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No Good Deed
By Joan Mazza

    "Who is this?" I ask the woman on the phone.
    Mr. Payne's daughter. He told her I interpret dreams.
    I remember the conversation. Six months ago? Mr. Payne brought his extra garden vegetables and helped with the cost of fixing the long driveway from the main road, which we share. "I don't know how to reciprocate."
    "Always give away the extra. People leave zucchini on the church steps." He laughed.
    He cocked his head at me and I imagined how he flirted years ago. I nearly laughed at what he might be thinking. "I've written some books on dreams. If you or a family member ever has a nightmare and you want some help, I'd be happy to answer your questions."
    He nodded, his thoughts locked away, the country way.
        "What's your name again?" I ask.
    "Laura. It's my daughter Jenny that's got the nightmares. Can you help?"
    "I can try. How old is she?"
    We agree on a day for them to come by. I'm retired, not licensed in this state. I tell myself I won't be doing therapy.
    When they arrive, Jenny doesn't want to come inside. Her mother steps into the living room while Jenny takes a seat on the rocker on the porch. A moment later, from the window, I see her get up and bend to stare between the spaces of wood floorboards.
    "She's afraid to sleep," Laura says. "Every night, she wakes me up. I can't have it."
    "What's troubling her?"
    “No trouble. She’s got nightmares. Can you make ‘em stop? I can’t have it.”
    “I don’t know. I can talk to her.”
    I step outside and the mother follows.
    “Will you help me feed the fish, Jenny?”
    She answers by frowning at me. We walk behind me to the garage for fish food. When she sees the pond behind the house, she grins. “Can we go fishing?”

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By Zane Johnson

    The blue smoke hung like a ghost over the shallow Platte River-the smoke of five or six tattered old men and two young guys, one a bit older and better conditioned to the nomadic life, all choking desperately on long butts forgotten on the bank. You could stare straight down the sandy linings and see the very end of it. It was finite; progression marked by short bridges patching the rift between the sides of the small valley. In the yellow streetlight glow of the city above it and faint caress of the moon and stars, the smoke seemed to collect and mold itself around a figure; everyone's projection looked different. The oldest of the men saw their children, all grown up and distorted with daydream approximation. Others, their wives and friends and parents long gone, youthful reveries of comfort and jovial fraternal discourse. They sat and looked, mesmerized by their own smoke-wrought ghosts, silently recalling the sad stories of the lives they had left at the other end of the tracks. A Pacific Freight train thundered overhead. The ragged men had prepared two or three times for the jump, but couldn't commit. It was never too close to the city, or a security guard would see. The anxiety of it all made action nearly impossible. Then, or never at all, they deposited themselves just before the small crater of the Platte- just one stop before the train depot that would have been their demise. They were lucky too: the worker bees were prowling the tracks tonight. From inside an apartment window overlooking the bounded cityscape, bisected by the Platte, a young woman saw the bees propelled on motorized carts. The beams of light from their flashlights looked an awful lot like stingers. And when that light fell on you, boy, you felt the sting.
    The old men were escaping the finality of the lives they had already forged in other cities and states. "I bet there's good work on those tracks" resounded against the enormous sound of the locomotive. Weak nods and hopeful chuckles followed. The young kid stole away to find more butts along the nearby trail, uneasy about being so close to the depot. The other kid joined him. He sensed that the older men needed their silence and revelry in the new life, and left as to not disturb their needed meditation. They introduced themselves briefly when the older kid hopped on the car. His name was Tyler; the other's, Max.

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Little Sparrow, A Kiowa in Love
A Romantic Comedy with a bold Native American twist.
by RA Winter
Karen left home, leaving her family and dreams behind. She returns only to sleep with Richard, a man who could end her career. Enter Grandfather, who raised his granddaughters the Kiowa way. He needs his heritage to be passed on to the next generation. Grandfather takes one look at Richard, and decides to put him through the trials. No one courts his granddaughters unless they were worthy.

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The News Factory
by Matthew Abuelo
The last book by Matthew Abuelo focuses on the quickly disappearing New York which is being white washed by gentrification. Most of the poems and short stories focuses on specific tenants of an SRO building along with some homeless people who once held a higher status before disease and financial problems hit. There is also several references to disappearing New york City institutions such as CBGB.

Cat Food
By Tara Ruddy

    He scraped it out of the tin at one in the morning and put the filthy bowl on the floor. They came running. He threw the tin on the floor with the rest of them. His only friends were his cats and he had hardly left the house except to stalk Ciara's house in the early hours of the morning. To say he had let himself go would be an understatement; his beard was down to his belly and his hair down to his ass. Anxiety prevented him from going into town to buy clothes. He didn't really care anyway. The house was piling up with clutter and rubbish and he could hardly get through the rooms. His days were spent sleeping and his nights, watching porn. That would all change after tomorrow. Tomorrow he would finally have her. He would catch her when she came home from work and bring her here. The attic would do for now and then she would fall in love with him like all the rest of the women who developed Stockholm syndrome that he'd been googling. It had been planned for months but he'd had to put it off due to nerves. He was staying up all night tonight as he worried he wouldn't wake on time.
    Ciara sat at her desk and refreshed her Facebook newsfeed again. Still nothing new. It was almost six o clock and time to go home. She brushed her long blonde hair away from her face and sighed. She looked over at Aisling and sighed again;
    "She's so skinny, that bitch. I can't wait till I lose another few pounds." She thought.
    She was perfectly thin herself. After what felt like forever, everyone in the offices started to leave and Ciara packed up her stuff and walked out the door. She drove home but when she was almost at her door, William grabbed her arm and shoved a wet napkin against her face. She became more and more limp until finally she passed out. He scooped her up and carried her to his van, roughly laying her down in the back seat. As he was about to take off, his windscreen shattered;
    "Let her out now!" A man screamed
    William panicked, drove over the man and drove the five miles back to his house. He hoped that he had killed him. Carrying her up to the attic was nearly impossible. On finally getting there, he laid her down on the bed and handcuffed one of her hands to the headboard. The attic was the only room in the house that was spotless clean. He had done that for her. He would do so much more too. When the chloroform wore out she woke up.

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Watering Hole
By Iris N. Schwartz

     On their first date Marcus met Naomi with spindly purple flowers. He called her "zaftig in a very appealing way."
     What was left of his hair was chestnut brown. His eyes were lake blue, his cheeks, pink.
     By way of explaining his faux pas, Marcus said, "They tell me at my favorite watering hole that I can be a jackass. I mean, sometimes I offer opinions before being fully informed."
     Naomi said, "You mean, sometimes you're a jackass?"
     She told him she was kidding, and Marcus took her hand as she reached for her water.
     Naomi felt a shock as their fingers touched, and audibly gasped.

     He put up bookshelves for her, and a small, free-standing CD tower. He grappled with screwdrivers and nails, sweated. Naomi felt a jolt in her nether region as she watched Marcus, shirtless, work with tools and wood. Somehow she managed to keep from kissing his naked head before he finished.

     Marcus hung his head sheepishly as he told her of getting drunk-after work-at his favorite watering hole. He ordered a round for his friends, then another. He spent too much money that night, and didn't have a credit card with him, so he couldn't take a taxi home.
     At three in the morning on a Tuesday, Marcus, Jello-legged, walked the streets of downtown Brooklyn. He said he must have made an irresistible target. Two men told him to give them his wallet. He hesitated, tried to explain he had little money. One of the muggers grabbed Marcus's wallet, took the remaining five-dollar-bill, and tossed the wallet to the ground. He stomped on it, screamed at Marcus. Man number two asked Marcus to give them his ring and watch.
     "They were gifts, Naomi, from my grandfather," Marcus explained. "I tried to reason with them."
     This was why, when she met him at the movie theater on Saturday night, his right eyelid and surrounding tissue were varying shades of mauve and yellow. This is why he held his side when he laughed during the film.

     "Why do you want to go out with me?" Marcus asked her more than once.
     Couldn't he see what she saw? An intelligent, articulate, generous man, sexy, humble as hell.

     When Naomi stayed over at his tastefully furnished apartment, he didn't offer her coffee or dessert. They had already eaten dinner, so she chalked it up to that. Or to the immense bulge in his pants that she felt when he kissed her.
     The next morning, as Marcus snored quietly, Naomi put on his shirt and walked to the kitchen. She would surprise him with breakfast. Maybe challah French toast, strawberries, coffee. She opened the refrigerator door onto two bottles of Pinot Grigio. On the tiled floor, to the right of the fridge, was a carton of wine bottles. She opened two kitchen cabinets: no canned tuna, no soup, no dishes. Nothing.
     Naomi returned to the bedroom, kissed him on his bald head, and retreated into the bathroom to shower and dress.
     She was shaking as she closed the apartment door behind her.

The End


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Get Serious: New and Selected Poems
by Jefferson Carter
"So much depends upon Jefferson Carter, Hero of the Humiliated, Mensch of the Unmentionable. No longer can we shun the rumor that he is indeed the long-awaited love child of Rimbaud, Jim Morrison, and Sarah Silverman, such is this poet's unerring irreverence."-William Pitt Root. Jefferson Carter's Get Serious: New and Selected Poems has been selected as a 2013 Southwest Best Book by the Tucson/Pima County Public Library.

Gerbil Love
By Mara Buck

    She danced on the table in the back room at Max's, when everyone simply called it Max's. She was living on luck and a smile and stuffed her Mexican hemp satchel with all the free wings and ribs she could wrap into the red cloth napkins, each progressively faded from the industrial laundry. She amassed quite a pile of the things and always intended to use them at Christmas, but Andy Warhol had wiped his mouth (maybe his mouth?) on those napkins, and they morphed into a sacred stash in a back closet of her apartment. Elora was fond of Max's and was equally fond of her place in history. She was a scholar of her times.
    "Hey, baby. Whatcha drinking?" Long-haired, hippie-rocker type. They always fell for Elora's hair. And tits. The two important attributes for any single woman. Elora had existed on tits and hair for many a moon.
    "Singapore Sling." She giggled a bit at just the right point. "Healthy, ya know. Mostly fruit, right?" None of the guys ever realized she could drink anyone twice her size under the table. Another useful attribute. She accepted the tall glass with a wink and popped the cherry between her teeth. "Let's dance, honey. Janis is on the box."
    Actually, Janis herself was probably in the back room with Andy and Mick, but Elora really didn't give a hot damn. Every night she'd tank up at Max's, hoard all those buffet goodies for later, fill her pockets with chick peas to feed the pair of gerbils she kept in the bathroom, bum a few joints, and make it home before last call. Then she'd write and paint, listen to the gerbils race on their little wheel, gaze out the apartment window at the twin towers rising, and figure the status of the universe. Elora's brain was even bigger than her tits.
    Times were tough in Fat City and the landlord found increasingly-creative ways to circumvent rent control until, laden with chick peas and a napkin full of chili, Elora found an eviction notice stapled to her apartment door early one morning when she staggered home. Her door was a decoupage of beauty --- posters and peace signs and album covers --- and the stern white paper had no place in the midst of such heartsblood creativity. She ripped it down, but a fresh notice appeared every morning, like the swallows returning to wherever they return to or like roaches immune to the latest insecticide. Elora had lived with roaches for a long time and didn't give a fuck for swallows.
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By Stephanie Laterza

    I cleared my throat before reaching out of my red silk comforter to grab the iPhone buzzing on the windowsill. It was five o'clock Thursday morning. An agency staffer, Jane or Kate or Nancy, congratulated me with game show enthusiasm on being chosen for the latest project at the Mefison advertising firm in midtown. She told me to report at eleven o'clock that morning. I jumped up on my elbow as my eyes scorched in the sunlight seeping through the wood-paneled blinds.
    "I can't start this morning," I said. "I have this family trip to Niagara Falls I planned weeks ago. Monday's Labor Day. Can't I just start on Tuesday? Isn't that when the rest of the world is going back to work?"
    "Oh, it shouldn't be a problem," the whiney voice assured me. "You've worked for Mefison before and they love you. I'm sure they'll let you start on Tuesday. Just let me double check and someone will get back to you shortly."
    "Sure," I said before ending the call.
    "It's looking better," I told Jon.
    "The burn?" he asked from beneath his blue sham with his eyes still closed.
    "Oh," I said, stroking the tongue-shaped grease burn on my right arm from the night before. Stevie had wanted French fries with mayo at home and I'd neglected to dry all the water drops in the skillet before heating the sunflower oil. One scalding grease tongue leapt from its pool, staining my arm. I slathered Nivea cream over the bubbling sting before lifting the dead skin off my arm like a sausage casing. I told Jon what happened when he slipped into our bed at midnight.
    "The burn's looking better too, but I was talking about work."
    "Mefison wants you back?" he asked, yawning.
    "Yes," I said, picking at the bubbles of dead skin on my arm. "The agency's just checking about my starting when we get back from Niagara Falls."
    "Sounds great," said Jon, cracking open his glass blue eyes. He ran his tapered fingers through his mouse-brown hair and yawned again, more in boredom than exhaustion. He strained over to kiss my lips then snapped back as though the left side of his body were harnessed by a web of rubber bands. As he sprung off his side of our bed, I knew he was relieved I would be going back to work soon. I hadn't worked since the abrupt ending of my last gig at Mefison back in June. But that was over and today was a new day, I told myself.
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Tales of the Tribe: A Book of Mythopoeia
by Marvin Welborn
Society creates the stories it tells itself: factual, specious, apocryphal, or dishonest; by any rendition, according to Wallace Stevens, it will still be a fiction. Myth wears the clothes of its culture, will always be a social fact, and those who would eschew these basic facets of humanity, will prove themselves the poorer. Truths are to be found in Myths, even if Metaphorical. This is a book of Mythopoesis - Mythoi, by verse. Visit Marvin Welborn's website: Tink's Chapblog

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Phoenix Element: Normality Twisted
by Jennifer "Next Jen" Kibble
Normality Twisted is the first book in the young adult adventure series, Phoenix Element. In this first installment, our soon-to-be-hero discovers that she has superpowers, and can teleport. On top of that discovery, Anya learns that she is on her second reincarnation and has an alien entity inside of her.

What Was on His Smartphone?
By Kristopher Miller

    Sam sips his coffee while looking at his smartphone.
    Then he starts chuckling. The smartphone shakes in his hands. He drops his coffee cup. The cup shatters all over the floor. The mug shards dot the floor while the steaming hot coffee flows freeform in different directions.
    Then he starts cackling. As he cackles, Sam rips the smartphone apart piece by piece. He throws the pieces all over the place. People look up from their breakfast.
    "What is this guy's problem?" a customer asks.
    "I think I'm going to get my rain check," another customer murmurs.
    "Just ignore him," a customer tells her husband. "I'm sure someone will escort him out the door."
    Sam's waiter walks by and asks, "Uh, sir? Excuse me? Are you all right? Please stop laughing and calm down."
    But Sam continues to cackle.
    "Sir," the waiter says again. "Stop laughing this instant or I am calling the manager-"
    Then Sam grabs a glass full of ice water and smashes it over the waiter's head. The waiter screams in agony as glass embeds his face and eyes. Then Sam takes a fork he ate bacon and eggs with and jabs it into the waiter's neck. The waiter gurgles blood out his mouth as Sam cackles and stabs him repeatedly with the fork. Blood covers Sam's face as it spurts out with every jab wound he makes.
    Blood flows from the dead waiter as Sam gets up. He drops his gory fork on the floor with a clatter and cackles as he walks. Customers get out the way as Sam leers at them while cackling nonstop.
    Sam kicks open the restaurant doors as he cackles. A homeless man sees him and says, "Hey sir, can you spare me some cha-?" but Sam drives his thumbs into the homeless man's eyeballs. Sam's cackling muffles over the man's screams as Sam gouges out his eyes. Sam tosses his head back and cackles as he lets the homeless man fall dead on the dirty sidewalk. A woman walking her dog screams in horror. A man drops his morning latte in shock.
    Sam keeps cackling as fresh blood drips from his hands. He walks in the middle of the street. Several cars screech and brake in front of him. Sam cackles as people beep their horns in anger.
    A policeman stops by and gets off his motorcycle. He holds his hand out at Sam. Sam keeps cackling and walking.

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In My Apartment
By Joe Musso

the daylight in our teeth
she says she wants to feel something, anything.
Lay me down, she says.
Pull my sweater up over my head.
Pull down my pants.
Get me out of these clothes.
Let's roll around and slobber all over each other.
Bite at me. Leave marks to remind me later.
Put it in, because even when it hurts it feels good.
Desperate for what is unnamable, pleasure and pain fuse together, body parts crash and
We stretch back toward the past 
mouths and muscle
soft inside
she tightens around me
flings her head side to side
bites her lip
possess and possessed
my eye sockets squeeze my eyes, fire in my head
existence of nothing
nothing but
nothing except
flesh and shiver
fresh silver
fingernails scrape my chest
my back
plunge into my neck

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