John Riley – Three Flash Fictions

John Riley – Three Flash Fictions . .Salzburg One night in rehab I had a dream that I worked as a violin maker in Salzburg. It was the late eighteenth century, although there was no mention of Mozart or any other composer or types of music. There was nothing dream-like about the dream. I had one daughter. A son had died the year before and I could still see his face if I stopped pegging a new hole or trimming the bass bar and closed my eyes. I had spent most of the day of the dream talking with other...

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Stephanie Masson – Fleeting Moments

Stephanie Reese Masson Fleeting Moments Dawn is his magical time. The early morning light touches him, causing him to stir in the crib and utter soft cries as he stretches and finds the day. I hear and pick him up from the crib before anyone rises. I quickly carry him to his grandmother’s bed and we lie, two women on each side of a small child. The pale light hits his skin and, in that instant, it is flawless. It glows radiant, soft white. He rolls slowly at first to look at his grandmother, then me, his aunt, a...

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Janet Bowdan – Three Poems

Janet Bowdan – Three Poems Men in the Abstract men in the abstract are beautiful I like to watch them turn their heads in the train against a window, walk through a platform for a place where they will save the world by their flamboyant grace. there is an attraction to distance, an ease in dabbling rather than dipping in with cupped hands: Pygmalion owed nothing to his block of stone, adoring his chipping, his intimacy with the cracks he’d made. the rest of us have nothing at all to do with remaking the basic design. but I do,...

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Mike Alexander – Tussaud

Mike Alexander Tussaud   The gods no longer walk with us. They know we’d pester them in airports & in bars for autographs, for photographs, to show we’ve brushed against their famous avatars. A party: Southern California hills, an opening, perhaps. Couture afresh drives cameras ecstatic. Champagne spills. Celebrities hobnob as in the flesh… & we stand frozen in our tracks, so near to Frank Sinatra & the whole Rat Pack; this is our chance to talk off Elvis’ ear, kiss Marilyn or take a shot at Jack. We might have met the Queen or Lady Di, crossed wits...

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Beate Sigriddaughter – On The Side Of The Mountain

Beate Sigriddaughter On the Side of the Mountain She sat on the side of the mountain, asters and marigolds dancing their celebration of late summer in soft wind. Dragonflies and grasshoppers with bright red wings lit up the grass. Rain had been plentiful and everything was lush. Next to her in the grass, the prince: his hair dark and splendid, his skin lined with a story of much play in the sun. His head rested on top of his two hands folded underneath his neck. His right leg was bent over the top of his left. He had a...

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Mary Jane White – Three Translations of Tsvetaeva

Mary Jane White – Three Translations of Tsvetaeva   Night’s whispers: over silk Your profligate hand. Night’s whispers: over silk Your planishing mouth. Settling All the jealousies of the day— and the flaring up Of all our ancient history—clenched jaw— And the stifled Quarrel— In this rustling . . . With a leaf At the window . . . With the first bird’s warble. –So fine!—And a sigh. Not that. –You’re gone. I’m gone. With the flinch Of a shoulder. Nothing. In vain. An end. As if not. And into this vanity of vanities This sword: the dawn. 17...

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Susan Tepper – Two Stories

Susan Tepper – Two Stories French Film Around eleven in the morning the sky darkens and rain pelts the roof top pool. I look over the railing at Monte Carlo and the Mediterranean spread out below. Everything that’s normally brilliant with light has turned a gauzy gray. “C’mon,” he says grabbing his flip flops. Along with the others we scatter for cover. Why we do this is anyone’s guess, since we’re all soaked anyway from the pool.    Back in the room he says, “There’s nothing else to do but go to the films. I hate the subtitles. Your...

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Maryann Corbett – Three Poems

Maryann Corbett – Three Poems   Rulebreaking Saint Paul, Minnesota, close to the Mississippi My life is so placid now, the children grown– those most important gadflies against rules– that I slip smoothly into the offered niches of city order, and the comforting rhythms of bus routes regular as villanelles, of street lamps blinking on in unison, of traffic lights that work, of water and sewer dependable below the horizon of thought. So deep my trust in all rule-governed things that when the unruled world intrudes on me I come unmoored. A squirrel in the house reduces me to...

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A note about our launch

A Note About Our Launch “No interesting project can be embarked upon without fear. I shall be scared to death half the time.” – Francis Chichester   Many and many a year ago, I edited a small journal back in California. We had no money, no resources, no way to compete with the established journals. I was typing things – yes, on a literal typewriter – cutting them out, and gluing them to blank pages. We had to have a party to assemble the photocopied pages, fold each copy, and staple things together. And yet, people seemed to like...

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