“In summer, the song sings itself.”
William Carlos Williams
Scapegoat’s Summer Issue is here at last. I apologize for the delay. Working on an MFA while hosting salons has been phenomenal. It has kept me busy, though. This coming fall many more projects are in the works, all to do with poetry and getting others involved; as the projects progress, I’ll keep you informed. Upstairs at Erika’s is busier than ever, and I’ve added on Salon Dinners with Poets, which has been a great way for people to engage with poets on a more intimate level. I am delighted with the writers who have contributed to this issue. In another quote by
Williams;
“It is summer, it is the solstice
the crowd is
cheering, the crowd is laughing
in detail
permanently, seriously
without thought.”
This is what summer is––
a time of joy, of beauty, flowers blooming
gardens bursting, the technicolor’s of sanguine
Saturday’s, teal tomorrow’s, and yesterday’s aureate’s.
Fall is near, colors disappear, becoming muted with melancholy
and despair. Aubergine, mossy green, bittersweet apricot––
these are the colors of the season after summer; before the dormant
frost of winters comes.
Karen Dietrich
Idle Hands
My sister Linda, her friend Rochelle, and I are in Linda’s bedroom – red shag
carpet cream furniture with fake antique handles, the walls textured, thick with
layers of white paint. Heavy red curtains hide autumn sun, the kind of drapes you
open with a rope and pulley system, a dozen sharp metal hooks we’re forbidden to
touch.
We’re huddled around a French telephone, its elegant mouthpiece
curved like an ivory horn.
"Just do it, already,” Linda commands.
“You do it. It’s your idea,” I say.
Rochelle laughs through her nose. She’s lying on her side, propped up on one
arm, fingering the three-inch mass of neon jelly bracelets on her wrist. “You’re
scared,” she says.
“I am not!” I insist. I’m sitting cross-legged on the floor, inspecting the shiny
pennies in my cordovan loafers. My mother taught me that color – cordovan. It
looks like burgundy to me.
We’re trying to prove a rumor going around our elementary school: if you dial
666 on your telephone, the devil will answer.
“Not necessarily the devil himself,” Rochelle specifies. “You could get one of
his helpers.” She tugs on her chewing gum until it breaks, snapping her chin, a
sticky string of pale pink dangling.
“The devil has helpers?” I ask. “Like Santa’s elves?”
"Sure, something like that," Linda says, giving Rochelle a look, as if to say
she's impossible mimicking my mother’s expression when I ask too many questions.
“Okay, but what do I say when he picks up?” I need to know.
“Just say, sorry, wrong number,” Rochelle says.
I imagine telephone lines sleeping in the ground, red and yellow and black,
spider-like fingers stretched beneath earth. The devil sits in a leather chair,
somewhere in hell. I grab the receiver from its pearly cradle, and dial.
Karen Dietrich’s writing has appeared in Nerve, Tarpaulin Sky, The Henniker Review, and the anthology Who’s Your Mama (Soft Skull Press, 2009). She lives in Pennsylvania.
Rusty Barnes
On Another Night In Paradise
Helen McGurk rose and prepared a lovely rare roast beef for her husband's dinner. She rubbed in salt and pepper with her bare hands, shelled peas, and boiled some potatoes into paste. Mr. McGurk came through the door around five, said hi honey in his sweet voice, only to find her on the table, legs spread, roast toppled, peas scattered, potatoes in her hair. Drive me like a stolen car, baby, she said.
He appreciated her sudden candor.
Rusty has published poems, stories, reviews and essays in many places, most recently Post Road, Small Spiral Notebook, Barn Owl Review, Lit Up. His collection of flash fiction, Breaking it Down, came out last year from Sunnyoutside Press. He cofounded and oversee’s the lit journal Night Train (www.nighttrainmagazine.com) and maintains a webspace at www.rustybarnes.com.
Martin Woodside
Commuter
Mismake morning colors (asylum orange, genocide yellow). An old Mexican stands, mishandling tics and gestures, a greased paper bag.
Morning’s motion uncertain, over uneven lines with wagging brown lashes, a bad
case of rosacea, an ankle length skirt. Bodies in motion staying
in motion. Window pane plain mascara, reflected in fissures the arch timbre of
crooked finger on glass—you have no more music.
Greasy ball cap tilted tufts traced with grey, aping Burroughs, a fractured tale about
Meth head neighbors, a border apartment, 200 dollars stolen, Bowie knife in the
gut. Sing canary: thinly rolled loosie tucked behind cabbaged ear. Robert’s all smiles,
yellow tee screams “I CAN’T ALWAYS BE GOOD,” shaking everyone’s hand, asking
the same question twice. Stop no stop high stop low stop. The train’s going slow
back through the dark shadows of the known world.
Martin Woodside grew up in Brooklyn, New York, but later defected to sunny California, where he’s spent the last decade writing and teaching. Martin earned an MFA in Creative Writing from San Diego State and continues to serve an Associate Editor for Poetry International. He writes fiction and poetry, works as a freelance music journalist, and had published five children’s books. Martin’s work has appeared in a number of literary journals including Limestone, Poetry Motel, Thought, Guernica, Pacific Review, The Connecticut River Review, The Hazmat Review, and The Cimarron Review. His poetry chapbook, Stationary Landscapes, came out in 2009 from Pudding House Press.
Kiely Sweatt
|
Dear, in fast response to overly eager: I am getting rounder in the stomach, I am flippant a bit too often, Today I put ceramic My son had an argument |
|
These are times |
But, miss it less me say these days when doing budgets and clearing spaces has taken away the time. I just hope you won’t judge as I juggle with some degree of deftness the day I started with a jacket, and ended in only a shirt. |
Kiely Sweatt has spent a lot of the last 3 years traveling between West Virginia, Dallas, Philadelphia and New York where she obtained her masters in Poetry at the New School. She has been living in Barcelona, Spain almost a year, teaching, translating, and and starting the Poetry Brothel Abroad Project. http://poetrybrothelbarcelona.blogspot.com
Joe Millar
Eg*OS
Wall Street Confidential
I gave up Nancy my wife for the private and inauspicious love of a komodo dragon. I
gave up my vegan roots for Xanax, Fox, Ugandan beef. I traded Pabst Blue for Blue
Tooth, my nipple ring for a ranch in Naples. I learned everything has a price, especially
money. I gave up money. That is, I gave up paper. I gave up the cause for the good fight.
I gave up tax reform for motion sickness, welfare justice for the military-industrial
complex. I encouraged bootstraps. I still fry my own bologna. I once sold very very high.
I shorted LEH to EKG as they tore through ARMs like RPGs. I was finding Sensex less
than Nifty so I fabricated futures, hedged my bets. I huddled, negotiated, undercut my
mentors, missed a catch, caught a block and punted, wept openly and showered with the
team. We agreed it was a job for nobler men. We agreed it was a job for cannibals. We
ushered each other dripping through the corridors, patenting our bruises. We were our
parents' helioscopic somethings, peripherally viewed; a poorly inked Woodstock
woodcut, the tambourine and the sound of the tambourine snapping. Sometimes I still
blush when people ask for directions. Sometimes I still worry to think.
Joe Millar’s first collection of poems, Autobiomythography & Gallery, was named “Best First Book” of the year by coldfront magazine. He grew up along the Space Coast of Florida, attended the Iowa Writers’ Workshop, and now lives in New York City, where he acts as co-Director of Go North gallery.
June Coleman Magrab
Pop-Pop Sectioning Grapefruit and Doing Cantaloupe
For my father, John Coleman 1902-1987
I
It is 1924; my father is twenty-two.
My grandfather never speaks directly to him, so John does not hear
I want you to stay. He leaves Europe, his father and his piano behind
for Chicago where he studies music and languages.
Dead mother, mother who hugged him, loved him, told him so—
did not wash her hands after touching the cat, laughed and sang out of tune,
what was there left?
John works his way across the Atlantic and back—
four round trips before my grandfather dies.
Works as a pantry-boy, halving grapefruit, trimming each
small section, cutting out patterns for a quilt, hands bloodied,
vomiting, all the way.
II
I am sixty-five, my daughter’s visiting, and we are drinking
a very bad hazelnut latte I swiped from a bed and breakfast
a few months ago. It’s terrible. We giggle. We chat.
She reminds me of cantaloupe, says Pop-Pop cut cantaloupe every morning
whenever she visited. Marie has a good memory, she’s thirty-eight. Cantaloupe.
I only remember grapefruit. I do not ask her if she can cut grapefruit,
sections, delicately as a rose petal wafts in a gentle breeze.
Of course she can. She’s a real cook. I ask her about cantaloupe,
ask her to paint me a picture of her grandfather halving them,
removing seeds, tell me more so I can catch up my mind to hers, see
a photograph of him delighting my child, the way he delighted me
each day during grapefruit season.
Because One Is A Member Of The Underprivileged
A man sits in a submarine
Shop in Maine picking
His nose. I think the cut-
Lets, deep fried veal,
Are made of chopped
Rat, and I greedily feed
Them to my husband.
One would think
An ordinary nose picker
Would be easy to swallow.
Another booth boasts
A Mafia type with wife
And kid. Wife blots her
Pizza like weirdoes do
In whole food places.
The kid is dancing
The Mambo while the Don
Picks nits from his chin.
It’s always like this
In Naples, every summer,
When I escape the heat
And head north for clean
Living. The kid takes over
The place, screaming and
Ordering (people around),
Practice for the future, as he
Crawls back to his mother’s
Tit and whines for more.
An allegory between
The mob and a group
Of hippies, strange.
But then, I think Manson,
Manson, Manson and remember
That not all bearded men are
Christ. Nose picker is still
At it, my husband finished
His rat burger, the kid, he’s back
Doing the Mambo while his mother
Blots her cheese and Don
Picks nits from his chin.
June Coleman Magrab has published in Anthologies: The Other Side of Sorrow (Hoblebush Books, 2006) and The Breath of Parted Lips, Volume II (CalvanKerry Press, 2004) as well as various journals: Calapooya Collage, Caprice, New York Quarterly, Stirring, etc. She is a MacDowell Colony Fellow, Virginia Center for the Creative Arts Fellow, was awarded a Vermont Studio Center grant and has been a Frost Place Participant.
Sara Lefsyk
dearest figments,
how’s life up north in the mind country, yes
you are very much like figments and i
often feel superimposed here
spending most days in three states:
seeming activity streams forth forever
often we place time in glass containers to watch it feed off itself, grow, mutate, multiply, et
cetera all the while worms go on digesting earth beneath our feet, roots
a colony of petri dishes, things of the senses, the lovely here, what its form is:
slugs hanging around the compost pile today
all the while our livers, lungs i said what’s distance
no i mean i don’t know what it is everywhere
is here even there nowhere i looked
could i find what i was looking for what i was looking for was everywhere what i was, looking,
for was, everywhere, what was i looking for, yes
this day was a dervish
at the same time i found my buried in an atoll
i was bandaging my fingers geographically speaking
and life that constant kaleidoscope
went on ahead traveling right angles away from here
while i stayed behind laughing forehead to foreground, palms and lips
because i am trying to grow my heart
it’s so tiny
ants are tiny too
no, not compared to a poppy seed
the earth eats banana peels and corn husks
coffee grinds and drier lint, itself, i, left outside outside in the rain
all night
was thinking of cytoplasm
it’s good to think of cytoplasm
even if cytoplasm doesn’t often think of us
ants too
all the while paramecium…
(are all these mosquitoes yours i can’t bring myself to kill even one) and
why do so many people keep their good solitude in a tank
i mean to ask them
is there enough air in there but then
a wave in the mindstuff:
this soil smells like India my little eyes have a body and
when i remove my shoes
i have feet
toes, p.s. i too
love wetlands and dead trees, nighttime
always, always:
always
Sara Lefsyk currently lives Somewhere in Massachusetts
where she is often busy reorienting material reality.
Mary-Catherine Jones
|
2-7-70 |
wasn’t a purse, brimming a phone number with three twos wasn’t a coat that hid your a key you gave me to behind wasn’t a wasn’t an am, unfound. |
mary-catherine jones is a freelance writer based in New York. In the advertising world she has won some awards for brands like Target, Aveda and Southwest Airlines. She has work in the forthcoming Poetry International as well as an essay currently online at Web Del Sol Review of Books. She lives in New Hampshire.
Joanna Fuhrman
The Writer’s Life
To be a writer is to apply lotion to one’s forehead
to sing untranslatable lullabies to Brussels sprouts.
Writing in sunlight is a good way to get a tan.
Be kind to the commas,
like you they would rather be curled up in fetal position.
If you plan to write about sex,
make sure you’ve had it,
at least once.
If you plan to write about politics,
make sure your poem
is softer than an eyelid,
louder than a nuclear volcano.
The Joke
The last joke in the world finds itself in the womb of a pregnant Jamie Lynn Spears. “Knock.
Knock.” It bangs against the uterus walls. No one answers. Terrible silence rules. The video
feed from the Second World War is projected on the outside of a wiggling fallopian tube.
Bodies. Wire. Burning. Ash.
Before it was a fetus, the joke had wanted to be a poem. It used to watch the lyrics line up
between the toy boats in the still lake. It envied their decorum, the way their sails billowed
when the children blew.
Poem in Favor of Joy
I was happy
to be empty
a nude economy
oh, for you,
you alone,
I ended
my lifetime
ban on
men
let’s just
say the DNA
island ends
here
Joanna Fuhrman is the author of three books published by Hanging Loose Press, Freud in Brooklyn, Ugh UghOcean and Moraine. Her new book, Pageant, will be published by Alice James Books in November 2009. She teaches poetry and creative writing at Rutgers University and in public schools.
Juliet Cook
Domestic Disturbance
Douse tongue in scalding herbal tea. Breach.
Yellow onions un-paper themselves. I lob
a soft body into the stew pot.
Through watery eyes, this is such a little pretty
little nuthouse. Spin through the empty red
pistachio shells, black walnuts, candied pecans,
sugared almond slivers inserted underneath fingernails
until my knees buckle into a plié. Oh pantaloon-atic!
Oh washboard! Oh breastbone beneath which fungal
fruiting bodies breed. Into the stew pot, the butternut
squash twitching as if against an electric fence. The angry red
welts in my wrist. The bloodsuckers drained
my heirloom tomatoes. The husks in my drawers;
the crotch panel stained with a soupcon of beef broth.
Oh soupcon! I signed the contract! I signed on the dotted line
like cutting coupons, like julienned beets, like a wickerwork
basket of battered pointe shoes. A constellation of tiny blood stains
against pink sateen backdrop, but now I have bare feet.
Glass splinters into the stew pot, pantiliners into the stew pot,
antifungal cream, delousing powder, bleach.
Empty the stew pot into the laundry machine;
turn on the spin cycle. Sing a little pretty ditty
about a fruitcake with gangrene. Oh heaving bear claw!
Oh raw crescent roll! It’s bedroom time, my dearies.
My doll-hole is drilled to sweet dimensions.
My blow-hole is spouting cream. I’m a little teapot;
hear me scream. My hard-bodied manikin hovers above
my scene; such a tease before it crashes.
Torpedo torso splintering. Subdermal planting.
Fiberglass shards in my dumpling filling.
Spiracular
Nobody in these parts will be grossed out if I get a little blubbery.
That’s because I’ve lived inside a sperm whale for going on three weeks.
Don’t ask me how I ended up here; it just kind of evolved,
but I don’t mean that spiritually. I’m not Jonah-like,
Biblical, or even angelic.
I’m more of a baked goods lover.
A jelly donut was my roommate
& last week we got hitched.
I wear her around my finger so she doesn’t float away.
She lets me jiggle my pinkie around in her jelly.
She lets me call her my little puff pastry with benefits.
Our wedding feast was course after course
of krill washed down with krill in silver goblets.
My wife has a very small mouth,
but she’ll drink a mini chocolate éclair under the table
& put most baby stingrays to shame.
We have no official drinking age inside the whale,
but we do have a canopy bed with waterproof sheets.
Let’s just say they were stained with sweet, sticky streaks that night.
Let’s just say we were so naughty the whale’s eyes bulged out.
We don’t use the word blowhole
when we talk dirty. We say things like spume of black raspberry
meets saltwater spew bejeweled with ambergris.
Soon my wife will be out of jelly.
We’re very gender fluid. After all,
a jelly donut is neither male nor female,
even though I call it a she. As for me,
I’d like to call myself a shemale pomosexual, but I’d be lying
if I said that shemale part didn’t come right out of a porno magazine.
Juliet Cook is the author of numerous quirky chapbooks, most recently including MONDO CRAMPO (coming soon from the dusie kollektiv 3) and PINK LEOTARD & SHOCK COLLAR (coming soon from Spooky Girlfriend Press). Her first full-length poetry collection, ‘Horrific Confection’ was recently published by BlazeVOX.
YZ Chin
Accusing the Panda
The day after I was told
that I am lousy in bed,
I went to the zoo to accuse
the giant panda from China.
He refused to tell me the last time
he got any.
He didn’t answer when I asked
why the first of his kind allowed
himself to be brought
to America by a white
woman, carried
in her arms. Black
and white
bear,
ambassador of peace,
token of friendship,
a giant dumpling of kowtow
cuteness, a-
sexual.
I asked him why
he would not fuck the female
they had arranged for him.
I asked him if
he believed in love.
Panda looked at me,
eyes,
the bodies of crows partially covered
in slushy snow,
said:
“I am black and white, not
grey.”
Accusing the Humans
They have fed me Viagra.
They have shown me porn.
They have sat me down
in front of a live sex show,
where I witnessed
the panda man towering above the panda woman
all curled up,
face mashed into the concrete, rubbing,
forced or in ecstasy.
I watched everything take place behind bars,
bars that added black zebra stripes to my father’s body as my mother cuddled me, a pinkish baby, and pointed him out to me, for they met only once a year, for conjugal
visits, although we still had a zebra-striped view of him, from afar.
At forty days my eyes opened. At four years a message came to the panda
community, from both without and within. The world slowly tortured to death by
humans, and we pandas taking pains taking stands to stop all procreation, abstain
ourselves to extinction.
Message of the pandas told by my mama: first in words, then with her face mashed
and rubbing into concrete as I watched her, zebra-striped, other side.
Is there a young panda watching me
as I pound this rebellious panda woman?
Am I interestingly
zebra-striped or
just stripped of
all that is good?
This panda woman tried to be obedient
to the message,
howling at me to
remember my duty, the pandas’ stand,
but they have fed me Viagra,
and they have shown me porn,
and they have sat me down
in front of a live audience,
and all I want is to stop
listening to the panda message,
but I cannot reach my own ears
with my teeth, so instead I tear
at hers until she bleeds,
locking her in place with my black legs,
pawing her with my black arms,
digging into her white midsection with
my black talons, and
they do not stop me.
They like it.
Accusing the Bamboo
The panda sits behind bars, just sitting, legs spread wide, gnawing on a stick of
bamboo.
Bear Cat, but what’s in a name?
My mother named me Bamboo because she wanted me to be like the bamboo
bending with the wind but never breaking.
Mother, I have bent for you. You alienated me
because—
I have bent for you, mother, aunt, cousin,
and I have bent for you, peer, best friend, crush,
and now all I am is a stooped bow waiting
for an arrow that you know will never come
to release, taut but never broken, never able to break,
strong enough for you to close your eyes
and enjoy my music as I
convulse in the gale.
Friends, I have bent for you. You alienated me
because—
Mother, I have bent over for you. You should have used a bamboo cane
on me instead of
the rattan one that broke in half so soon,
that broke in half so soon
you could not use it on my brother, your son.
The bear cat gnaws the bamboo, and I can tell the zoo had cut it from the lake next
door by the crude pocket knife markings of teenage love carved
on the bamboo. I too
Run
your fingers along my taut spine,
give it a flick and commend me,
commend me on my strength, for, mother, friends,
I have bent for you, I have done my yoga
like you told me to, and it is all
for my own good.
YZ Chin, formerly of Malaysia and Chicago, currently lives in New York City. Chin is an associate editor with Chicagoland-based RHINO.
Nin Andrews
Wings
Wings is the secret formula of the sages. It is now sold in pill form for a limited time only. Wings eliminates all signs and symptoms of aging in a matter of weeks and offers the hidden secrets of enlightenment. Wings can be yours for just $99.99 a bottle. Never before has Wings been on the market. Never again will it be available at such a bargain price. Don’t miss this exclusive offer.
Directions:
To reach optimal results, take one pill every morning and two before bedtime for seven days.
If you miss a dose, make it up as soon as possible. After one week, to increase potency, to take 3 or 4 pills daily. If you miss 2 doses, double your dosage for 2 days. To make up for lost time, you may take up to 6 to 8 pills. After two weeks you may experience the sensation of tingling. Tingling will begin with your fingers and toes and the tips of your nose. Tingling is a sign that your body is beginning to absorb quickly. It is a sign you may up your dosage to 14 pills per day.
You will then begin to feel more alive. In order to feel more and more alive, you must consume 28 pills a day. (More pills can be taken as needed.) Feeling alive is desirable. Be sure to welcome all the sensations of life. Do not worry if you experience minor side effects which include genital burning, blurred vision, nausea and occasional dizziness. Such symptoms occur only rarely and are insignificant. After 31 days you may take a bottle a day. You will now feel like a race horse bursting from the starting gate every second. You will burst again and again. You will feel you are going crazy, but you are, at last, one of the few sane beings alive. All around you people are living in unburst bubbles, doing everything they can to stay unburst. But you will have no choice but to keep bursting. There is no end to how much you can burst and what you are bursting with. Bursting will become your new way of life. You will be bursting with bursting. You will then need to consume two bottles a day. Two bottles a day will take you to your destiny, the destiny for which there are no words, for the burst can not speak to the unburst of that which is burst, and of that which is not only burst but which is continuing to burst in an ever-bursting bursting of bursting, and a bursting of bursting of the ever-lasting bursting of bursting, for there is no bursting quite like it.
Ad
Are you, too, looking for something
new in your life?
Something that's more you?
Do you want that special something
that protects you from the influx
of unwanted news, loneliness, despair,
inexplicable blues?
That let's you feel as if you were outside
in the summer air, strolling down the sidewalk
or sandy beach feeling nothing but the wind
in your hair? No chafing at your soul
or pinching at your wrists
and waist, no endless lists
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no unsettling fears of, oh shit,
or what's next
or fuck this?
How about a nice pair of drawstring pants?
Reading for a Book Contest
Everyone knows it's not easy to fall in love. You can't just go out in the streets and shout, You.
You look like a nice guy. How about a turn in the sack? And expect he'll be just the right fit. A one-size-fits-all kind of guy. (There are so few out there. Have you noticed?) But that's exactly what I do. And so many things go wrong. How can I explain?
The first one I meet is one of those women who looks so nice. I think to myself, I've lucked out, and, so soon. Before I know it, she's taking me to her room, dimming the lights. I can almost taste her lips when she starts talking without pausing for breath. She talks all night. She wants to tell me everything about her life and act it out, too, showing off the many ghosts of her past. (Don't you hate a woman who talks in bed?) It's like sleeping in an aviary, her sweet voice filling my night.
The second is this guy who has never been laid. But just looking at him, I know one day he'll be great. (I'm always psychic about a man's future sex life.) He'll be a regular Napoleon in bed. (And it's not true what they said about Napoleon's penis, by the way.) But tonight this man is so eager, he hasn't even bothered to put his body on right. He has his hands in his eye sockets, his shoes on his ears, and a penis stuck to the back of his head. I want to shout look in the mirror for Christ's sake. But instead I admire his body parts. Oh yes, I want to say. Yes, yes, yes! But I don't.
The third is one of those real poets. You know the type. Even in bed I can picture him at the podium, manuscript and water glass in hand. He's the guy who thinks about having sex so much, he has theoretical sex. And there are just so many theories to consider. There's Hegelian sex with its theses, antitheses, syntheses. Pascalian sex: he had it once with a god, and it has never been the same since. Or Plato's sex. Of course Plato never had sex. But his shadow did.
It's only when I'm ready to give up that I notice the woman in the corner wearing a plain black dress. (Why do poets always where those little black gowns with pumps fishnetsm too?) She has such nice legs, I think. And soon I realize she's wearing nothing underneath. I’m opening her slowly, just hoping she feels as good on the inside as she looks on the surface. It's always such a wonderful relief to find a winner in end. To say please and ah and mmmmm. To breathe deep and relax at last.
Nin Andrews is the editor of a book of translations of the French poet Henri Michaux entitled Someone Wants to Steal My Name from Cleveland State University Press. She is also the author of several books including The Book of Orgasms, Why They Grow Wings and Midlife Crisis with Dick and Jane. Her book, Sleeping with Houdini, was published by BOA Editions in 2007. Her chapbook, Dear Professor, Do You Live in a Vacuum, was also published in 2007 by Subito Press. Her next books, Southern Comfort, is forthcoming from CavanKerry Press.
Scapegoat Review Spring 2009
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| Poetry | |||||
Nin Andrews
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Sara Lefsyk |
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| Flash Fiction Rusty Barnes On Another Night In Paradise |
Non-Fiction Karen Dietrich Idle Hands |
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