November 11, 2020

“Teddy Levine,” Poems by Robert Cooperman

Teddy Levine, on Line to Buy Girl Scout Cookies, Outside the Wild Weed Dispensary: Denver “The Girl Scouts of Colorado have decided it’s now cool to peddle their baked goods outside marijuana dispensaries.” —The Denver Post Jesus-freakin’-Christ, this woman’s taking all day, can’t make up her mind, so she’s demanding free samples of every variety. The girls behind the table roll their eyes, but afraid to tell her to screw off, so the scout leader informs her, with a smile tight as a dolphin’s rear end in a rip tide, “I’m so sorry; we can’t break open boxes.” Madam Entitled stalks off as if a butcher had tried to pass off gristle for T-bone. Finally, it’s my turn! But I forget what I want, the kids snickering like I’m already stoned, which, I confess, I am, a little. I point, while the ounce in my pocket gets hot as a fired .45 on old TV westerns, when cowboys rode off into the sunset, free as mustangs, and schoolmarms waved goodbye and tried not…

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November 9, 2020

“Barry and the Trumpet,” A Short Story by Nancy Kissam

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Barry always wanted to play the trumpet. Sure, he was a lemur and that made his dream a bit more of a challenge, but he had faith in himself. “Listen,” Barry thought, “if I could peel a mango in an hour, I can certainly learn to play the trumpet. How hard could it be?” As it turns out, pretty hard. Barry had a sister. Actually, he had twelve sisters if you counted his nine half-sisters. Lemur dads were not known for sticking with one partner, not that his mom cared one wit about it. “Good riddance,” she once told Barry. “That guy got on my last nerve. Did you know he’d constantly accuse me of going out at night? ‘Of course I go out at night, I’m nocturnal. Ya dummy.’” Barry’s sister, Colleen, always tried to encourage Barry. If he was inclined to hang from…

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November 3, 2020

“Black Oranges,” Poetry by Mbizo Chirasha

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

BLACK ORANGES Xenophobia my son I hear a murmur in the streets A babble of adjoining markets Your conscience itching with guiltiness like Genital leprosy Your wide eyes are cups where tears never fall When they fall the storm wash down bullet drainsand garbage cities ii) Come nomzano with your whisper to drown, Blood scent stinking the rainbow altar. Darfur, petals of blood spreading, Perfume of death choking slum nostrils Slums laden with acrid smell of mud and Debris smelling like fresh dungs heaps Fear scrawling like lizards on Darfur skin Kibera. I see you scratching your mind like ragged linen Smelling the breath of slums and diesel fumes The smoke puffing out through ghetto ruins is the fire dousing the emblem of the state iii) Belly of Zambezi ache with crocodile and fish Villages piled like heaps of potatoes against the flank…

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October 26, 2020

“Baba Yaga” — Poetry by Raquel Dionísio Abrantes

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Baba Yaga He needs to learn to respect your no; He needs to learn to hear your yes. If he does not let him go; You do not want a vile head on your chest. Unleash your Baba Yaga, the one Who leaves scars. You will rise from the red-hot sun And no one can tear you apart. Believe me; You are ready to forge your throne. In you there are the seven seas Beneath your growing skin of stone. Your Perseus Face Dream after dream you split my Soul like a glass of rum. I spend the night by the bed, Restless, seeing your Perseus face. But I do not have Medusa’s head Nor any body to offer you. You are a man in the shadow Of a lost fire. How many times Have you seen the…

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October 22, 2020

“Being Green,” A Short Story by Col. Jon Marsh

Posted by Mike Rochester in Writing

Janey was trying so very hard but her six-year-old-to-be fingers had not yet fully mastered dexterity. “Well, Poop!” She learned to cuss in the girl’s bathroom at St. Thomas Elementary. She tried again. She learned from her friend Alonda that Mommies and Daddies would get a divorce if they had arguments all the time. A divorce was a bad thing to get, Janey was sure. She didn’t want them to get a divorce. . .where would they put it? In her bedroom? There wasn’t much room in there already, with all the stuff they brought with them from their house. The apartment was too small and it smelled bad. She pulled a little to stretch the rubber band enough to get it to fit through the loop her little hands were able to form. She learned in school that…

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“Teddy Levine,” Poems by Robert Cooperman

“Barry and the Trumpet,” A Short Story by Nancy Kissam

“Black Oranges,” Poetry by Mbizo Chirasha

“Baba Yaga” — Poetry by Raquel Dionísio Abrantes

“Being Green,” A Short Story by Col. Jon Marsh

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