Fire Arms… by Jay Marvin


Fire Arms

       It sat hard, motionless. At times benevolent. At times cold Statistic hungry for eats. Frank stared at it hibernating on the coffee table. Outside? Still air, sound of big rigs in the background. Frank ran grainy, yellowed films of partisans being shot by the Bolsheviks in 1917 Russia he had taken in when he was high school.
       What happens when you die? How many con men had he heard on boarder stations XERF, XEMO and XLO. Send your money to Brother Rosie or Reverend Ike and go heaven. Frank had his own way of going there and it was free. “Franks Plan For Living On Nothing.”
       Frank bolted off the bed grabbed his 21 and ran out from [under the blanket of darkness].
       He knew he’d do it someday, blow his brain wide open like pieces off lobster on the half shell. Today wasn’t the day. Instead, he sat on a rusted fuel barrel head supported by odd-job fingers with torn flesh and both real mineral and manufactured crap; tucked under his finger nails. Tears like large, wet balls began to roll down his cheeks.
       Where had he gone wrong?


Jay Marvin was a former talks show host. He was published in “The Best of NYQ” twice. He has a new book of poetry out called, “Death Dance,” and an avaunt guard novel out from FC2 titled, “Punk Blood.” His new work has been translated into Italian and published in Italy. He can also be found online on his rolling blog of “Frank Stories,” at

Copyright © 2012 by Jay Marvin


Murderer… by Shannon Barber



I dream of murder.
Hands around a supple throat.
My palms so hard-
fingers turned to stone pillars.
My body astride the other,-
A final embrace.
Lip to lip- I breathe it in.
The life that ends.
Under my hot hands and wanting mouth.


Shannon Barber is an author from the Pacific Northwest who spends most of her commuting, crocheting and writing. To see her latest work or read her blog please visit her website at

Copyright © 2012 by Shannon Barber


Counterpoint… by Juleigh Howard-Hobson



He wrote: Let it be over between us–
No snotty recriminations, no back
Channels full of hate and spite that attack
Each other’s weak spots in high self-righteous
Tones designed to do nothing more than hurt
Reputations. Let us both be done with–
And free from—that sticky glue fingered touch
Of nastiness. No one likes dealing much
With that, at least I don’t. Do you? What if
We just call it done then, without all that?
We just stop, say farewell, no obloquy,
No bile. But of course it won’t work if we
Don’t both let it go, don’t both arrive at
This mature agreement to just be through.
I answered in the juvenile: F U.


Juleigh Howard-Hobson has simultaneously written literary fiction, formalist poetry and genre work, along with non-fiction essays and articles, purposely blunting the modern ‘brandable’ concept of artistic obligation to any single form or movement. Her work has appeared in such venues as The Lyric, Mobius, Qarrtsiluni, The Raintown Review, The Best of the Barefoot Muse (Barefoot Pub), Caduceus (Yale University), and other places like Tilt-a-Whirl. She is the Assistant Poetry Editor of Able Muse. An interview with her may be found here:

Copyright © 2012 by Juleigh Howard-Hobson


Reloj De Arena… by Virginie Colline


Reloj de arena




Virginie Colline is a French translator living in Paris. Her poems have appeared in The Scrambler, Haiku Journal, The Asahi Haikuist Network, Boston Literary Magazine, Notes From the Gean, MOLT, Pure Francis, EgoPHobia and StepAway Magazine, among others.

Reloj de arena was previously published in PigeonBike, 2011.

Copyright © 2011 by Virginie Colline


Waffle House… by Bobby Fox


Waffle House

It was a game we played
on road trips down south.
“Waffle House,” we’d scream,
when we saw
the yellow signs
with the black lettering.
“Waffle House,”
the true song of the south.
It was a simple game, really.
Whoever said it first, got
a point.
She always won,
as she did at most things.
But now that she is gone,
So is the game..
But the signs remain.
I passed them the other day
on a road trip down south.
But this time,
I played alone.
And even though I won.
It just wasn’t the same.
Nothing ever will be.


Bobby Fox is the award-winning writer of several short stories, plays, poems, a novel and 15 feature length screenplays. Two of his screenplays have been optioned to Hollywood. His works have been published in the The Naked Feather, The Medulla Review, The Path, The Lyceum, Detroit News, Dearborn Times-Herald, TravelMag and InTravel Magazine. He is also the writer/director/editor of several award-winning short films. His recent stage directing debut led to an Audience Choice Award at the Canton One-Acts Festival in Canton, MI.

Copyright © 2012 by Bobby Fox