 On Narrative and Comfort Books by Jarad Johnson There’s nothing quite like a familiar book, is there? You open the cover, and you’re immediately
transported back to a different time. Not only through the story you’re reading, but to the time you originally read it. One of the reasons I think that we love certain books so much is that they capture a moment or memory of when we were happier, unburdened, or content. So, when we re- read that book, we are taken back to that time and to that mindset.
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 Parking Lots, Bars, and Falling Stars Sweet Anne Marie by Roy Peak Three things right off the bat about Pennsylvanian indie-folk artist Sweet Anne Marie that I liked before I even heard her music: In her press photos she seems a bit awkward and to me that's an adorable selling point. She's not afraid of the Oxford comma—also a good thing. And lastly, she has a song titled "Retrograde," beating me to the punch on that one. Sweet Anne Marie, my hat is off to you. Oh, and she plays a really cool Gretsch hollow body electric guitar!  Poetry Jeff Weddle Love in Vain
I wish I didn’t know you were dead. These things escape notice when we are lucky. Better to remember an awkward embrace, or a dark motel room in Georgia, whispered promises, an inexpensive lunch of fish and pickles, a certain October day, the two of us beer drunk, laughing, or your face, briefly serious, a cigarette held carelessly between two fingers. I wish I could knock on some door and you would answer and be glad to see me, that I could walk through that door and say you are beautiful, to follow like your shadow to where you are.  Thoughts Over Coffee, Looking Out My Window. by Jarad Johnson I don’t particularly enjoy living in an apartment.
I mean, it’s fine I guess, but I’d much rather be in a house with a large garden (If any attractive rich men with estates are available, call me - it will be best if you travel and I can be in the house alone from 50-90% of the time.)  A Modern Hobo Story by Charles Whaley III by Roy Peak If you've ever been sitting in your car at a railroad crossing, waiting for a train to pass by, and wondered just what would it be like to hop that train and travel across the country, busking for money, living off the kindness of strangers at truck stops and convenient marts, sleeping in the wide open, then Ohioan Charles Whaley, also sometimes known as Captain Chucke, has a book just for you.
 Musings From A Park Bench Jarad Johnson I saw a man in the park the other day claiming that he was God. He was yelling loudly at some park employees looking in a pond for some lost jewelry. “It’s in the treasury!” He proclaimed. “I’m the Lord!” Even the ducks looked perturbed.
I never know what to do in these situations, except to take my cue from our government and try to pretend it isn’t happening. However, I do remember thinking, “I always thought the Holy Father would be better dressed than that.” Maybe a suit and tie? Or long flowing robes? Even a beard? This was the same day I had car trouble, so perhaps I shouldn’t have judged so harshly. God would’ve been of more use to me that day If he had been a mechanic, not a screaming man I hurried to avoid. Mysterious ways, I guess.  Poe as a Gardener Essie Lee One singular daffodilly did,
Poke up its little yellow head In the second month of the year, And though the clime was drear, crisped, withered and sear, The little dear brought some cheer to my demeanor. In the parlor of the manor, in this very haunted house, Daffodilly hunted by the music of the spheres Vivacious, and insatiable.  The Drowning House by John Sibley Williams Review by Julie Carpenter I once had a dream that I lived in a huge, malevolent, haunted house. The house was a Victorian. Initially, I was charmed but the house soon became violent, flinging objects at my head, turning stairs into slides. Dream Me knew that if I didn’t come to terms with the spirits in the house, it would kill me, but dream logic demanded that I remain in the house. Ultimately, I took a terrifying trip to the graveyard to speak with the ghosts of two children who died there. They needed to be avenged, and more than that, they needed to be heard. Hey Chickens! I received this message from fellow writer Kate Doucouré. She has allowed me to reprint it here. I don't think there's much to add. This is a call for submissions - your chance to express yourself and help out with a fundraiser. Submissions are due by July 31st.
There's an email link below. Get to it! Mother Warfare is calling all writers, web designers and artists: female, non-binary, trans, or female identifying, uterus havers or former uterus havers of all ages to contribute to the project Jess Mann and I have cooked up. Mother Warfare which will either be a website art/lit collection with a donation button to an abortion fund or several abortion funds- a purchase to print journal through amazon (or a better print on demand service) with all money going to an abortion fund/s, or a website and print edition. Please submit poems, short stories, art work, comics, or essays about how you feel now that we've lost our rights, and musings along those lines. Previously unpublished and published authors welcome, first prints or previously printed works welcome! No payments for work, this is a fundraiser! Email submissions to: [email protected] Below is my contribution: I've never felt like a woman. born with a muzzle on my face am I really non binary or is it just the endless grooming towards woman that I detest put a skirt on me and I can't run our fashion binds and keeps in place endless thoughts about our face our body things we can't change and now we can't choose our life child birth and parenthood is amazing but it eats up your choices it's dangerous it kills for centuries woman were the weaker sex not because we were less intelligent or couldn't handle pain but because any time you got into a relationship you could get pregnant and DIE or years wiped from your life feeding and caring for your child over and over as you pop babies out the revolution happened with birth control and abortions no wonder they're taking it back how do you stop woman from gaining equality? make it impossible to chose what you spend your life doing they groom us from small to be quiet, not shrill, demure keep your legs together and constantly caretake everyone around you they train us to take care of men and not complain and worry all the time if we're attractive to them do we have a summer body? In rejecting the dresses, the frill, the quiet voice- embracing the rage and not caring if i'm dainty or attractive am I non-binary or anti patriarcy?? Fucking White Men  Random Thoughts Me, the Moon, and Brutus the Cat By Julie Carpenter I first published this two years ago. Brutus is gone now, but I've been thinking about him. So here's my tribute to him. My favorite little jerk, and the inspiration for a small demon named Dennis in my latest novel - here's to you Brutus! I didn't find Brutus. Brutus found me. I had stopped at the end of the drive to get the mail, when I saw him running across the street from our neighbor's meadow, racing straight towards me with all the focus and fanaticism of John Cleese's Sir Lancelot in Monty Python's Holy Grail. I was somewhat shocked when an unknown cat jumped into my arms. I petted him, set him down, and drove to the house to unload some groceries. When I came back to the car to get some more bags, I found him sitting in my back seat desperately trying to open a pack of hot dogs. I tried to find out where he came from , but in the end it turned out the universe had given me another cat. |
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