Motif II: Crash/Landing (A Semi-Tragedy in Two Acts) I. On the south side of Liberal, Kansas For some reason, we all know to gather along the old highway just north of where it meets the bypass; between them, a wedge of dry prairie grass anticipates dawn and something else. The plane comes in from the south: long, thin, white, unliveried. (Picture the offspring of a Concorde and a 707, its father’s nose and its mother’s wings, and you have it close enough.) Gear still retracted, it slides in and turns top, three perfect spins down the field without bending so much as one thin dun blade; there is no sound but breaths all drawn in at once. No flame, no laceration of aluminum skin, not so much as a cloud of honest Kansas dust; nose pointed back where it came from, the plane rests unperturbed, maiden-flight pristine. From somewhere in the crowd, a Panhandle-tinged twang: Well, that ol’ boy done ‘er again, didn’t he? Might as well go see what all he brung us this time. II. Manhattan, Kansas, on the street where Jim Roper lived Stuffed with burgers (eaten, as ever, standing in the kitchen), we walk north toward the football stadium, discussing the quarterback situation and whether threatened rain will hold off. Someone – probably Gary – brings up a years-ago summer solstice party, the honey-haired girl nobody knew who showed up in a toga and antler-danced with Jim in the living room. This is routine, ritual, sacrament, not to be disturbed by anything like that belly-flopping 747 two blocks ahead, plunging into low brick blocks where married students live. Impact now, an infrabass thump and rumble. A fireball races to consume families, tricycles, maples, all of us. It is red and orange and beautiful; I breathe in and am not afraid. Shawnee, Kansas, Which is Not Really Shawnee, Kansas: Dream II This is another in a long line of whole-cloth hotel lobbies on streets which both exist and do not: a tile-and-Formica spot on an off-map stretch of Johnson Drive (pick dumpy or retro and either will suit, depending more on you than on the place), and I’m trying to explain to Larry that I did (eventually) recognize the young Clint Eastwood and the older one when I ran into both of them at the coffeehouse in Union Station sitting at a table with either Anthony Hopkins or John Wayne – or occasionally but not always both, though why the Duke should resurrect for three-dollar drip is beyond me – and for some other unfathomable reason James Urbaniak, thin and vaguely dangerous, who smirked at all of us and left halfway through the conversation. Larry all the while fiddles with his phone, poking it with a little screwdriver, only making appropriate noises so as to seem engaged, so I walk out into a half-dawn of backlit plastic, oddly angled streets and lumen-polluted overcast. I suppose I might eventually find my way back to the map and home – that, or just go upstairs and fall into dream within dream, still in my clothes on forty dollars' worth of rented sheets. Don't press me for a clear answer; I am and will be asleep the whole sometime. Bonner Springs, Kansas, Which is Not Really Bonner Springs, Kansas: Dream II The stakeout is just beginning. I have time to go for coffee. The town’s heart is only a few blocks south; its buildings are taller than I remember, but this bodes well; somewhere in this tangle of five-story limestone, there must be a place. The sidewalk spans a ravine, brush-lined, hundreds of feet deep. There is no handrail, and the walkway is less than a yard wide. I take no shame in dropping to my knees to cross, but a man on the other side rolls his eyes and tosses a few dead dogwood branches to impede my way. No need; I am being called back. We have been made. Our target has seen telltale peanuts floating in his gutter. (He looks like a television character actor of some minor note, one who always seems to play a well-meaning but largely incompetent foil to the protagonist. I will remember his name someday, likely on my deathbed, and my loved ones will always wonder why those were my last words.) We will have to take another tack, so we roll back into the city along Kaw Drive. I see a coffeehouse, set back among trees on the north side of the road. We do not stop.
Photos from Texas Fontanella
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
the rules of any society scribbling poems in the rain like this poor soul that doesn't play by the rules of any society flicked cigarette butts, empty bags of fast food trash, and a cruel car of teenagers and the asshole dare of tossing piss he has seen it all nothing dares to ever come close to surprising him anymore school shooting celebrity death war in a foreign land he knows what it really is thursday -------------------------------------------------------------------------------- not made of sugar old bones screaming in the rain caught out in the elements without a jacket or umbrella you remember your father telling you you're not made of sugar you won't fucking melt as you got older, you realized he was full of shit thankfully, that fucker is in the ground it won't be long now, you will be as well at least parts of you i figure most of the body will be burned to destroy the evidence --------------------------------------------------------------------------- like failure is not the only option laughing at my perv switch as i watch a black woman walk back into the offices to go clean them should i strike up a conversation and see what happens or should i see if she just wants cash instead somewhere my mother is reading this and knows she has failed like failure is not the only option available to us all she just caught me staring at her that wasn't the finger i was hoping for ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- my answer to john fogerty yes, i have seen the fucking rain it hasn't stopped around here for nearly five days before too long, i'm expecting cats and dogs to start falling from the sky and between the drops i'm expected to shop among the masses like hell the less i am around people the better i feel and i know, i sound like the bitter old fuck that secretly wants it both ways so be it -------------------------------------------------------------------------- for days on end dark brown skin and enough curves to keep your imagination buzzing for days on end there's a certain way the hips shake that you know that a challenge is ahead of you but a certain body part is more than willing to not only accept that challenge but conquer that mountain and plant a damn flag on it
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is currently serving time in suburbia, taking care of his disabled mother. He has been widely published over the years, most recently at The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, Misfit Magazine, Mad Swirl and Terror House Magazine. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Ekphrastic piece by Mark Blickley and Miss Unity
“SCREAMING MIME” I should speak out when they abuse This pasty-faced artist who decided to choose Being trapped in silence with make-up queer I may not speak, but I can hear The taunts, the insults, and the hate Towards street performers who refuse the bait Of ridiculed anger through vulgar gestures Believing performance is a continuing semester Of learning to grow within painted smile Ignore the assholes, concentrate on the child. Who laughs with joy or open-mouthed wonder Yet tosses no coins as my stomach thunders Breaking the silence, begging for bread My intestinal rumblings plead to be fed A steady diet of human compassion Through the clinking of coins in an appreciative reaction To my ancient art and enduring hunger Selling myself like a common whoremonger Hoping to satisfy an insatiable crowd In tight fitting Spandex, a seductive shroud Ignoring lewd sneers at my exposed anatomy That I've twisted and stretched in hopes it would flatter me As my muscles contort and my body sings A silent song that once entertained kings
Miss Unity is a writer and drag queen from upstate New York. Her essay collection ‘Who Killed Mabel Frost?’ will be published by SF/LD Books in 2023.
Mark Blickley grew up within walking distance of New York’s Bronx Zoo. He is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. His latest book is the flash fiction collection, Hunger Pains (Buttonhook Press).
Poetry from Robert Ragan
Protective Oh my fucking God I hope you know I truly love you Had your... Physical and mental attributes Listed and ready To make a mockery out of As I roasted you alive Despite you hurting me In ways no one ever had before I still can't bring myself To say these things to you Invisible girl No one ever noticed It killed you And when they did notice They drove by and barked at you Well baby if you think that was traumatizing Then the things I could say about you Would make you want To take your own life Of course you're not reading this You ghosted me and Don't give a fuck how much it hurts Yet here I am Trying to save your feelings One more time Just in case you ever look back From the beginning till the ending All I ever wanted was to make you happy So I don't want to say anything To make you sad and upset now Just in case you ever remember That I exist
Poetry from Tess Tyler
God’s heart is a Giant Tear: June 1, 2022 I was sad to see Louie’s close, I thought to myself. At Lands’ End, today’s destination journey. A place where I can find myself again. One of the most beautiful sites in the world. Where the ocean meets the land. I come here to ground myself and breathe. This is where the butterflies flutter and lizards sprawl, as families saunter, near swallows and chickadees, pelicans, and gulls. Ocean waves leaping and lapping. Today whales are reported, by a woman with two tawny and white dogs. She lets my Bella sniff her dogs, while she tells us of the whale spouts sparkling near the surface. “Now I see!” I see the blowing just at the surface. Some spouts shoot up out of the waters, others just to the surface. You can see the pod is swimming around the very blue waters. The Golden Gate Bridge stands so tall and proud amidst the 1000-year-old Cypress trees! Three young girls, led by a mother, stand on the large cement wall bench to take a selfie. All giggles, for today we have a clear view of the Golden Gate Bridge. The cars look like matchbox cars. These are just some of the things our children taken away too soon, by angry teens, barely men, bearing arms. Shooting at our children, Killing them! Now, these children will never see these things I see. Lost to us before they had a chance to choose where, they would journey, on a free day like today. June 1, 2022. The birds chirping; sounds to me, “Please, please, don’t shoot.” Over and over. Yes, here at Lands’ End. Over and over, they sing it again. I look up to the clouds. I see God’s arms caressing, admiring, perfectly, tiny babies in the clouds created by He. He admires each one before they are sent here. Yet, these days, God’s heart is a giant tear.
Poetry from Ryan Quinn Flanagan
Apocalypse Not Now Things don’t look so grim to me at this juncture, the roving blood goons with veiny neck effort and pillows for fists, believing there is strength in numbers just as Vegas and the warring armies have taught them, that fear can be mastered like an obedience school dog off the chain, and concealed weapons if that fails. Myself, I prefer a pair of mating ducks in the inner harbour. Male with proud felt green head. The female by his side and the young ones in tow. Or a leaky faucet that refuses to fall in line. Staring out of windows, I see windows staring back at me. Underwear friends with spider veins for legs so you know the fangs of pet store tarantulas are real. The Public Has a Right to Know Nothing that is why it is the public and the rest of it is private, but such blanket statements from the blubbery populist blowhole go over exceedingly well with the idiot masses which is why that fabricated argument concocted by marketing as to whether a Crisper was a chip or a cracker did so well according to the people down in accounting. Axiom Reel cut the room cut the floor spark an axiom reel hard the hat hard the landing tell that bloody pilot Turbulence to land this role nobody wants or ever asked for. The Hunt for Hairy Movember I have grown over four inches in the past calendar year. All horizontally. My white whale of a belly swelled and distended and alcoholic as though some handsome shoe polish messiah could be cut right out of me. I have been practising my breathing. Inhale then exhale, seems simple enough. No more difficult than the divvy up of pub grub chicken wings on the fly. While Norway tracks me down. And Japan readies her harpoons. I was never long for this world, but this is getting ridiculous. Duty Free Quite simply unaccustomed to safe-cracked whistles, all stock yard light shows of the immersive disk drive blow up queen shaved down into one final ball of incendiary thunder under silly perched aggrandizement, and knowing what I know now, I would have never sat in the airport that long in plastic blue bucket seats watching clean shaven men drag their entire lives behind them, rushing to catch connector flights onto places with other blue bucket seats. Kicking Cans Kicking cans around long enough, there is always the threat of botulism. Explain this to your schoolyard bully and they will punch you in the head a little extra for making them feel stupid. There is no advantage to being smart until you are out of school and 85, old enough to just not care anymore. The world will always be stupid. With or without you in it. 15 Bucks for a working DVD player seems quite the deal and we drive down to this apartment complex along Mississauga Avenue and sit in the parking lot waiting for the boyfriend to come down. Some young kid is smoking by the entrance, so we get out and approach. Asking if he is the boyfriend and he says he is. And he hands us fifteen bucks from his right pant pocket and we give him the bag. As we drive away, the missus tells me she is glad I came with her. It is the first of the month and the squirrely junkies are looking to score. And I tell her it reminds me of buying drugs back in the day. Strength in numbers, I get that. Ghost Shows I’ve seen those ghost shows where the orbs of light fly into people, I am not some hermit. I have a local cable service provider. My shrink does not believe in ghosts, so I do not believe in ghosts: go along to get along, right? And I am sane as folded towels in the shape of dying swans. I have not laughed at my own armpit farts in years. A learning curve, sure there is. If you are intent on learning. Don’t the blowjobs of university wind tunnels seem way too easy?
Ryan Quinn Flanagan is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many bears that rifle though his garbage. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, Synchronized Chaos, Literary Yard, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review.