Essay from Jeff Rasley

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Memories of a Childhood Hero; Nostalgia and the Cost of Hero Worship

by Jeff Rasley

rasleyherocover

Chip Hilton was perfect – at least in the mind of this boy growing up in a small town in Indiana before the Beatles were big. He was tall, rangy, with blue-grey eyes and short-cropped blond hair. Chip’s square jaw was always clean shaven. A lock of hair would drift down his forehead and need to be brushed back while he was playing ball.

Chip was shy around girls but popular at school with the guys. He was the star player on his high school football, basketball, and baseball teams. Chip was doted on by his hardworking, graceful and lovely mother, Mary Hilton. She always had homemade cookies ready when the guys came over after team practice.

Chip’s dad, a factory foreman, died in an industrial accident saving the life of one of his crew members. Chip suffered stoically the aching loss of his father. The Hiltons were not well off, but managed. Mary worked at the factory as a secretary. Chip had to work part-time as a stock boy at the local drugstore to help with family finances.

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Poetry from Dave Douglas

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The Novelty of i

The novelty of i
The latest smart phone
Absent of why
Just follow the drone

The novelty of reason
Without reply
What’s still in season?
The novelty of i

i am the app
Consolation
i am the map
Destination

Text of interest
i may respond
i am the loudest
“Like” to correspond

i am the Like
Emotion
i am the psyche
Devotion

i am the spotlight
Conversation
i am the limelight
Celebration

The novelty of i
Promenade –
Receipt of a sigh
Masquerade

The stage of sound
The novelty of sky –
The ceiling of ground
The novelty of i?

The novelty of i!
The novelty of – i
The novelty – of – i
The – novelty – of – i

The soundboard
Into a lone echo
Unexplored –
The novelty is hollow

Absolute ironclad
A fool to vilify
i am my own fad
The novelty of I

Sounds of new
Thoughts from you
Grasping two
And then a few …

Poetry from Natalie Crick

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For You

This month her depression began.
He obsessed her.
She tied her heart with ribbon like a present,
Licking his fingers and kissing his feet.

Words failed her.
She breathed him in like a terrible secret,
A childless woman beneath the ivory moon.
But what about his eyes, his eyes, his eyes.

Walking in the Winter trees
Were his shadows in the fog.
He was innocent as a lamb.
Sleep, my Angel,

Deaf and dumb
As the drugged summer sun.
My Love,
I want you.

This Dark Thing

This dark thing that sleeps in me,
It steals from me so I am left with nothing.
I am blameless, Godiva.
The murmurings are alive.
Watching you dully from my bed
I have taken the pill to kill.
I mourn my own death,
Drowning into the night.
My tears could devour
The ocean. I want, I want.
I have lost myself. But that is not enough.

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Poetry from Joan Beebe

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Cottonwood Seeds

Cottonwood seeds are so tiny and small

And the wind can carry them far before they fall.

But do they have to arrive at my window screens

And plug all the openings as they come on the scene

Now, I think nature is a wonderful thing

But cottonwood seeds in my screens only bring

Scrubbing and cleaning and work so hard

That I think I will go out in my yard

And look at my screens to finally let out

My frustrated scream and as they are about

To take me away, I look once more

At seeds on the screens and I know that

They think they have won – but not for long,

Because a new season begins and will right this wrong.

The time for those seeds has ended.

I can now see the beauty that surrounds me again

And am grateful that nature finally stepped in.

Poetry from Peter Jacob Streitz

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DEATH SENTENCE

It ain’t that bad
Judgement day
The day you
read the verdict
From an antiquated
birthday card
But at least,
ya can still eat
Or go for
a’cup’a joe
Some sex exists
Yet the pressure’s off
It’s nothing to do . . .
with physicality
It’s like dressing up
. . . dressing down
Same thing
Without the gravity
For those
with too many candles
To blow the burn
More or less
With less being
—the age—
every idiot talks about
The new 60 being 50
And 40
is thirty-three point three
Or some such crap
Why not make 40
the new dead
Or 32?
An infant’s poo-poo
None of its relevant
There’s only one age
And you arrive at it
. . . like plunging through . . .
a trap door
After years
of immortality
And upright denial
When wearing skulls
and crossbones . . .
as patches,
tattoos and jewelry;
was an imbecile’s way
of owning death—
by childish renunciations
of an impregnable terror.
Denying inevitability
with bongs, bangs . . .
babies and beer
Raving praise be we
In the sweetest asylum
of fitness and health
Before sensing life’s not
a sap’s game
A roll of the dice
It’s a set-up
A preparatory course
A dawning so nonchalant
it’s terrifying
Terrifying—
in the abstract
In the flesh and blood
A natural phenomenon
With no court
of appeals
But only hung juries
as to innocence or guilt
Delivered by
a single magistrate
Whose only peer
is you, the defendant.
Ordering . . .
no imprisonment
Because the party’s
served their time
With both good
and bad behavior
Mixing dreams
and disappointments
Into the peace
of a living life
Before mercifully,
miraculously, magically
Announcing
. . . its all a training ground
For the biggest
of all falls
The one that—
makes you whole
When the alarm,
wakes no more.
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Elizabeth Hughes’ Book Periscope

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S. Courtney Killian’s Days of the Kill

daysofthekillcover
Days of the Kill is the first book for college student S. Courtney Killian. I think she did a great job and I loved it. I love murder mysteries, suspense and thrillers. This book will keep you on the edge of you seat. This will definitely be a book to add to your home library.
Ms. Killian definitely has what it takes to be a writer. I am looking forward to her next book.

Richard Slota’s Stray Son

ARC copy of the cover of Stray Son

ARC copy of the cover of Stray Son

Stray Son is a really interesting novel that will keep you reading and wanting more. Patrick Yaworsky, a Marine Veteran, married and a father of two, works  for a funeral home picking up the bodies of the deceased. One day he sees a young Marine in a WWII uniform who seems to be following him. The young Marine knocks on Patrick’s door and introduces himself as Patrick’s father. Even Patrick’s wife and kids can see him. They know he can’t be a ghost because the father is still alive in the present, the year 2000. This is a must have for your home library. it is humorous and also illustrates a dysfunctional family. It will keep you captivated.
You may request Stray Son from your favorite neighborhood bookstore. It will be published later this summer and is also available online now here.

Essay from Donal Mahoney

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A Note to Young Writers
 
Over the years I have been accused of many things in real life and in the virtual world as well and often deservedly so. Recently, however, I sent a few poems to an editor unknown because samples on his site suggested to me that these particular poems, rejected by other editors as not fit for their sites, might find a home there. One never knows and can only try.
 
These poems were scabrous enough, I thought, to have a chance at this site but they lacked profanity, sex and violence. I am neither in favor of nor opposed to profanity, sex or violence but I don’t knowingly traffic in any of those when it comes to writing. 
 
Sex is too easy to write about, I feel, and profanity seems an easy way out when the right word can’t be found. Violence I don’t think I have ever dealt with although I have dealt with the prelude to violence as well as its aftermath. I guess it’s all a matter of taste. 
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