The Black And White World Of Chess

Naomi preferred the chessboard to reality. When playing, every piece and every rule is precise. Away from the game, nothing seems certain. Why am I feeling these emotions, and what do they mean? Did he really say that? Could this really be happening?

The only deviations in chess come from unexpected moves, whether it's double exclamation point brilliance or a tragic blunder that would have seemed inconceivable from a player of such caliber, they still exist within the framework of the board.

So how can it hurt more to be betrayed by someone you love than to lose a match?

First Thanksgiving

The turkey is in the oven, and I breathe in the flavor. The table is set, and the apple pie is cooling on the counter; the sweet smell makes me want to eat a piece before the family arrives.

This is the first Thanksgiving I’ve hosted since Brad’s passing, and this had been his favorite holiday. He’d always sneak a taste of the raisin stuffing I’d make special for him before anyone would arrive.

I’m sitting with my feet up sipping white wine, savoring the flavor when the doorbell rings.

I take a deep breath and head to the door.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Wrecking Ball

It's a metaphor for wanton destruction, indiscriminate, total. It levels everything in sight, out with the old, room for the new, the outset of a revolution.

But a wrecking ball is just a machine. A big one to be sure, yet still a tool, a vehicle, a spare part--the last one that needs replacing. It's not the ball doing the annihilation, but the driver. It's not the driver, but the foreman, or the one percent, or the unbearable weight of social change.

It's just a giant piece of forged steel. It's just the end of everything you've ever known.

The Day Before Yesterday

Meanwhile, Franz Kafka sells another piece of his dead mother’s jewelry to pay for his brothel visits. Pablo Picasso and Henri Matisse go horseback riding together. Alma Mahler has just aborted their child. The police question Picasso, but he has an alibi and they release him after slapping him around. Summer is fading, and Rainer Maria Rilke feels it as a wound in his chest. Using an alias, Adolf Hitler boards a train for Munich to escape conscription in the Austro-Hungarian army. Da Vinci’s Mona Lisa is missing from the Louvre. Museumgoers lay flowers in front of the bare wall.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie's latest poetry collection, THE HORSES WERE BEAUTIFUL, is forthcoming from Grey Book Press.

Peggy Is A Piece Of Work

Peggy is a piece of work. Only Joanie knows. While she would be happy to talk, she's not about to volunteer just how big a piece and what kind of work. So Joanie shoves it to the back corner of her mind so that it only appears when Peggy does. Then it explodes and she has to cheek her tongue—Peggy is a piece of work—and shove it back. It was Peggy that sicced them dogs on Marianne. That was some job. It was Peggy that sicced them girls on that young SOB. So sicced, Joanie catches her breath.

From Guest Contributor Rick Henry

Rick's most recent? "The Other Daughters," an audio production a performance poem featuring 120 contributing voices.

I See You

If we could only look deeply into the eyes of strangers, we’d see not a stranger at all, but a piece of ourselves.

As I stand in line, I see a man pull his shirt over a large belly. Beside him, a teenager glances anxiously at passing faces.

If people knew, they’d feel more compassion for one another. Indeed, they’d offer kindness even as they are shown anger.

The knowing inside me is too big. I’m surrounded by the noise and lights of the world, seemingly unchanged from before. My heart aches. I see you, but do you see me?

From Guest Contributor Caitlyn Palmer

Haunted

More than spirits, ghosts are the chill of a finger tracing your spine, a whisper only loud enough for you to hear, a memory of something long gone. What happens when the ghosts I’m afraid of are the ones that are alive? Will they continue to feed on me until there is nothing left? Will I join the other ghosts then? Piece by piece, they keep picking away until I am nothing. Will they pity me? The girl they once knew was full of life; and now, she is no better than the rest of them. A bag of bones.

From Guest Contributor Kelsey Swancott

Kelsey is a senior majoring in English with a minor in Visual Arts and Spanish while also being involved in the campus literary magazine Angles. She plans on furthering her education by getting her masters degree in English as well.

A Piece Of History

The suicide stopped drowning for a minute to pose for the art students sketching on the riverbank. It happened about the time Sartre claimed he was being followed through the streets of Paris by a pair of rare blue lobsters. The bearded lady sat at the window, beautiful in her own way, but struggling to decide whether or not she should start to shave. Even though Hitler was dead, the screams from the gas chambers went on. People in the surrounding area would later say they thought it was just the collection of apple-cheeked Hummel figurines above the fake fireplace. From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author of The Death Row Shuffle, forthcoming from Finishing Line Press. He co-edits the online journals Unbroken and UnLost.

The Book

I’m already sitting in the grass, cross-legged, when you meet me after class. “I’m sorry,” I say as you sit. “I forgot your book.”

“Bring it Thursday.” You smile. “We’re almost done. I can’t wait.”

The rest of campus trudges past. I’ve had your favorite book for months—and I’m not forgetting it so much as I’m scared to give up this piece of you, the only one I have. “Won’t you miss this, once we’re done?” I ask. “It’s our last finals week.”

“Maybe someday,” you say, and look away.

In the evening sun your white t-shirt turns golden.

From Guest Contributor Natalie Schriefer

Natalie received her MFA from Southern Connecticut State University. She works as a freelance writer and editor. Home base: www.natalieschriefer.com

Foot Steps

Becky was halfway across her pottery studio when she heard the deadbolt click. She froze.

She escaped a mugging three months ago, but it cost a prize dish. She broke the pottery piece on his face. Blood gushed everywhere and his screams still haunt her at night. Hours flipping through mug shots at the police station yielded no suspects. That was it. Except she had this eerie feeling she was being followed. A lot. She had been more than careful until now. She didn’t lock the door when she entered the studio. The sound of footsteps came in her direction.

From Guest Contributor NT Franklin