Philip St. Clair
Down Fleet Street, then into a tiny courtyard: above us
Good Queen Bess
with orb and scepter hovered ten feet above our heads.
Then a flash of panic –
three swollen corpses, their mottled flesh blue-green,
lurched toward me
from a niche off the vestry porch, but after a moment
I saw they were only
life-sized metal statues, disfigured and corroded by rust:
King Lud and his sons
clad in Roman armor, carried here, the guidebook said,
from the old Lud Gate
pulled down more than three hundred years ago,
and I remembered my childhood
and the …
Reading by Lucas Webley, Poem Written by Tomasz Wiszniewski
Tomasz Wiszniewski is currently developing his first collection of poetry, Age of Elephant. He likes to delve into dream clay and unaltered streets, and plans to travel extensively in the near future. Work is appearing recently in SOFT CARTEL, Bywords, and formercactus. He is on Twitter @tomxwinters…Read article
He was seeing doubles: two yellowing trees, two empty park benches, two flowerbeds where there should only be one. Actually, he corrected himself, what he was seeing were echoes, the reverberations of light waves pulsed around his retina, and then mirrored into his brain. He thought that he could really feel each process slowly working its way through his head.
He’d definitely smoked too much weed.
He snuffed the joint, leaving it carelessly in the grass. It wasn’t the only joint discarded in this isolated corner of Riverside Park. Lying on his back, he turned his attention …Read article
Brian Phillip Whalen
after Czeslaw Milosz and James Wright
on a cold October morning
baby daughter’s peach-
sweet hands rake the cotton
weave there will be no other end
of the world no
to waste each miraculous hour
Brian Phillip Whalen’s writing appears in The Southern Review, Spillway, Mid-American Review, North American Review, Cherry Tree, Fiction International, Poets.org, and elsewhere. Brian received his PhD from SUNY Albany and is a lecturer in the English Department. He lives in upstate New York with his wife and daughter and teaches creative writing workshops in regional …Read article
Above the grainy black and white Newsweek photo, the caption read “New York’s #1 Pedophile Gets Caught.” And here I was, sitting at a dentist’s office, in Fayetteville, North Carolina, staring at Marty’s face again.
Marty—the man who raped me when I was seventeen and who I hadn’t seen since—the man who, almost four decades ago, changed my life. Convicted of recently raping two young women, Marty had confessed, the article reported, to raping hundreds.
I put down the magazine, glanced around the large, almost empty waiting room—a man in a suit flipped through an issue GQ; a …Read article
Terry Savoie has had more than 370 poems published in periodicals such as Poetry, The American Poetry Review, Ploughshares, America, North American Review and The American Journal of Poetry. A chapbook selection, Reading Sunday, was recently published by Bright Hill Press.
Late October, leaves turning all around the house. The mangy rhododendron is dark bronze and brittle, but what the hell? Candy wrapper caught in the twigs, but on closer look it’s alive, it’s a flower, yellow going on red, a luxuriant but muted rainbow. Life born out of death, a dead mother giving birth to what must be the reaper’s child.
The Reaper’s Child, the sketchy poem I present to the workshop that evening elicits skeptical comments, the leader likes to see real life experiences turned into literary masterpieces and not abstract surrealist fantasies. There’s just one person …Read article
Rita shook herself out of a deep sleep, flicked on the light and slid into her bathrobe. The clock said 2:45 a.m. The doorbell at this hour? In three and a half hours, Rita would have to get up, feed and diaper Celeste, pack her up with her formula and toys and get her to daycare at 72nd Street before taking the subway to work.
She stumbled along the hallway, rubbing her eyes, trying to be as quiet as possible. If Celeste woke in the middle of the night, she’d cry for an hour before calming …Read article
My first masturbator was a young inmate—standing at the front of his cell, jeans crumpled around his ankles, boxers sagging below his knees. His hand moved up and down the shaft of his penis. Looking directly at me, he pulled harder, his racing breath audible through the cell bars inches from me.
I backed away, unable to speak.
What was I expecting anyway? The men here were rapists, robbers, and murderers. This was San Quentin, a men’s maximum-security prison, and I was a new female correctional officer—a prison guard—conducting my first institutional count. But here in West Block, …Read article