All posts in Writing

August 26, 2021

“Tiny Shredded Pieces,” A Story by Unimke Ushie

When my husband told me his mother was visiting London after our wedding in Nigeria when we last saw her, I remembered her not so soft hands tapping my buttocks, touching my breast and every crease around its plumpness, and saying –with a smile that did not wrinkle the skin around her eyes– “nwunye anyi, our wife, I’m just checking if your breasts have enough to support my unborn grandchildren.” I had a bland look on my face when she touched me, that is somehow the same now listening to my husband tell me of her coming to London. And soon I felt something I cannot see or name entering my body, and a damp wetness between my legs. “I’ll finally eat good food” he added. Avoiding my face. “Oh, Chikelu you know cooking is…

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August 23, 2021

“Drawing Mannequin,” Poetry by Julia Franklin

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Drawing Mannequin Mischief in monochrome. Subtle sidekick, sleek home of souls. Cold conjuror, no-face freedom. No life out of reach. The Pasta Hour Late walk, home again. Dark sky above, weak legs beneath. Fifteen-minute era of Waiting, Watching, and Stirring . . . To be rewarded with chewy-salty Victory, butter-cheese-fork Relief, calorie-laden Defiance, primal-unconditional Devotion. The Fire I come not from one house, but three. House Number One was festive, dependable, full of sweet dreams and hypotheticals that I shrugged off. House Number Two was empty, frigid and aloof, stripped to its skeleton, and infected with smoke. House Number Three was recuperating in the balm of springtime and accepting, sheepishly, the cardboard boxes that held its Number One face. …

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August 15, 2021

“Sandy Ajax, We Hardly Knew You,” by James Hanna

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

The World Baseball League was born in the sixties in our suburban home in Virginia. My kid brother and I invented it on a sweltering Fourth of July. It was a heroic invention—a vehicle by which two nerdy kids might share the aura of champions. Armed with dice, meticulously drawn charts, and a cardboard baseball diamond, Robbie and I commanded the destinies of twenty baseball teams. We played daily throughout the long hot summers—up to six games a day—and we tweaked team standings and player averages after every game. So absorbed were we in horsehide heroics that we rendered the summers neither long nor hot. Our rosters consisted of four hundred individual players each represented by a 2” by 2” square of cardboard. Batting averages, fielding percentages, slugging potential, and base- running speed were recorded on each of these squares along…

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August 9, 2021

“Finding Progressions in Mere Lists,” by M. A. Istvan

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

finding progressions in mere lists when none of the facts so integral to who you are can be reached absenting oneself from a situation by fainting sitting on a wood fence for hours in hope that a new face will show itself to talk failures loom larger in places where little else is around pinching the tongue of one seizuring the flood displacement would have been a glorified camping vacation had he not learned of her betrayal feigning knowledge of facts mentioned in an offhand tone as if you knew them already thoughts of suicide to stay in the game when mere to-do lists fail making the position clear threatens to make it vulnerable even the sexual organs of family are open for dinner conversation once…

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July 30, 2021

“BugSplat,” A Short Story by Karen Lethlean

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

So boring. No one her age. Already run out of books. Less to do than being at home. Sandra felt her feet get heavy in loose beach sand as she tried to dispel inertia by taking a walk. “Get out and find something you enjoy. Nature is therapeutic you know.” Why the hell did her mum think therapy was required? Strange how once upon a time she and her father wandered along these same beaches, christened these walks Morning Explorations and set the task of finding The Most Terrible Thing washed up overnight. Now Sandra stared out at water, twisting her hair or shooting an imaginary gun at squawking gulls. Couldn’t even get much of a signal on her phone. Limited people about. Not even any good waves to attract surfers. Cute blonde boys she…

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July 20, 2021

“Incompletist,” Poetry by Tom Pennacchini

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Incompletist It’s all a bit sketchy don’t you know what with the RMS and all.  Formal education and I didn’t work out but I was on my way across the country to fulfill my own peculiar and particular manifest destiny which at the time (at the time)? was a semi – conscious state of befuddled uncertainty laced with a lack of pragmatics that was nothing short of utter ineptitude.  (Oh essential humor I laugh to myself now at the notion of then going clear across the country to maintain my standards and my continuous quest for success in failure). We arrived at the train station and said our goodbyes.  After you left there was a welling and a filling and at the same time a depletion of air.  I rushed outside after a constricted couple of…

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July 15, 2021

“Seal on the Run,” A Short Story by Ewa Mazierska

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Whenever Robert and I travel to Scotland, to our house in Aberdour, we go for a walk towards Kirkcaldy, where one can see seals lying on the rocks. Sometimes we are accompanied by a friend named Scott, who spent many years in the British base in Antarctica. He entertains us describing the lives of different types of seals. What all of them have in common, however, is that they are patriarchal. Dominant male seals take possession of their territory by forcing other male seals to lie down in submission and fight with those who dare to challenge their power. Once these macho males announce themselves as winners, female seals start climbing to the beaches, waiting to be impregnated. In this way, their life in harem begins. It is a slow and passive life: waiting for…

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July 12, 2021

“A Walk in the Woods,” A Short Story by Robert Perron

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Johnny knocked at the kitchen door, side of the house, just like when he and Mike were kids. But this fall day they were thirty and Johnny wore his deputy sheriff’s uniform, olive jacket over beige shirt, a badge on his left breast. In the driveway, his Department of Corrections sedan. Mike turned the inside knob and pulled open the glass-paned wooden door. “Should I put on a pot?” he said, lips crinkling to a smirk, knowing the visit wasn’t social, certain it had to do with his soon-to-be ex-wife. Every day papers in the mail, his lawyer, her lawyer, the town, the state, the county. Now a visit from the sheriff’s department. Mike’s parents’ kitchen of faded linoleum, paneled cupboards, and fixtures from the forties centered on a square, wooden table with four chairs….

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July 5, 2021

“Meeting in the Middle” — Poetry by Alison Jennings

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Meeting in the Middle, Lebanon, KS The center of these United States lies in this heartland space, where love does battle with our hates, where politicians court their base; yet there should be some room for peace: our modern civil war must cease. Lies in this heartland space proliferate, become more lies. It’s something that we need to face or else this fragile union dies. How can we mend the social quilt? Can democracy be rebuilt, where love does battle with our hates? Let’s hope it has the upper hand. The intervention of the Fates may be required for us to stand on principles, but not take sides, to have a chance to heal divides. Where politicians court their base, there’s no chance for compromise. “Dog whistles” emphasizing race – or victimizing Anglo guys –…

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June 24, 2021

“Who Must Be Fed,” by Julian Warmington

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

It took only a moment for her hunger to overwhelm her. In place of her contented satiation, there was a desire to feed that now burned inside of her, familiar yet new. It ached, burning inside. Instinct overrode any logic lingering in her mind. She needed to feed. She already knew that the usual fruits and nectars wouldn’t satisfy this craving. There was something more she needed, something vital and warm that would complete her. This was what she had been born to one day consume, and she was ready. With a flutter of her gossamer wings, she leaped into the air in search of the nourishment she craved. She flew for some time, her mind singly focused on seeking. It wasn’t long before she picked up the smell of a source. The sweet, heady…

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