon to find out that a much greater peril lay in store. It was 1973 and the Yom Kippur war had begun.

Rita Hall, a retired art director who lives on Long Island, now devotes her time to political action, arts fundraising, writing, singing and when lucky, her grandson.

My mother took me from Israel to Europe in 1950; I was five. She wanted to see about her father’s grave in Vienna. He had died there before her mother was deported to Theresienstadt.

Tourists could only take out a bit of money, so she smuggled black market American dollars, some rolled in a fountain pen, others folded neatly into chewing gum papers, the sticks removed. I carried these hidden dollars in my pocket. They suspected her and she was stripped naked.

Afterwards I asked, “Can I have a stick of mastic (gum)?” “Yes, Mirale. Once we’re on the ship.”

Miriam Frischer cooks, writes, and collages in the Hudson Valley (and is grateful to wake up to its beauty every day).