February is that sad time of the year when all the snowmen we hired back in December go back to their temp agency. Many of them lost weight in the past couple of months. Some of them left a little yellower than the day they came in. But they’re always a big help in the winter months, and we save a ton of money on heating bills. We will miss them dearly.

Later this year we’re going to theme some of our issues. I’ll have more information on that next month, and I’ll make a formal announcement when the time comes up on our Facebook page and elsewhere. This won’t change our submission structure at all; we’ll continue to accept your poetry, prose, and artwork year-round, as usual.

This month features poems by Li Min Hua, Megan Roth, and Ricki Hunsinger; fiction by Andrew Porterfield, CJ Hallman, and Francisco Nieto Salazar; non-fiction by Andrei Trostel; artwork by Trebor Nehoc; and a new Defenestrati strip written by Adrian Siordia.

Enjoy!

—Andrew Kaye, editor-in-chief

by a blaring honk

And I see-

a middle finger

spring up before me.

It made me want to

act on nothing.

It was the most boring middle finger

I have ever seen;

lacking in all passion and artistry.

(a Monster truck on valium.)

No more incredible

than a blade of grass

lifting back up

after being brushed down.

I am disappointingly unmoved,

like the night I walked out of the play

“Waiting for Godot.”

I just

didn’t have the time.

Take your finger

and go tuck yourself

shamefully away

like Napoleon’s

deformed little hand.

————

Ricki Hunsinger is an emerging writer from the Baltimore area.She is a graduate with a B.A. in English from Chatham University. In her spare time she enjoys eating fresh figs, daydreaming about her future metal band: “Colitis Emperor”, and sitting around on jungle gyms. She currently works as a library assistant.

I will use my scythe to exhume the letter from its holder.

In the mailbox, the envelope dozes atop a coupon

From Bed Bath and Beyond, a material image of sorts.

Above, the clouds are clouding around me.

This draws up existential questions, and

The smell of my mother’s lemon cake,

A glowing ember of youth; and finally the shock word:

I shut the mailbox and proceed to

Pull from my coat pocket, a bazooka.

————

Megan Roth is finding it hard. www.mrothillustration.com

A rose is a

flower is a

resurrection is an

erection is a

momento is an Is.

————

Li Min Hua is the author of 1,918 published poems and essays. He has edited special issues of College English and Margins. He has written three poetry volumes Sunspots (Lotus Press, Detroit, 1976) Midnight Lessons (Samisdat, 1987), and Lutibelle’s Pew (Dragon Disks, 1990).

The University of Michigan collects Li’s papers. From 1983-87 he lived in exile in Asia. He has read at more than three score venues in Britain, Canada, China, Hong Kong, and the USA. He is an emeritus professor of English at Rutgers, the State University of New Jersey.

Man-oh-man, it is the worst time to have died.   I mean, after years of working like a maniac, I finally reached the point where I could rest on my laurels for a few years.   But I better get over that because there’s no point in worrying about such things when you’re someone in my position, right?

I guess I should be more concerned about where I am going next; I’ve lived a decent enough life but, then again, not all of the time.   So, I suppose now is as good a time as any to start to praying.

Thus, to you dear Lord, forgive me for I have sinned (Sorry, you know as well as I do, I’m not even catholic but that’s how I’ve seen this done in the movies).   Anyway, please forgive me my sins.

For starters, when I was sixteen, it was me who stole the homemade porn from my neighbour’s garage.   The only reason I did it was that Mr Thornton only paid me a pound an hour for cutting his grass.   So, I always considered it an educational perk of the job.   Although, in saying that, the girls I went out with were never the up for doing the things Mrs Thornton did.   Anyway, this was all wrong and I know it now.   Sorry.

As for that thing you have about honouring your parents, I must plead clemency for putting my dad in an old people’s home after my mum died.   I do love him but the thought of him mulling around the house all day pointing out my incompetence as a father and reminding me on a daily basis that I don’t live up to his standard was not going to be a healthy move for anyone concerned.   And besides, while the management frown on his Benny Hill antics, he’s happy there.   Chasing all the old widows around keeps him healthy.   So, if anything, I did a good thing, right?

What else?   Ah yes, that summer in India, the summer I somehow ended up in a temple worshipping Buddha.   In all honesty, it was a one time thing.   I was under peer pressure.   It meant nothing to me.   You know that you are the only God for me.   The only reason I did it was to impress a girl who ended up breaking my heart.   Surely, that was punishment enough?

And then there was Halloween 2003, the year I thought it might be funny to dress up as your son.   I now realise that doing so while intoxicated was neither big nor clever.   And my party piece of pretending to let a marble fall through holes in my hands was in the worst taste.   Again, sorry.

Dear Lord, if you’re even still listening, I must ask for a favour.   You see, the wife’s freaky upbringing has made her rather prudish about certain things.   For God’s sake (whoops, sorry), when we were first married, she didn’t talk to me for a week when she found a copy of Jugs in the garage.   And that was even after I managed to convince her that it was Tom’s from next door.

Anyway, to get back to the point, mmm, how should I say this?   Well you see, it all started innocently enough last year.   I bet Tom that United would beat Chelsea in the FA Cup.   Of course I lost and, as per the rules of the bet, I had to play a round of golf dressed as a woman.   Well, I’m not ashamed to say, I looked smokin’ hot and the exhilarating sensation of the silk panties every time I took a shot was simply mind blowing.

After that, one thing led to another and before you know it, I turned from a he to a she, but only on the weekends.   And, if truth be told, I like to mince around the house when the wife and kids aren’t home, just like this morning.

Ahh, God damn it (again, terribly sorry), she’s going to explode when she finds me all dolled up in Prada and Manolo Blahnik (extravagant I know, but sometimes you just need to feel special, right?).   In any case, I really need you to bless her with enough compassion to see that my wish to be cremated is carried out.   I can’t stand the thought of being buried down there in the dark with all those worms and bugs and whatever other creepy crawlies that would seek me out.

So, that’s about it, I cannot think of much else apart from my swearing and impure thoughts, which of course I am totally remorseful for.   I just hope what I’ve mentioned is not enough for a one way ticket to the seventh level of hell, or for that matter any level of hell.   I’m not terribly fond of pain – that’s just not my thing – and from what I hear that’s all they have on offer down there.   So, I really hope I see you soon.

Thanks and Amen.

————

Andrew Porterfield is a displaced native of Northern Ireland who left home for a one-year trip to Asia seven years ago.   He currently lives with his wife in the south of Taiwan where he spends his days selling English, trying desperately to learn Mandarin Chinese and, when he has time, training with swords in the dojo.

Then he makes us run laps.

My parents tried to get me into the Catholic school; I passed the entrance exam and wrote an essay entitled, “My Relationship with Jesus” and everything but then they got divorced and my dad took off to Wyoming with this woman he met at a kitchenware store; they bonded over nonstick pans and next thing you know, he was making her omelets, and then my mom and I were alone in California with no money.

I don’t even know why Coach makes us do this. You know, he’ll say, Give me ten laps, but we do four, at most, and slowly, so it seems like enough time has passed for us to have done ten. Coach doesn’t watch us anyway. He just stares at his clipboard or at his shoelaces. Mark Martin said that Coach was declared mentally retarded by the State and that even though he is thirty-one, he still lives with his mother, and that the school gave him the job as P.E. Coach as an act of charity because he was too functional, physically, to go on Disability. Mark’s mom is on PTA with Coach’s sister-in-law, who doesn’t have kids but likes the idea of motherhood. So I’m guessing it’s probably true.

Dad took our dog with him; sent a postcard with a picture of a Sasquatch on it a couple months ago and signed it as the dog; Love Always, Mr. Cuddles. I realized then that I probably deserved to lose my dog because I had given him a cat’s name. My dad sucks. But long story short, the tuition was too high at St. James and Mom thinks public schools are for teen prostitutes and FFA hicks, so I wound up at Ackerson Atheist Junior High, running laps.

The only guy who ever does the assigned amount of laps is Amos. We call him Famous Amos, like the cookies. He’s pretty much the fattest guy in the ninth grade, but the boy can run. He flies past us all, with his jiggly stomach and his LA Lights that flash every time his soles slap the floor. The third or fourth day of class, when we were stretching our hamstrings, Trent leaned over and was like, Dude, do they even still sell those shoes anywhere? And Famous Amos just shrugged and said his mom bought them on Ebay. A couple days later, Trent said he had looked up Famous Amos’s mom’s Ebay profile and found out that she had, like, thousands of sales. Trent figures she’s probably a self-made millionaire and that the LA Lights must be a collectible item, especially considering the way Famous Amos only wears them when we do indoor activities. He wears Nikes like the rest of us when we go outside in the dirt field to do free recreation or play flag football. He’s alright; my first instinct is to make fun of him for being such a Lardass, but he always brings extra cans of Coke in his backpack and he gives them to the people who sit at his table in the cafeteria, so I keep my mouth shut. Like I said, he’s alright. My mom won’t let me bring Coke to have at lunch because she thinks it’ll explode and I’ll get In-School Suspension for making a mess of the cafeteria. Famous Amos’s mom is worth millions so she probably doesn’t worry that much about stupid things like that.

We finish the laps, four for us and ten for Famous Amos, and we all sit down, Indian-style, on the out-of-bounds line on the gym floor. Coach goes into the supply closet then comes back out and tells us to stand up and line up against the wall, facing him. He has a baseball bat in one hand and the handle of a big old bucket of baseballs in the other. He sets the bucket down beside him and it thuds on the floor. God, I wish I was at home playing video games right now.

We stand there waiting, seventeen boys in white or gray t-shirts and black or blue shorts, dress code regulation. We have to have our last name printed on the back of our shirt in Magic Marker or iron-on letters so Coach can tell us apart. He tosses a ball in the air and hits it to us to field, I guess, but we aren’t even on a field because it’s raining outside and he didn’t give us any gloves anyway. Cut-backs, I heard the two art teachers talking in the halls one day, can’t afford vital educational equipment like sable natural bristle paintbrushes and Prisma Colors pencils anymore; stuck with these Goddamn Crayolas; who will these kids grow up to be?

I guess they can’t afford baseball gloves now either. I told Mom about the overheard conversation the day I heard it, over another takeout dinner from John’s Burgers and More; I wanted Mrs. Flowers to get in trouble with the school board for cursing in the hallway in earshot of students because she gave me a freaking B on my still life drawing of a fungusy toenail from a pharmaceutical ad, but Mom just shrugged like she didn’t care and chewed her cheeseburger with her mouth open and said, Creativity is all from your head anyway, and, Let them do what they have to do to keep the Goddamn Tuition down.

 That first ball bounces off the wall and it hits me in the back of the shoulder. Godammit. I hate junior high. You know, every other town starts high school in ninth grade; we are the only one I know of that starts at tenth.

Another ball bounces against the wall. One hits the backboard of the basketball hoop, and goes right back toward Coach. He dodges it and it bounces on the floor and finally rolls to a stop behind him, and he pulls his mesh shorts up so his pink thigh is all exposed, raw chicken meat in the bad gym lighting, and goes right back into the hitting stance like he’s Alex Rodriguez or someone flashy like that.

Coach’s thigh reminds me of that day in the locker room when Eric Saunders started telling us that his Dad took him into San Francisco to audition for some kids’ toothpaste commercial, and we were all like, Are you serious? A kids’ toothpaste commercial? Does he know you’re fourteen? And then Famous Amos interrupted and goes, The bubblegum flavored stuff? I love that stuff! And Eric just kind of didn’t answer, said his age wasn’t the point, that he blew the audition anyway, forgot all his lines, and he tells us that after the audition his Dad took him to some fancy organic food restaurant to cheer him up and they sat down to eat and right in the middle of his couscous and free range chicken, he tells us that he looks over to the next table and sees this guy who looks a lot like Michael Moore wearing super short khaki shorts and that his right testicle was just right there in the open air. And Famous Amos goes, I bet that was Michael Moore. His mom being a millionaire, he’s probably pretty up to date with where celebrities hang out. And we all just kind of tied our shoes and stored that little tidbit away. You know; acting, San Francisco, some guy’s ball; all adds up to gay. Someone must have said something to him later because after that, Eric started changing in the stalls. One day Trent peeped in the little gap between the door and the stall wall and goes, Hey, Saunders, everything coming out okay? Like he was taking a shit in there. Trent’s a real riot, but I think we were all secretly a bit jealous that Eric met Michael Moore.

God, my shoulder hurts. I hate gym class.

Coach’s bat cracks against another ball, and Mark says he’s going to tell his mom about this, the latest in Coach’s bad judgment calls, and she will tell everyone on the PTA, and then they’ll fire Coach for being a jackass. It’s a nice enough thought, but I don’t think it will help. You know, last week, the girls’ P.E. coach, Coach Debbie, was absent and they combined our classes for the day and Coach made us wrestle the girls. The worst part was that the girls won every single match. Derek said it’s no wonder they won because they’re always eating yogurt and drinking smoothies, both of which are packed with hormones that make them stronger or whatever, and all we do is drink Famous Amos’s cans of Cokes and eat Salisbury steak and taquitos. Derek’s big into science and nutrition and knows that stuff. I don’t care if I’m not strong; I mean, yeah, I’d rather not eat Salisbury steak, but that’s what they serve on Tuesdays and my Mom sure as hell isn’t going to pack me a lunch. But I don’t care. I’m not here to be good at gym class or wrestle girls, I’m here so I can be done with one of the required PE credits and move on to the high school where they have better P.E. credit choices like Marching Band or Yoga. My mom wouldn’t care what the PTA said about bad judgments or inappropriateness anyway; she just wants me to be done with this private junior high so she can quit paying the Goddamn Tuition. If she had a choice, though, I think she’d keep paying the Goddamn Tuition so I’d have A Chance in Life, but there’s only one high school in town, and its public, and everyone goes there, like a three year social mixer; Catholics, Atheists, even that girl, Becky, from the public junior high school, who took fertility drugs she bought from a catalogue she found beside the crapper and got pregnant with triplets and was a guest on the Maury Povich show.

Coach keeps hitting balls and I kind of just shut my brain off. I’m lucky; I don’t get hit again. A line drive bounces off the brick gym wall and slams Mark right in the back of the noggin. Mark kind of screams a little, like he’s trying not to sound like a sissy but like Mom says, Trying Isn’t Doing. Coach hits one more ball, then drops the bat on the gym floor and it sounds like a nonstick pan hitting a cartoon character’s head. Coach goes, Famous Amos! Drag Mark to the nurse! and Eric! You go with them! But Mark goes, No, not the Ball Boy. And Coach just looks all confused, not all that different from how he usually looks and he scratches all up in his armpit and goes, Fine, Someone else go. So I step forward and a minute later, me and Famous Amos are excused from gym, escorting Mark, who is crying like a titty bitch, to the nurses’ office.

When we get there, Famous Amos asks the nurse if he can take his insulin early since he’s already here, and she goes, Sure, like they’re old friends or something, and I’m just standing there while Famous Amos is shooting shit into his veins and the nurse is acting like it’s normal and Mark is crying into the nurse’s shirt printed with green flamingos, when everyone knows perfectly well that flamingos aren’t green.

This kind of stuff always happens to me, you know it? Private school sucks.

After the ball hit him, Mark blacked out for a minute, or so he says to the school nurse as she fills out the accident report after he finally stops crying; but he never fell down or anything, stayed standing up the whole time, so being the skeptic I am, I seriously doubt it.

I want to go home and eat a burger. I want to go home and watch Maury Povich.

The nurse tells me and Famous Amos to go back to gym. She gives Famous Amos a cinnamon hard candy as we’re leaving, for his Diabetes I guess, and Mark just lays down on the paper-covered nurse’s bench, excused from class, waiting for his mom to come pick him up early. We get back to gym and everyone’s still lined up and Coach is still hitting balls and there’s a good fifteen minutes left before the bell rings.

Goddamn it all, I yell to no one. My words bounce off the gym walls and Coach stops hitting balls and goes, “Boys! There’s no ‘I’ in Team, and there’s no ‘God’ in America!”

And then we’re running laps again.

————

Tragically, CJ Hallman’s fiction is deeply rooted in fact. Triumphantly, writing has (thus far) kept her out of the loony bin. Next comes the story about the time she lost her eyebrow on a shopping mall merry-go-round. Also, her creative work has recently appeared in Identity Theory and SP Quill, among others.

The End

————

Francisco Nieto Salazar is a native of Mexico who lives in Oakland, CA. He teaches writing and heresy to fifth graders. He is working on several short stories and a novel set at Mission Santa Cruz.

“Coffee Lid Sip Hole Plug Stopper Starbucks Lid”

(Picture added for those of you who think I made up the name)

This ultra clever little mass produced piece of plastic is designed to plug the tiny little two centimeter hole that you are SUPPOSED to drink your coffee from. Well it is about time Starbucks!!!! I can’t tell you how many shirts that I have ruined when I took my coffee on the looping roller coaster rides at King’s Dominion! I also remember my trip to California when that 8.6 on the Richter scale hit and my coffee shot out of that hole badly burning my left eye! In addition, my sudden spastic epileptic like ticks that occasionally occur won’t be such a perilous coffee situation any more. All thanks to the thoughtful people at Starbucks who made the “Coffee Lid Sip Hole Plug Stopper Starbucks Lid” (or C.L.S.H.P.S.S.L. for…. um… short).

I know that some haters out there might point out that there is a certain conundrum involved with the logic of this little piece of plastic. For instance, those who are SO on the go that they can’t drink coffee out of a two centimeter hole without spilling it probably aren’t then in the position to remove a little piece of plastic from the hole in order to take a sip. However honestly people, does anyone really adhere to that ten and two rule of driving anymore?! For instance, I know in my case I drive in a Zen like lotus position to reduce the possibility of road rage. This makes it possible for me to steer with my knees while I hold my cell phone with my right foot and text with my left foot. My left hand holds my coffee while my right hand is free to replace the C.L.S.H.P.S.S.L. in between sips so I don’t accidentally burn myself. All I can say is thank god for cruise control… otherwise I might have to actually sit down somewhere stable to drink my hot coffee. I am totally looking forward to getting one of those “Borg” like Bluetooth head sets for my cell phone… that way I can use my right foot for the brake pedal in the future which should result in an overall lower stress level while driving.

I can also already hear all the whiney bleeding heart hippies out there complaining about millions of non-biodegradable pieces of plastic that will undoubtedly remain on Earth for thousands of years but seriously people they are “GREEN” I’m sure no one will ever even notice them!!! Plus if you are SO interested in “Reduce / Reuse / Recycle” then you could always save it and carry it around in your pocket for your next Starbucks adventure. Oh and for the men out there in case you are wondering… don’t worry… a punctured scrotum doesn’t make you sterile… I have two kids and I keep my C.L.S.H.P.S.S.L. in my pocket at all times because there is nothing worse then a drop of hot liquid on your hand when you are enjoying a nice cup of coffee… while doing back flips.

————

Andrei says: “Ah. Well… I attended Juilliard… I’m a graduate of the Harvard business school. I travel quite extensively. I lived through the Black Plague and had a pretty good time during that. I’ve seen the EXORCIST ABOUT A HUNDRED AND SIXTY-SEVEN TIMES, AND IT KEEPS GETTING FUNNIER EVERY SINGLE TIME I SEE IT… NOT TO MENTION THE FACT THAT YOU’RE TALKING TO A DEAD GUY… NOW WHAT DO YOU THINK? You think I’m qualified? Basically I am the most sarcastic person you could ever meet and God help you if you take me too seriously.”

————

Adrian Siordia is far too clever for his own good.

Andrew Kaye is not quite as clever as Adrian.

————

Bob Cohen (aka Trebor Nehoc) is a writer living in NYC. His latest book is Scurvy Dogs, Green Water & Gunsmoke: Fifty Years in US Navy Destroyers (Oak Tree, 2008).