My knuckles are blue and cold.
I want to hold yours and I tell you this.
Your smile flowers and breaks my winter blues.
But a distant thought grows on you,
And your gaze is far away.

A million jewels hang from a million blades of grass,
Shining in the sun.
It’s wet but you’re so daring.
The dirt feels good.
Better than cold wood.

The trees shake off their leaves and reach toward each other,
Huddling together for a journey to nowhere,
To sleep.
Winter’s blanket has no favorites.
Autumn departs without saying goodbye.

She gives us her flavors,
Hot cocoa and checkered flannels.
We run around and escape into our homes,
Wishing for fun.
When I look out my window,
I see your reflection in the setting sun.

J. Carv is a Senior at the University of Rhode Island. He studies Journalism and Spanish and hopes to travel to South and Central America so that he can become fluent in Spanish and write in both languages.

Leshia Stolt writes fiction and creative nonfiction. She holds a Master’s degree in English from Indiana State University and is a full-time faculty member at Ivy Tech Community College of Indiana.

Christopher Linforth is the editor of The Anthem Guide to Short Fiction (Anthem Press, 2011). He also has work published in Denver Quarterly, Chicago Quarterly Review, and Notre Dame Review. He maintains a website at christopherlinforth.wordpress.com.

She walked over and asked me if she could share my sandwich because she hadn’t eaten breakfast. Sure, I said and handed her a half of my Swiss, lettuce, tomato and sprouts on pumpernickel. In between bites she let me know that she knew I’d been watching every day—even the days I pretended to read the book I always carried. Sometimes I did read my book, but I didn’t correct her. As she was leaving that first day she asked me to bring her a tuna on rye the next, light on the mayo and lots of lettuce. I brought her sandwiches every day after that and one day she ran off without ordering and I showed up the next day with a gas station convenience store ready-made baloney on white—the only thing besides liverwurst that was left. I wouldn’t think of eating either one of those so I got myself a yogurt and a pack of crackers and cheese.

Audra took one bite of her sandwich and gave me a disgusted look before shoving the sandwich back at me and grabbing my yogurt. Jews don’t eat that combination of foods, she instructed me using her megaphone from five feet away. I megaphoned my hands and yelled back that who’d know better than me since I wasn’t eating anything like it. That night we went out for Chinese.

I was first attracted by her smile (did I mention I kept binoculars in my office?); she smiles often and even though she’s tired and I mean sick and tired of hearing this; if you had to describe her in one word it would be adorable. Katie Couric used to go through the same thing when she first came on the Today show.

But best of all, Audra loves to give oral sex. (I have no personal knowledge of Katie Couric in this respect.) Audra often tells me that we were made for each other since I love being on the receiving end. Who am I to argue? Once we were driving by a Chrysler Dealership and she said we should go test-drive a van. She had her head in my lap before we got off of the lot. She’s such a kidder—always pulling stunts like that. The best was going through the drive-in at McDonald’s. I ordered while she went about her business and when we got to the window to pay she lifted her head and told the teen to make sure the fries were hot and then went back down on me. The kid pulled the fries out of the bag and yelled for someone to bring him new ones. He stood there with a frozen smile pretending that nothing was going on but never taking his eyes off the back of Audra’s head, even as he handed me my order.

There’s much more to Audra than oral sex, she’s bright, witty and fun to be with. But, let’s face it; if your girlfriend has to have a fixation, this is a pretty good one to have. We’ve been together two years now and there’s never been any talk of marriage or living together. It’s not that I wouldn’t entertain such thoughts but Audra once told me a joke:

“How do you get a Jewish woman to stop giving blow jobs?”
“I don’t know,” I played along. “How?”
“Marry her,” Audra laughed.

I mean, I’d hate to walk down the aisle and then on our honeymoon have her tell me that she’d given me fair warning and if I’d chosen not to hear it–why is she to blame? Know what I mean?

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.

Some publishing credits: THE CONNECTICUT REVIEW, THE NEW HAVEN REVIEW, ONTHEBUS, SHORT STORY LIBRARY, THE WRITER’S VOICE, PLAYBOY, 5 TROPE, OTHER VOICES, THE SCRUFFY DOG REVIEW, FICTION WAREHOUSE, WEB DEL SOL, JEWISH CURRENTS, LONG STORY SHORT, PITTSBURGH FLASH FICTION GAZETTE, RIVERBABBLE, EXQUISITE CORPSE, COLLECTEDSTORIES.COM, OPIUM, CLEAN SHEETS, THUG LIT, THE VIEW FROM HERE & SOUNDZINE.

Masters is a writer and a seagoing cook.

As an atheist, first thought was to laugh in his old, foolish face. But everyone wanted that too.

Instead, I bought a handle of Jack, left it on his porch, with a note: “Life’s a lot quieter without someone banging around in the attic. Let’s talk about your next move.”

But the phone never rang.

No one had seen him since the day passed. His wife was staying with her sister and wasn’t talking. His webpage went down—server crashed.

Sunday went by without him hearing any prayers. The locks had been changed on the church doors—locksmiths couldn’t even get in.

My mother emails daily with updates, even though there is no word from Pastor himself. She asks for me to pray for him. I tell her I will, like I always promise. But I’m more concerned about whether some teenager stole my Jack.

Two days later, smoke seeped from the bell tower. Doors get axed in.

Pastor was finally seen stoking a hearth built in front of the altar, dropping radios and TVs and computers and other blasphemy into a foundry cauldron so he could mold new crosses.

To my bemusement, Pastor’d used my Jack to rise the spirits of the flames when they needed to burn more righteously.

James was born and lives in Sonoma, CA, although he graduated from a pair of Ohio universities. Currently, he is implementing a creative writing class for adults with developmental disabilities at Becoming Independent (a day program in Northern California). Previously published fiction can be viewed at Blood Lotus, The Fabulist, Stone Highway Review (forthcoming), and Southpaw Journal (Editor’s Choice selection). His poetry can be enjoyed in Psychic Meatloaf, The Monarch Review, and Breadcrumb Scabs (forthcoming).

Indian rock ‘n’ roll thunders from huge speakers
Priests struggle beneath cedar crosses
kids wear Adidas Sambas
and neon glow sticks

We are a confused and mixed-up tribe
held together by sinew and whiskey
After the priests dance
a girl with coal black Farrah Fawcett hair gives a speech:
Crows are common
Indians are rare
now when the crows see an Indian
they say it is good luck

An Irishman leers at her Lakota breasts
Ghost dancers revive
men and women who’ve returned from the land of the dead
their eyes still clouded with visions of the other side
they cling to a sticky substance
which they call star-skin
The dancers chant:
the universe is the body
the planets are the blood
we are the cells racing through her

Some planets are barren, lifeless rocks
some are cold, gaseous balls of
gigantic gravitational pressure
The stars bind entire galaxies in their wake

****

Whiskey Dick drives a bus up a windy mountain road
the bus is reduced to a stick with clay wheels
all the passengers are alcoholics

Whiskey Dick asks: Are you there ancestors? I’ve been looking for you in the bottom of every bottle I can find, but you still won’t answer me. Who is there, if not you, for those of us without family, church or state?

Whiskey Dick says: God, ancestors, the living and the dead – it’s what we call business in this dark cave of fierce desire.

Dana Dickerson attended the Institute of American Indian Arts and the Evergreen State College for creative writing. His poetry appears in Volt and New Poets of the American West. He currently works and lives in Olympia.

She did not mean to do it when she threaded the needle.

She did not mean to do it when she tied the knot.

She did not know when she opened her sewing basket and sifted through the dozens buttons inside, when she selected two shiny black buttons, that she was picking the instrument of his death. You do not have to mean it to do something terrible. She knows that now. Intention is meaningless. You do not have to have an evil heart or a cruel mind.

You only need to be careless. You only need to tie the knot too loosely.

The father thinks if only he had not handed the gift to the baby.

The mother thinks if only she had not looked away.

They all think if only the baby had not loved it.

Everyday now they wake up tell and retell themselves their sad story in a thousand different ways. They trace each moment of the tragedy. But it always begins and ends with a button, a button she chose, a button she sewed, a small black button for the teddy bear’s eye.

Sonja Larsen’s work has been published in Fair Trade Journal, Zygote, Errata and has new work appearing soon in Room Magazine. When she is not writing her day job is working with at-risk youth.

God spoke to me and said, “Beware of those who say, ‘God spoke to me and said… ‘”

Roberto Pérez-Franco was born in Panama in 1976. He is the author of several books, most recently Catarsis (2008). A PhD Student in Engineering Systems at MIT, he lives in Boston with his family.

All the Sunset residents lost things. Lilly lost her toothbrush before she lost her teeth. Hilda lost ten pounds and then she lost her belt. Rachel lost the mezzuzah her mother gave her on her wedding day. After the aide dusted her dresser, Barbara lost the photo of her dead husband in the silver frame.

The things they lost were the consequence of advancing age. They lost the incentive for Botox injections, liposuction, bikini waxes, manicures, hair dye, tooth whiteners, lip plumping, mascara. Susan, who collected artifacts, lost her memory. Mabel, who had a Ph.D. in philosophy, lost her mind to Alzheimer’s. Angie, whose curls a lover used to fondle, lost her golden crown to the gray life.

One after another, the Sunset ladies lost orgasms, husbands, high heels, short skirts, smooth cheeks, teeth, eyesight, bladder control, ample breath, love of life. The intensity of their past lives measured the depth of their loss.

Until she lost her mind, Mabel reveled in the ideas of Plato, Planck, Descartes, Darwin, Newton, and Nietzsche. Before she lost her appetite and had to be fed through a tube, Angela loved to eat–zabaglione, escargot, lasagna, caviar, pizza, steak, moussaka, sushi. Nancy, once a champion cyclist, lost her agility when arthritis locked her joints and pain stunned her will.

Year by year, they lost more of themselves: they lost the lingering male gaze, the dignity due their humanity, the respect of the young who one day, soon, would lose their youth and join the lost.

Season by season, inside the Sunset Residence and outside the Sunset Residence, loss gained momentum. Like the autumn trees that shed their leaves—first one at a time, stealthily, then in clusters, boldly, till the ashen winter birches stand denuded—the ladies of the Sunset Residence lost all life’s color and grace.

Marie Bacigalupo, a fiction writer living in Brooklyn, New York, has participated in the 2011 University of Iowa Summer Writing Festival and the 2011 One Story Summer Workshop for Writers, as well as workshops at NYU, The New School, and the Writers Studio. Her work has appeared in The Brooklyn Rail.