Poem in the Age of Twitter by Jamy Li

(feed from user on Dec. 22, 2010)

My final answer: It’s whatever it is in this world
that – digging into the deepest corner
of the soul – you would truly, honestly
die for.

My third: It’s looking into the eyes of the boy
of your dreams and realizing what every book
and movie and song ever written
is about.

My second: It’s a story with infinite possibilities
but always the same beginning and end,
so really it’s the middle that’s
most important.

My first attempt: It’s what was made by an ancient spark
in a pool of ooze, the perfectly-shaped coils
born to breed and bred
to survive.

What if God or some
alien species asked:
“Can you explain Life in
140 characters?”

Collapsed Jenga-style into chair at #lax,
waiting for delayed flight (heading: #yyz)
to arrive on this gray, rained out day -
I wonder….

Jamy is a Canadian writer living in Los Angeles, California. His twitter handle is @jcrewman.

Coalinga Poetry by Walter Campbell

Carl was the poet living Coalinga, California, right near Harris Ranch, who wrote the poem in which he described his recently wed wife as “fresh and florescent as cow shit.”

You may have heard of him. Many have. But in case you haven’t, he was a very famous and well-respected poet before this incident. Poet laureate material, even.

But then he compared his wife to bovine excrement.

You can’t blame Carl, really, because he did grow up right next to Harris Ranch, in a town that perpetually smelled of cow feces. For him, cow crap was a beautiful thing that reminded him of birthday parties, fresh showers, spring mornings, midday picnics, romantic dates, and newlywed wives.

But for everyone outside Coalinga, the fact that he’d written such a thing about his wife was unbelievable.

His agent in Los Angeles scolded him. He was no longer able to sell his poems, or book him at large bookstores and colleges, so his agent dropped him like a bag of cow shit.

He and his wife went down to LA to beg the agent to take them back. In Downtown LA everyone on the street looked at Carl with complete disgust. A few even threatened to hit him.

Carl’s agent wouldn’t budge, even when Carl’s wife explained what a compliment being compared to cow shit was. Even if he could understand something so screwed up, he said, the public couldn’t. He just couldn’t make any money with Carl.

Dejected, they took a cab to Santa Monica where they passed a man on the street from Coalinga who was down at UCLA medical center getting his nasal passages repaired, and the man, upon seeing Carl and his wife, said, “Wow, your wife really is just as amazing as your poem says.”

Walter Campbell lives and works in Philadelphia, went to school in New England, and grew up in LA, but he’ll write pretty much anywhere. Recently, his work has been published in Dog Oil Press, Jersey Devil, Six Sentences, Dogzplot, Weirdyear, Vestal Review, Flashshot, Yesteryear, MicroHorror, Eclectic Flash, Toasted Cheese, Negative Suck, Horror Bound, amphibi.us, and Glossolalia.

It’s a Plan by Paul Beckman

I don’t own a cell phone, beeper or blackberry. I’m not one to carry a bottle of water with me when I walk from my car to the store or keep one at my desk while at work. I don’t spike my hair with gel, have a Mohawk, shave my head bald or favor the “bed head” look. I don’t have tattoos, piercings or marks on my body other than those I was born with.

I like my drinks but I feel no need to stick a piece of citrus in my beer bottle or order the high priced vodka de jour. If I’m craving a martini I’ll order one the way it was meant to be made—with an olive or two but not with espresso, pomegranate or gold flakes floating around.

While driving I listen to the AM station of oldies. I don’t have FM, satellite radio nor a DVD or CD player in my car. My car’s for transportation, not entertainment. And speaking of my car, I don’t need a moon roof, a plethora of cup holders or three rows of seats. And speaking of seats—I don’t need ones that massage my back or heat my butt either.

I live in a condo in a suburb of New Haven. I bought the furnished model and took possession when the others were all sold. I have left it the way the decorator furnished it except I replaced the cardboard TV with a real one.

I’m also quite lonely. I go out occasionally but rarely get a second date. It seems that woman don’t want my kind of rebel so next week I’m planning to buy an Ipod and a water bottle and join a gym. I think that should turn my life around. If not, I can start adding the other pieces one at a time until I find a soul mate.

Then, if that doesn’t work, I’ll order a mail order bride—either Russian or Chinese. I have all the paperwork made out, but it’s a last resort that I probably won’t need now that I have a plan.

Paul Beckman specializes in the short story and flash fiction. His work has been published in England, Canada, New Zealand & Germany and several stories have been turned into plays. He’s had two collections of stories published in print, “Come! Meet My Family & other stories” and “Maybe I Ought To Go Sit In a Dark Room For a While” and a novella “Lovers & Other Mean People” published on line by Parting Gifts. Additionally he’s had two chapbooks published; one with Web Del Sol and the other with Silkworm Ink.  He earned an MFA from Bennington College in 1999.

The Man on the Moon by Michael Treder

“They aren’t coming back for me, are they?”

Michael Treder is a writer and filmmaker living in Montreal. His short-stories have appeared in Quantum Muse, the Cynic Online Magazine, and Death Head Grin.

Pry by Kendall Steinle

“I trust you.”

I said this to Jaclyn at the end of a stranger’s driveway somewhere on the East Coast, because I occasionally tell my best friend things of this sort. We had an empty bottle of strawberry wine and a boatload of misplaced convictions. We’d been following around a man who lived nearby, and—as far as we were concerned—he had been following us. Word on the street was that, though he was currently a farmhand on Jaclyn’s Aunt’s farm in York, he was an ex-Canadian-crack-addict and had lost every last bit of his advertising firm in Florida to a greedy ex-wife. Jaclyn and I devoured the information like tapeworms.

“Ex-wife?” Jaclyn had asked. “Ex-wife, excellent,” she said, nodding.

The woman in the store we coerced into giving us the 411 seemed reliable, forward-thinking and progressive. She was buying free-range eggs, after all.

Jaclyn continued to pry: “How long ago did they split?”

The woman shrugged. “Oh, I’d say a good few years ago?”

This answer satisfied Jaclyn. I, on the other hand, was confused. “Wait, Canadian crack? Like, he’s a Canadian on crack? Or he was hooked on crack from Canada?”

They ignored my inquiry.

“Yes, probably three, or five,” the woman added.

“Does he have any kids?” Jaclyn asked.

“Is Canadian crack different than regular crack?”

“Yes. One, I think. A boy. I see him around, near holidays.”

“How old is he?”

“Is Canadian crack more potent?”

“Oh, by this time? Eight. Or, nine.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Is he a crack connoisseur in general? Or does he just specialize in crack from Canada? Like he wouldn’t know American crack if it hit him in the face?”

“The kid? Well, I said he’s eight or nine…”

“No, not the kid. Him. What’s his name, anyways?”

“Or in his lungs, I guess. I guess that would make more sense. Because it’s crack we’re talking about here.”

“Calvin. Or, John.”

“I see.” Jaclyn rubbed her chin because that helps you process information. She thanked the woman kindly and turned to walk away. I followed.

“What’s the verdict?” I asked, shuffling back to our four-wheeler.

“I don’t know Kendall, just let me think. Shh.” So I “shh”ed.

Both horses were leaning against the fence when we pulled in, wasting away from a lack of iced oatmeal cookies. I pulled a package out of my bag and jogged over to the boys, assuming they were just as excited for our interaction as I was.

As I struggled to open the package, the bigger of the two groaned in frustration and leaned over the fence, grabbing the box from me. Cookies spilled everywhere on the other side of the fence. The wrong side. I frowned and jogged back to Jaclyn.

My weight made the Gator shift on its wheels and Jaclyn looked up from her phone. “Okay,” she said, closing it. “Let’s go feed the horses.”

“I don’t want to feed the horses anymore.”

“Why not? We just bought cookies for them.”

“I just don’t, okay?”

“Okay.” And it was okay. Jaclyn pried into other people, but not me. She’d get others to disgorge anything and everything; she’d have Calvin’s social security number by the morning and we’d have a lot of fun with all of that. Or with John.

But not me.

Kendall Steinle recently graduated from Saint Xavier University in Chicago, Illinois, with an English degree and minors in Middle Eastern Studies and Writing. She intends to further her degree.

Carpe Diem by ED Martin

Will hung up the phone but left his hand on the receiver. He leaned his head against the wall and recalled Micah’s words. “I know it’s been awhile since you’ve talked, but my mom’s sick. Real sick. You should visit her.”

Cancer. Although it had been years since they’d talked, decades, that didn’t mean that Corinne didn’t hover in the back of Will’s consciousness every day. Especially since his wife’s death three years ago. He’d meant to call her, had heard she was widowed. But he was busy with life, with moving on. So was she, he’d assumed. And now she was sick. Dying.

Will puttered around the house for two weeks after Micah’s call. The bookshelves needed fixing. The lawn needed mowing. Each night, as he lay in bed, the thought of Corinne lay next to him. “Tomorrow,” he kept telling himself.

He received another call from Micah. “She’s going on hospice. You should visit her soon.”

So Will put on a nice shirt and drove over. He knew exactly where she lived, the yellow cottage-style house with the flowers out front. He’d looked up her address years ago, meant to stop by and say hello. But instead he always drove on. She looked happy, with her husband and son, then daughter-in-law and grandchildren. She didn’t need a reminder of her past showing up on her doorstep.

That day, however, Will stopped. He walked up to the door, hand poised to knock. He didn’t know what to say so he held his hand, suspended. When the words came, he would knock.

“Will?” croaked a voice from a corner of the porch. “Will Townsend? Is that really you?”

He looked over. A pile of blankets sat on the porch swing, slippered feet emerging from one end and white tufts of hair from the other. “Corinne?”

The blankets stirred. “No, it’s E.T.”

Will smiled. “I see the years haven’t robbed you of your wits.” He walked over, sat down next to her.

“Too busy going after your looks.” She chuckled, then coughed.

He reached into the blankets, took her hand. It was cold despite the spring warmth. He squeezed it gently. “How are you?”

“I’m dying, in case you haven’t heard. Other than that I’m just peachy.”

“Don’t say that,” Will whispered. “Maybe there’s some treatment you could still try?”

“I’m an old woman who’s lived a long, full life. I was lucky enough to find love twice.” She squeezed his hand. “Maybe even a third time around.”

Will looked into her eyes, and the years melted away. They were twenty again and had their lives – together – ahead of them. “I was a fool to let you go.”

“And an even bigger fool for not coming back sooner.” She smiled, then grimaced. “But don’t worry. I’m not letting you go again. Carpe diem and all that.”

And so Will and Corinne sat on the swing, his arm around her, as days passed and her breathing slowed to nothing.

ED Martin is a writer with a knack for finding new jobs in new places. Born and raised in Illinois, her past incarnations have included bookstore barista in Indiana, legal system statistician in North Carolina, and economic development analyst in North Dakota.  She has recently returned to her hometown where she teaches high school while trying to find time to finish her first novel.  Read more of her stories at www.edmartinwriter.com.