Riding the Rolling Rain Forest by James Barr

Jim survived decades as a creative director and writer at two renowned U.S. advertising agencies. He’s now enjoying life as a freelance writer and has a special on Tuesdays, where he offers 50% off on nouns and all words beginning with “Q.”


Riding the Rolling Rain Forest

Riding Chicago’s elevated commuter train (the “el”) back in the ‘60s was more than a ride to work and home again. Back in the Primeval Era, you had to be made of special stuff to survive this rolling rain forest.

Riding the el on a sweltering August day was a near claustrophobic experience. And the further you rode in this heat-encased steel chamber, the hotter and more humid it became. Before long, an entire weather system formed inside. Low-lying clouds stretched from one end to the other. Once, I thought I saw a flamboyance of flamingoes pass through. But I may have been suffering from heat delusions.

At each stop, new people crowded aboard and soon the aisles filled and the windows steamed up, further enhancing that closed-in feeling. Right on cue, the summer rainstorm would begin and each new arrival boarded drenched. One gentleman stood before me in his stylish Burberry raincoat and jaunty brimmed hat. I was reading a newspaper, trying to avoid eye contact with these apparent flood survivors. As the gentleman leaned down to see the Cubs score in my paper, a river of rain streamed from his brim, formed a tributary that ran down me, onto my paper, down my leg, onto my Gold Toe socks and ultimately created a small lagoon in my Florsheims.

The el that ran through my hometown of Evanston had a special kind of torture. The woven straw seats had seen better days. Perhaps first woven from Nile reeds by Egyptian basket makers, the cane on these seats was breaking apart and had many sharp ends. Slide onto a seat and you could find yourself suddenly lanced by an angry cane end. To remove it, you had to slowly slide back the way you came. In today’s terms, this movement was kind of a slow motion seated twerk. To suddenly stand meant that your pants got ripped, the pain intensified and you were left with an unwanted cane implant.

I always felt sorry for out of town visitors or first-time riders listening carefully for their stop to be announced. The speakers for the train’s public address system were so ancient, it became an aural impossibility to correctly hear a simple announcement about an upcoming stop. “Loyola and Sheridan” became “Royalaaaa and Chadwinnnn.” “Howard, end of the line” was garbled into “Allward, Bend Your Mind.” Whoever was on the mike sounded as though he’d been chloroformed and the rag stuffed in his mouth for safekeeping.

Today’s el riders probably ride in cushy comfort with Wi-Fi access, a special designer coffee car and Bluetooth announcements you can actually understand. They’ll never know what we endured back in the day.

And they’ll never know about the survival skills and adroit moves once needed to successfully step through all those flamingo droppings.

Mula Sem Cabesa by Kevin Schutt

Kevin DeMello Schutt is a Brazilian American poet and writer living and working in Boston M.A. He is a graduate from the MFA at Emerson College and a recipient of the Academy Of American Poets Award. His work has appeared on Poets.org and in Swamp Ape Review, Driftwood Press and Emerge Literary Journal.


Mula Sem Cabesa

it was dead already        the mule was
tom stole his  dad’s hatchet     we was

gonna throw it at a fence post   on the farm
the bank took from mr. abernathy

we didn’t kill it we swear        we wanted to
be like those hunters      have a trophy of our own

tom got the switch for stealing his dad’s hatchet
I got a hug and therapy       for coming    home

covered in blood             and everyone else
got a ghost story     about a lady         who fucked a priest

Oxtail Stew by Robin Ray

Robin Ray is writer from Port Townsend, WA. His works have appeared online at Red Fez, Darkest Before the Dawn, Fairy Tale Magazine, Scarlet Leaf Review and elsewhere.


Oxtail Stew

Ahem.
Let me explain something to you.
What I couldn’t convey in this parasitic
English is that I’m not yours, I don’t
belong to you, and have never been yours,
and like crystallized Lladró in your
étagère, I choose to emit scattered light.

You acknowledge I’m a burden to this
complex I reside in. Maybe I’m the nylon
mesh you cannot stain or the unopened
cans of Oaxaca chili that’s supposed to
weather us through a nuclear holocaust.

I could be your path to a hidden copper
mine. You know, I can somersault through
your suburban backyard and make you
believe I’m a modern-day Marcel Marceau
rehearsing some new routine while eyeing
your valuables, but not today.

Incidentally, that pungent odor assaulting
your fragile nostrils, causing you to thrust
your windows ajar, is oxtail stew and steamed
cabbage. Remorse? Nope. Yours to enjoy.

Thunderstorm by John Jay Speredakos


JOHN JAY SPEREDAKOS is a NY-based professional actor and writer with a BA from Muhlenberg College and an MFA from Rutgers University. He has appeared on and off-Broadway, in films, TV, commercials and radio dramas and is a devoted daddy to his daughter, Calliope. Recent publications include poetry in Typishly, Cathexis Northwest Press, Chaleur Magazine, Prometheus Dreaming, River Heron Review, Gravitas: Volume 18 Issue 1, Tiny Seed Literary Journal, and upcoming in Bluestem, Alternating Current, Portrait of New England and Duck Lake Journal. More info, photos, etc. can be found on IMDb at: imdb.me/johnsperedakos


Thunderstorm

God’s stomach growls
as He opens and shuts
His refrigerator door
several times.
What will happen–

what dams will burst
what crops will fail
what ice cream scoops
will topple
from their cones
and plummet
unlicked
to the pavement–

when He realizes
He’s out of mayo?

Poetry by John Timothy Robinson

John Timothy Robinson is a mainstream poet of the expressive image and inwardness from the Kanawha Valley in Mason County, West Virginia. His works have appeared in ninety-five journals throughout the United States, Canada, the United Kingdom and India.


Field-work at Seven AM

Mulberry, elm,
Maidenhair and pine.
Cedar bough—

a drowsy dowsing
in the morning hours.
See what coheres;
jotted notes, thought-scrawl.

Spear-points of Stag-horn Sumac
jut up in a humid swarm
of August afternoons.


Long Branch

No one ever told me
where old place-names begin
and others end.
There’s a clearing
almost half-way up Long Branch Hollow
where Wandering Jew and Multi-flora cover the field.
Sycamore tower there,
twenty-five, almost thirty feet.
Back under maple eaves
lie rusted things from another life.

Even though a creek winds the full length,
like some ancient river,
I always recall the first field;
no reason.
That tree-line, sky, a long meadow,
sloped slightly toward the Eastern creek.

Farther up, an old, concrete slab.
The road thereafter, engulfed in growth,
winding under forest canopy
in the secondary of shrubs,
a faint path exists
to the last clearing on Williams land.

At its deepest part,
fern-beds cover parts of the ground.
Pillars of moss extend along scales of trees.
The only time
a human face passes these rocks,
men in blaze orange
drift through morning cold
to wait and cradle death.


Older Tombstones

I saw the first, one summer day,
an older grave,
small rocks affixed
like eyes, not brick,
were pushed into a slab and set.
We walked, I forget
how far in dusk.
A barn nail’s rust,
a German name, VanSickle land
where tall trees stand.
And why this shape
that feigns a face?


Black Maple

I used to think this black tree
were diseased,
as if a fungus had taken hold
in the creases of its bark—
anomy, growing midst other trees.

So I thought.

Texture stands out,
blackened as natural as noon sun.
You can see it fifty yards away
growing in the green wall of summer,
what once appeared dead
lives now, even more, through me.

Blades of Doubt by Randal Burd

Randal A. Burd, Jr. is an educator, freelance editor, writer, and poet. His poetry has most recently been featured by Halftime Magazine, The Society of Classical Poets, Ancient Paths, The Chained Muse, and Rue Scribe.

Randal received his Master’s Degree in English Curriculum & Instruction from the University of Missouri. He currently works on the site of a residential treatment facility for juveniles in rural Missouri. He lives in southeast Missouri with his wife and two children.


Blades of Doubt

There may be greater horrors for causing dread
Than chinks within the armor of the mind
Where blades of doubt impale the hope they find
One holds for not communing with the dead.
Worms feast upon the flesh of those who fed
Upon the myths of immortality–
Not speaking of religiosity,
But time extended here on Earth instead.

There must be more than limiting one’s fear
In seeking resurrection for the soul–
A humbler and far more modest goal
Than dodging death, but never less sincere.
Pursuits which mark our struggle for control
Intensify as chaos gathers near.

Three Poems by Delvon Mattingly

Delvon T. Mattingly, who also goes by D.T. Mattingly, is a writer from Louisville, Kentucky and a PhD student in epidemiology at the University of Michigan. He currently lives in Ann Arbor, Michigan with his two cats, Liam and Tsuki. Learn more about his work at http://delvonmattingly.com/.


Ebb

You tell me to go with the flow,
similar to the ocean’s waves,
without considering that they’re
always crashing into me.


Decay

Our bodies change
every day, and with it
my fear that we will
forget how to love,
not only ourselves,
but also each other.


Puppy Chow

She cared about her dog
more than she ever cared for me,
and I never thought of it having
inequitable implication, until I
watched her love somebody else.

Matter by R.C. Weissenberg

R.C. Weissenberg is a writer and artist who spends most of his time in the Southwestern United States. He enjoys sketching, playing guitar, and, most of all, reading obsessively.


Matter

            She stood on the upraised platform in the crowded room, wearing a yellow dress. On a table before her lay a frightening lump of flesh, squirming left and right, but unable to shift its position.

            “A garish color,” someone in the crowd said.

            She pulled a knife from somewhere behind her and held it up to catch and radiate the single focused light.

            “You’d think she’d have an advisor,” another person commented.

            She held the knife still.

            “Or at least a mirror.”

            She plunged the knife into the sudden writhing mass. Blood sprayed onto her dress, but little of it reached the audience.

            “Red on yellow’s even worse.”

            She held the mass down with her left hand and plucked out the knife. The glob squirmed pathetically. Then she stabbed it once more.

            “Complete lack of taste.”

            She stabbed it again.

            “Vulgar.”

            Again.

            “It’s discouraging,” somebody said.

            She stabbed the mass until its slightest twitching ceased. Without cleaning her hands, she picked up the hunk of flesh and tossed it into the crowd, where somebody caught it.

            “I hope the next one’s better dressed,” someone said.

She left the stage to mix with the crowd.

            “That’s what matters,” came a faint reply.

Two by Ahrend Torrey

Ahrend Torrey is a poet and painter. He is a creative writing graduate from Wilkes University in Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. When he is not writing, or working in New Orleans, he enjoys the simpler things in life, like walking around City Park with his husband, Jonathan, and their two rat terriers Dichter and Dova. Forthcoming this year, his collection of poems ‘Small Blue Harbor’ will be available from The Poetry Box Select imprint.


One Moment

A cardinal flits around the myrtle tree, sings out into the yellow rise of morning, and my dog, Dich, hops around the yard like a slow hare, out of a burrow in Spring. He eats grass, for what must be an upset stomach. The cardinal sings and sings. Then like a toilet plunger sucking at a thick clog, Dich heaves and heaves, then gags it up, while the cardinal sings from a different branch now. What relief he must feel—walking to lap up water from a partly rusted pail. And the cardinal sings and sings and sings…


From Hay Bales in a Barn

I smell a young stallion galloping from another century, when Earth was less disturbed and there were more healthy fields.

Another whiff: how joyous, too, the red mare gallops and gallops. She excitedly whisks tail and stops to tear the tuffs of grass, then walks to breath me with her nose of silk.

A man revs his truck and moves away the hay-aroma with diesel: I watch the mare and stallion gallop off through evening’s last light.

In all the world, no more horses.

My First Memory by Lacey Mercer

Lacey Mercer is 40 years old and lives in Buckeye, Arizona.


My First Memory

It was my first memory. I am sure I’ve had many more before it, but this is the first one I can recall. This memory shines vividly in my mind and it was of him.  I was about 4 or 5 years old in my Grandma’s backyard. I always went to stay with my grandma in the summer. She had an amazing house – the kind you see when you’re driving and turn to the person next to you and say, “Wow, it would be nice to live there!” It was white, two-stories, with a wrap-around porch, and balcony on the second floor. It was a farmhouse and although looked picturesque from the road, up close, you could see the small imperfections and wear left by many generations of use and love. My family didn’t have money, but they had that house. My grandmother used to tell me, “Someday this house will be yours, and you will raise your family here.” I would smile and run through the halls, into the backyard playing and laughing like any child, not knowing how precious those moments really were.

The backyard was big, with flowers lining the house and a large oak tree on the side. In my memory was swinging on a tire swing that hung from the oak tree, being pushed by Ethan Myers. He was one year older than I was and tall for his age. He lived a few houses away and would walk the quarter mile down the dirt road almost every day to play. Ethan lived with his mother, father, and three much older brothers. By the time Ethan was born, his parents were done raising children and let him roam free, which was fine with me. I loved playing with Ethan. He was kind and patient. I think his reason for coming over was as much to play, as it was to stay for supper. His family was poor, so going without a meal was a normal occurrence. My Grandmother didn’t mind though. She was the kind of woman that would feed the entire neighborhood if they came over. While Ethan pushed me on the swing, I laughed and yelled, “Higher, higher!” On the back swing, the tire hit the trunk of the large oak tree. The jolt sent me flying. I landed on my shoulder and could feel the tears starting to come. Ethan was instantly by my side, “Beth, are you okay, are you okay?”

I winced in pain, “My shoulder.”  I reached up clutching it tightly as the tears began to leave my eyes. Ethan pushed my sleeve up to examine the damage. There was no blood, but it was a little red. The next thing he did is what is burned into my memory – He gently brought his face down, closed his eyes, and softly kissed my shoulder. He pulled his head up and looked at me wiping away one of my tears, “Is that better?”  His words asked with the innocence only a child could have. I nodded, and it was better. I should have known then to hold on to him tightly, to not let him slip through my fingers as life can do to us with so many people we hold dear.

Years later, here I stand; an old woman looking over over Ethan’s grave not knowing him past my childhood. My life was my own fault, a string of unfortunate decisions only compounded by the one not to choose him. I stand here feeling sorry for myself, sorry for the life that could have been, and all the missed happiness that my mind wonders with. The scenarios built up in my head about the life I could have had with him, but that was not the path I chose. In our youth, we do not recognize how the smallest decision we make on a whim can shape the outcome of our short time. How some people who could bring us so much happiness are put in our path and we let them float away like bubbles in the air. So here I stand, remembering my first memory, and at my age, I am sure very close to my last one. Now I realize that true regret is not something you can fix; it is something you hold onto. It feels like a hollow place in your chest, constantly reminding you of the wasted years and the foolish choices made in the arrogance of youth.