All posts in Writing

February 16, 2020

“After Thucydides,” Poems by Bruce Robinson

After Thucydides Read to you my silent poem, how does it go? Goes without saying, va sans dire. And then someone spoke and there was the largest crowd in history, and a luminous array of tariffs made us rich again which after all was our pre-existential condition before the construction of our glorious, seguro- will-cover-it wall, and we learned that however true it may…be.. that truth is something intermittent, which is how some histories are written. ** It’s Your Past Catching Up with You and then your past catches up with you, or tries to, and then your past tries to oscillate your future, or makes a very good effort to be closer than it appears and then you’re past all caring, all over-canvassed tenses meet each other mid-stream, toll…

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February 11, 2020

“Designer Baby,” by Joann Mead

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Designer Baby: Underlying Crimes Chapter 1 My Mai “You are mine. You are my Mai.” He chuckled. “Mai, Mai.” Repeating over and over, he laughed at his alliteration as he clapped his short, thick hands in time with his rhythmic chant. “Only tonight. No rough stuff. Just what we agreed, Vlad. Promise?” For Mai Tran, this business has rules that must be followed. Her patrons were usually compliant. Most were lonely businessmen with too much money and time on their hands. Most had pedestrian tastes. But this client was not typical—more brutish and less refined than the Scandinavian men, and with none of the sophistication of western Europeans. Mai keenly observed the differences in her clients. She was a quick study. This patron was decidedly coarse with his disheveled hair and beefy body. She comically thought the size of…

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February 9, 2020

“Surgeon General’s Warning,” by A. R. Farina

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

When the warning first appeared, we were already addicts. It was total and complete saturation. I never knew anyone who wasn’t using although, I found out later, some people weren’t. The kids who were fed free lunch used. My parents used. Hell, they were worse than anyone I knew. All the parents were terrible. There was an old jokey Public Service Announcement that came from when my grandparents were young about a kid doing drugs because he learned it from watching his dad. I saw it a few times as a meme. “I learned it from watching you, Dad!” It would be funny if it weren’t so true. The morning the warning came down, I was in school. First-period classes had just begun when the smartboard turned on. Like every other morning, Jake, the admin…

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February 4, 2020

“Insect People,” Flash Fiction by Rich Ives

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

The Thoughts I Live in Seem to Accept My Flight European Mining Bee Dear Chomsky, My colon’s gone semi. I thought telling you would explain my recent uncharacteristic lack of correspondence. Yesterday I tithed my toilet. Today I’m 90% certain I agree with what’s left. If you’d send me an opinion on breakfasting, I’d certainly think about it. I’m still being serviced by two membranous wings, joined in flight by tiny hooks at my narrow waist. I have a saw-like ovipositor, long and slender like in parasitic wasps. I’m told that my egg was fertilized though the males’ aren’t. I’m a very social gal, and you can rely on me to spread the word about your genius. You probably get that all the time. What I mean is I’ll help explain why you’re right. My pollen collection…

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February 2, 2020

“The Answer,” A Short Story by A. Richard Sogliuzzo

Posted by Jack B. Rochester in Writing

A heavy snowfall blanketed Manhattan; a fierce wind blew over the Hudson River across the West Side. Gusts of snow twirled, twisted and sped toward Central Park. Downtown, offices closed early, rivers of people poured into the streets and down the subways, determined to get home. Eyes peered out between hats and scarves, struggling to see through the snow and wind. On Central Park West, a cab made its way slowly through the snow then stopped. The cabbie turned to the elderly passenger, “That’s it, lady. I can’t go on in this storm, otherwise, I’ll be stuck here.” “I think it’s close enough. How much do I owe you?” “Twelve dollars.” “Here’s fifteen.” “Thanks, lady.” She got out of the cab and pushed her way through a mound of snow. The stout woman, looked younger than her eighty years: a few…

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January 30, 2020

“Kung Fu Crack Baby,” by John Reedburg

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

Editor’s Note March 2022: We featured John’s story back in 2020 when it was still just a short story. It has since blossomed into a full-fledged novel and we are happy to hear the news! This is an excerpt from the book Cracks of Light, copyright (c) 2021, by John Charles Reedburg. Published by Valorous Books. Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. My elementary school was an off-white graffiti spectacle of a building that looked like it was a semester or two from dying of old age. Walking down the halls made me feel I’d become swallowed alive, passing down into the belly of a fire-breathing dragon until defecated into my 4th-grade class that smelled like urine. I hated going to school. My mother was a drug addict who only made sure I went so she could get a welfare check. While most kids went to learn,…

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January 28, 2020

“Go Blow,” a Short Story by Alan Berger

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

He would have said how the fuck could they make a trumpet out of plastic and have come forth out of it with such beautiful sounds. Sounds like he heard his father play on his brass trumpet. But Gabriel was only four years of age when he got it and didn’t know yet what plastic was. Gabe’s mother and father were always fighting. With her doing most of the fighting and him doing most of the ignoring. She was jealous of his trumpet, which he played all the time. Gabe would listen to his father play in the next room and play along with him from his room. That duo would harmonize until mom started hitting dad and if Gabe was still playing after a few smacks at dad, she would go into his room and smack on him. By that time dad would start playing his horn…

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January 26, 2020

“Junk Mail,” a Short Story by T.R. Healy

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

As he waited in line to order a cappuccino, Poston was surprised how crowded the Java Station was this late in the morning. Generally, it was less than half full at this time but, for whatever reason, every table was occupied. He couldn’t sit outside because it was still raining so he supposed he would have to share a table with another patron which was not something he liked to do. “Do you mind if I join you?” he asked an older woman with spiky auburn hair that made it appear as if she were in a constant state of fear. “Sorry?” she replied, looking up from the spiral writing tablet next to her espresso. He pulled out the opposite chair. “It’s so crowded in here.” “Oh, yes, of course. It is busy, isn’t it?” Nodding, he sat down…

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January 22, 2020

“That Finals Hour,” Poetry by John Grey

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

THAT FINALS HOURIt’s not complacency. It’s stupefaction.The final is in an hour. And I’m notsucking this pen like a popsicle.Behind my lips, I’m in a chewing frenzy.Yes, I’m sipping coffee. And peelingand orange. But the activity requiredis like a drug. My frayed nerves deserveno less. Some friends stroll by.Trades looks tell all. Once eyesadopt a principle of honesty,self-confidence falls flat on its own face.In a room to the building on my right,it’s not a simple mathematics test thatawaits but the labors of Hercules.A growling Nemean lion of an algebrapuzzle. A geometrical hydra. Astamping, snorting, trigonometryCretan Bull. Compared to me,the ancient strongman had it easy.He could stop at twelve. Ah, if onlythe test were on mythology. Allthose contradictory characteristics.Gods and heroes. The supernatural.The bloody. The inspiring. Themiraculous. Best of all, one plus oneonly had to equal…

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January 15, 2020

“Hue,” Colorful Flash Fiction by Kasondra Perez

Posted by Mike Rochester in Member Writing & Art, Writing

Southern California is the same hue as your eyes. Brown rutted brush where the goats will chew out the fire breaks so maybe we won’t burn up like your rage on a Saturday night after maple colored scotch.  I remember white blankets of soft ice covered the town where I went to school. Everything was touch and go, where winds would pick up like a whip and snap you forward on the walk from your dormitory, coming up again on the return like a violent slap to the face of pitch cold, kind of like last night with your words, never actually, but reaching into my grey matter and thumbing at the tabs of files until pulling out one labeled Insecurities. You took that folder and studied it like admissions counselors studied my manuscripts. Scrutinized and memorized. …

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