Grass Stains

The neighborhood still smoldered as much as the house's charred remains. Hushed faces stared out from lawns, secretly cathartic. Firemen, and one woman, huddled in clusters, their whispers lingering like the smoke. Beside the black husk that used to be 4522 Westhaven Drive, memories were piled up like litter, tossed aside to make way for fire hoses.

Rebecca sat against the oak tree, numbed. The fire was probably her fault. Her mother had always warned her about those candles. But as she huddled against the dawn chill, all she could think about were the grass stains on her floral pajamas.

Bird Chitter, Flight

Some morning, early, no sound from worrisome bees, refugees from last summer, moved twice, days after we decided to keep going, to lie, to lay together near the buzzing, pretending a world away from this one:

If I welcome you into my kitchen, to turn one of my forks over your fingers, flipping the metal into your palm, against knuckles, as you talk, too quickly, about what it means to leave her, what we can do with this freedom, I'll mark the time, exactly, in quick numbers carved into the sink's rough porcelain, unable, quite, to let the knife go.

From Guest Contributor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

Trust Issues

The tears stung as they traveled the well-worn grooves on her cheeks. Susan swore her wrinkles were his fault, her aging caused by all the grief he brought into her life.

The stories, always complicated, always full of unlikely detail, astounded as much for their audacity as for their content. After all this time, why he expected her to believe them seemed the greatest insult of all.

"Why should I keep trusting you when all you do is tell such awful lies?"

"It seems to me that if you really trusted me, it wouldn't matter how bad my lies were."

Happy Dick

I fell hard for Johnny Carvello. Dagos got me wet. He preferred strippers, ringside tables, hand on crotch, watching them work the pole. Called it “happy dick.” We were the perfect pair, the ex-Mafioso and the car crash cripple. Both, second rate goods. He had a thing for my still-perfect feet, bathed them in rosewater, sucked the toes, jacked himself off all over them. He'd pose me naked, on the bed, do tai chi by candlelight, his eyes on mine. Months into it when he tried to fuck me, I broke it off. The relationship, not the dick.

From Guest Contributor Alexis Rhone Fancher

Alexis is a member of Jack Grapes’ L.A. Poets & Writers Collective. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in RATTLE, BoySlut, The Mas Tequila Review, The Good Men Project, Gutter Eloquence, Cultural Weekly, High Coupe, Tell Your True Tale, Downer Magazine, Bare Hands Anthology, Ireland, The Sun Magazine, The Juice Bar, and elsewhere. Alexis was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2013. She is the poetry editor of Cultural Weekly. Hotnovelist@me.com/alexis@culturalweekly.com

Test Day

Test day had arrived. Paul entered the arena with overwhelming trepidation. Failure today would mean death.

The arena was smaller than on television. And the stench of blood and burning flesh threatened to suffocate him. No matter how much training they'd given him, nothing had prepared him for that.

In the end, Paul passed his test, the lone survivor among his 99 classmates. He didn't like being a stooge for the network--murder should be a choice, not something forced upon you--but at least he was still alive.

In any case, he looked forward to graduating to middle school.

It Is Easier To Say Too Much On Readiness

You tell them you don’t want to hold her, you tell them this four times, then you fade, replaced of self by softness, sudden. When you wake, they are placing her on your chest. You cannot see her face, rather one primitive, pink hand, waving something uselessly away. But you can smell her. Her smell is yours, as if your body were turned in, then out, as a glove worn far too long, the wax and weight of you heavy, older, and they have made a wick of that youness and it has been lit for the first time now.

From Guest Contibutor, Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri. She is currently a Professor of English and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen gives readings and teaches workshops throughout the US. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, from John Gosslee Books (2012) was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.

The Life And Death Of A Stand-Up

He believed he had the crowd in the palm of his hand, teasing them, provoking them, then hitting them with the punchline when they least expected. He heard their laughter. They were his.

But then she interrupted. She told him to stop. She told him she was offended.

Suddenly, they were lost. They hated her, but it didn't matter. She may have committed the sin in their eyes, but he was unable to respond and so he'd lost his grip on authority.

She was the awful one but he was the one they took outside and shot in the head.

Outcome Blindness

Judge Lehman banged her gavel, demanding silence.

"One more outburst and I will find you all in contempt." The watchers reluctantly sat back down, their grumbles still filling the room. The judge asked the defendant to continue.

"As I was saying, the numbers clearly indicated there was an overwhelming likelihood the conflict would be resolved with a minimal loss of life. We forecast there was only a tenth of a percent chance we'd have more than 100 casualties."

The prosecuting attorney pressed on. "Over three million citizens died."

"Yes, but this was an extreme outlier. You obviously don't understand statistics."

Lake Wakona

George and Kristen were counselors at the Lake Wakona Christian Retreat. They'd met there several years before as campers and were eager to become reacquainted now that they were in high school.

First love can be a majestic experience, filled with dizzying heights of emotion, but almost always ending in a pit of despair. For George and Kristen it would be no different. They shared their first kiss and pledged to love each other always.

Fortunately, George and Kristen would spend the rest of their lives together. Unfortunately, they were both killed that summer by the Lake Wakona chainsaw butcher.

Dreams

He dreamed of realities that could never be. He dreamed of being an Olympian. He dreamed of winning the Oscar for Best Supporting Actor. He dreamed of traveling to Mars and back or building a time machine. He dreamed he had the power to grant every wish. He dreamed of immortality. He dreamed he was the Creator and this entire world was a figment of his own imagination. He dreamed of true love.

Because of all these impossible dreams, he never achieved any of his dreams that were actually attainable. They all seemed pointless when compared to what was impossible.