All posts in Writing

April 14, 2020

“Vogel,” A Novel Excerpt by David Lincoln

TUESDAY, JUNE 13, 1944 AMIENS, FRANCE STANDARTENFUHRER HANS VOGEL entered cell 51. His black uniform was spotless and sat on his shoulders the way it would a man comfortable with physical exertion. The SS insignia on his collar faintly reflected the light from the bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. It was the only illumination in the cell, which reeked of urine and the familiar coppery scent of blood. The naked prisoner sat in a steel chair, straddling the drain in the middle of the room. His wrists were bound to the arms of the chair, his ankles held fast to its legs. Leather straps held his chest rigid. One eye was swollen and purple. His lips were shredded, and his body was peppered with bruises. A sergeant wearing a Wehrmacht uniform was standing behind…

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April 9, 2020

“Review for a Canvas Fanny Pack,” by Kerry Langan

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Heading for Review: Big Mistake Reviewer Name: SheWhoIsDisappointedandIsGoingtoTellYouHowMuch I gave this fanny pack one star because there was no option to give it no stars. If you try to leave the 5-star graphic blank, it won’t let you go to the box where you’re supposed to leave the actual review. So, just know that I gave this one star but it should be no stars. Zilch. First of all, I ordered an apple green fanny pack from HikeBike.com when they were running that sale a couple weeks ago. Apple green, like the color of grass in July and my favorite sweater and, well, green apples! In the photo they ran during the sale, the fanny pack looks like it would match a Granny Smith. I love apple green. If you opened my closet door, you’d see that almost everything is green. Kevin, my ex, told me once that green was a great color with my brown…

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April 6, 2020

“‘The Misfits’ Revisited,” Poetry by Stephen Mead

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

“The Misfits” Revisited* When you chased, lassoed the mustangs, tying hooves to necks of down weighed by tires heavy as trucks, you wrenched the galloping out of me till I found my rage… Butchers! What is the spirit if not these horses wild first to last, these zeniths, comet- tailed, free as the sage, the mountains, the thousand miles of it? That is me down there in the dust. That is you who cannot see yourself for the sign of dog food dollars, a cowboy’s wage, the dream gone to blood. Put my blood on your fingers. Lick clean. Let whiskey drown the taste. The taste will come back, the beleaguering fever and freedom here truly trotting beyond your ropes which shake and shake. Lost boy, lost cow poke, I will…

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March 29, 2020

“Crimson,” A Short Story by Zach Lattman

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Ester hated that dress. But it was the only thing she had for tonight. Since graduating law school, she, and four other classmates would get together once a month. Supposedly, they were all such great friends, and they didn’t want graduation to pull them apart. But to Ester, it felt fake—almost coerced. It felt more like preemptive networking; everyone was keeping tabs on each other in case they needed a favor down the road. Ester never voiced that concern to anyone. Surely, it was all in her head, she told herself. But still, in her more cynical, or rather, her more honest moments, she doubted everyone’s authenticity—even her own. She leaned back against the living room wall and stared out the window into the late-spring evening. Chicago looked beautiful at night. From Ginny’s 21st-floor condo, it looked like…

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March 24, 2020

“Deep Fried,” A Short Story by Matt Kolbet

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

“Candy bars? “Of course. Snickers mainly. That’s what people have heard, so it rings true if they hear it again. Easy enough to envision something held in wires, dropped down in hot oil.” “Had it.” Dan eyed the man from Texas and felt a flash of home-grown pride. Travel had brought the two men together and Dan realized everything could be a competition: grilling techniques, the tang of a sauce, the cut of the meat. In other states they touted how high food could grow relative to elephants. Ridiculous, except when it wasn’t. Presently, they discussed state fairs and what could be fried at home. This prompted a lengthy litany and an appreciative silence. “You ever try Rolos?” “Haven’t. Gives me an idea though.” Dan pulled out his phone and punched in a string of numbers. “Hey Jed. No, I’m on a business trip. Met up with this other fellow. I want you to…

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March 19, 2020

“The Woman of Kutch,” Poetry by Jonathan Lloyd

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

The Woman of Kutch The woman of Kutch, Living in grasslands Favored by raj And ibis, flees  The earthquake and Monsoon that leveled The Gujarat Three or four  Thousand years ago. For this occasion She wears a dress Embroidered in red And yellow cotton An aba covers The sakral which Begins the stem  Of a sunflower rising  To a shower  Of light, all in Mirrors, surrounded  By grassy fields. She carries three Steel pots of water On her head and  With her left arm She caresses another. With her right arm  She shields her eyes  Against the sun, Into which she races. ** At  the Track She crosses her legs, this girl of twelve, her hat A crown, brim bouncing in a breeze. She reads Her book, maybe–maybe not–lost in thought Or reverie, a boy…

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March 17, 2020

“To and Fro,” by Hayden Moore

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

Harmony is the strength of binding opposites: Heraclitus She knew the way, but the liquid path never failed to frighten her. Her arms were sure as she paddled from one to side to the other, left to right, to and fro until she convinced herself the fear was nothing more but adolescent excitement. In those rare moments of calm, something stirred within her chest as one arm gave way to the stroke of another, a harmonic song issuing forth from her sternum in a moment’s moment. But the song was too brief to name and the moment too fleeting to overtake the peril. Not a cloud in the sky. The girl swore she could see the curvature of the earth from her humble placement as she paddled across the shallow sea. When she dared to…

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March 15, 2020

“The Boggart” and other Poems by Julia Franklin

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

The Boggart There used to be this boggart in our house. Not a big thing, really; actually quite small. Of course, we didn’t used to see her that way; There was a time when we were the ones that were small. She had a row of teeth for every bit of flesh we bore. She’d bring them out, all neat and sharp and small. One day we stared her down and brought our own teeth out, And the growl that stirred in her throat was small. The night passed without incident. When the sun rose, We found footprints out the door. We thought, “Now who’s small?” I heard she found another house to haunt, Its occupants each Bambi-eyed and small. ** The Truckers It’s a world that…

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March 10, 2020

“Wordsmithing Past the Editor,” CNF* by Philip Gabbard

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Editor’s Note: This post is an excerpt from: THISday-Words for the Vulnerable and the Venerable by Philip Gabbard, a book of essays and *creative nonfiction. Wordsmithing Past The Editor Could you imagine if Mark Twain or Pink Floyd wrote ad copy today? Although, while  sixty-second ad copy wasn’t a “thing” in Twain’s day—he was widely heralded for penning some poignant one-liners back in the late 1800s, like saying that  common sense ain’t so common. But even Twain had his  influencers. Perhaps it was Voltaire who similarly wrote the same line a century and a half earlier. Then in truth, the fact that common sense hasn’t been, well, common has been common since AD 130, when the Roman poet Juvenal first wrote that there was  not a more uncommon thing in the world than common sense. And I can only think that that was something Juvenal  heard…

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March 8, 2020

“Jacob the Lion Hearted,” Poetry by Thomas Piekarski

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Jacob the Lion Hearted He started out trying to climb too high a ladder, fell off, smacked his head, knocked unconscious. But he wouldn’t give up just because the ladder was an obstacle. He wouldn’t give in although he had no grip on any world outside his head. Jacob took advantage of this transcendent state to luxuriate in the expanse of his imagination. He ventured like Alice through fabulous realms clinging to his unique ideals. No one else would ever understand what thoughts were propagated. Nor would he, for memory had fled in a flash. His mind a dream machine, body in suspension, Jacob manufactured fantasies, myths, religions, gave them life, far beyond anything he’d known during this his tenuous tenure on the road of life. ** Andronicus Returns to Earth A smooth landing, the toes…

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