Dear New York

Your 9 a.m. is my six. Once again, you didn’t leave a message. I was asleep, and not dreaming of my youth. Or Bobby Short at the Carlyle, Yul Brynner as the King. The Oak Room, their scotch so expensive I almost gave it up. Since I’m awake now, I’ve begun my day. Doing the wash. Starting breakfast. Wondering what it is you want. Why not cast me aside as just another woman who headed west when the buildings fell? Here, the mountains are tall, the sea, a pebble’s throw away. I know it’s you, New York. Calling me home.

From Guest Contributor Linda Lowe

Linda's stories and poems have appeared in Outlook Springs, A Story in 100 Words, What Rough Beast, the New Verse News, Misfit Magazine, and others.

God, The Eagles

God how I loved “Hotel California.” Which was more than a song. The rooms had feather beds and cozy quilts you’d think came from the Amish people. Those people, straight and true. Me, I’m a scotch on the rocks girl, down at the hotel bar most nights singing along with those guys. “Desperado” comes to mind. My kids weren’t half as much trouble as I let on. All of them stellar now. So stellar I don’t know what to say to them anymore. And the way they don’t call, I figure they don’t know what to say to me either.

Linda Lowe's poems and stories have appeared in Outlook Springs, Gone Lawn, Dogzplot, Right Hand Pointing, New Verse News and others.

Song Service

It’s seven in the morning. I’m supposed to be at Songshan Church in Taipei teaching a small Sabbath-School group at nine. But I’m sitting in my kitchen hot boxing a cigarette. Mitigating the queasiness from last night’s escape: a single malt Speyside scotch accompanied by Mozart’s Requiem.

Blazing summer humid heat even at this hour. Should I shower? Will they smell the booze and tobacco on me?

A two-hour train ride later and I find myself up in front of all of the congregants. Ambushed into leading out in song service. The sweat oozes and I wonder if they know.From Guest Contributor Robert Vogt

Robert worked as a custodian for a number of years until switching to EFL educator after graduating with a bachelor’s degree in Fine Arts. Changing from manual laborer to educator caused Vogt much regret though he has reaped manifold benefits from the career change. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Degenerate Literature, Horror, Sleaze and Trash, Outlaw Poetry, and Unlost Journal. Vogt is chief editor at White Liquor.

An Alcoholic, A Nuclear Bomb

Fact: an atomic bomb was detonated 8.4 km from where Wally Kazinsky was repairing the toilet in a decent brothel. The brick house shivered violently from the blast, a few windows shattered. There’d been talk of an attack, and Wally considered the possibility. He grabbed his glass of scotch before he went to look out the window. His legs were wobbly. Maybe nervous, but definitely drunk.

People were crying, hurt, bleeding. Fuck. They were probably already bathed in radiation. Wally was dizzy but lucid enough. Time for emergency measures. He found his hammer, and headed to the corner liquor store.

From Guest Contributor Wil Wang