MAY 20, 2020| ISSUE no 262
Literary Magazine
crack the spine
Poetry Ann E. Wallace Carson Pytell
Short Fiction Janet Amalia Weinberg Ken Poyner
ISSN 2474-9095
Creative Non-Fiction Louise Julig
Cover Art Fabrice Poussin
Flash Fiction Don Robishaw Denise Tolan
Micro Fiction Jean Passarelli
Slippery Slope
short fiction by Janet Amalia Weinberg
Old Mrs. Plotnik sprawled in the gutter, not moving. She could still see those cold-blooded eyes zoomed in for the kill, still feel the sickening thump that sent her reeling. Far away voices: “Isn’t it awful?..." “What’s this world coming to?...” “Why would anyone hurt a poor old lady like this?...” Tears filled her eyes. She knew why. It all started when she left the market with a pack of double A batteries tucked innocently under her arm. Now Mrs. Plotnik had never cheated anyone in her life – never even dreamed of it -- and certainly had no intention of doing it that time. In fact, not till she’d gone all the way up the hill and set her groceries down to catch her breath did she realize what had happened. And then it was too late. She could barely make it up the hill once, let alone twice. Do it tomorrow, she told herself. Tomorrow is soon enough. But part of her was already calculating how much she had saved and what she could do with the money. After all, it wasn’t easy living on Social Security. She paused outside her apartment, reluctant to enter. Maybe I could get something special, she thought. Like strawberries. Not for herself, of course, she could live without them, but for Simon, her husband. Poor Simon, he didn’t have much. Not that he complained, but somehow he never got over his last surgery. It was as if he just didn’t have the will. He stayed in pajamas all day and read the paper or watched TV. Now what kind of life is that for a man? It was enough to make her heart ache. Yes, she thought, strawberries would be just the thing. Stale air engulfed her as she opened the apartment door. It smelled of decay and lineament and the onions she’d burnt the night before. And there was Simon, slumped on the couch with a line of drool dangling from his gaping mouth. She stopped short. “Simey?”It was hard sometimes to tell if he was still alive. Slowly, the old man opened his milky eyes and scratched his unshaven chin. “Huh?” He had always been such a dominant man, too dominant perhaps, but look at him now. She’d do anything to hear his commanding voice again. She wanted to shake him for giving up and leaving her so alone. But what good would it do? After Mrs. Plotnik had put away the groceries, she joined her husband and told him all about her trip to the store. Well, almost all. Somehow, the part about the batteries got left out. The next day she forgot to bring the batteries back. She meant to, really she did, but it completely slipped her mind. And by the day after that, it just seemed too late. She got the strawberries and when she dished them up for Simon for his afternoon snack, he gave her a smile that lit up her heart. “Oh Mommy,” he said — he always called her that, “aren’t they beautiful.” And that’s how it began. The second time it happened, she thought about it in advance. What’s small, like the batteries and special? Nuts? More berries? Chocolate? Chocolate! she decided. Simey will love it. And he did. “Peanut Butter Cups!” he beamed when she gave him the surprise. “My favorite!” After that it was tuna — white albacore, not the cheap kind she usually got. With the tin tucked under her arm, she approached the check-out counter --just another plump old lady with thin gray hair and sensible shoes. Or so she seemed. Inside, she was a bold hero on a perilous mission, fortified with images of Robin Hood and Florence Nightingale. “Ma’am, I said, ‘four dollars and twenty-six cents’.” The clerk had rung up her saltines and soup and was impatiently waiting to be paid. She squinted into her change-purse, methodically extracted the sum and, with an air of nonchalance, slowly left the shop. No one could have guessed how triumphant she felt. In the following weeks, she repeated this scene over and over. What else could she do? With each unexpected treat, Simon seemed to grow stronger. He even started to dress and shave while she was out and would greet her at the door with an eager what-did-you-bring-me-this-time look. I can’t let the poor man down, she thought. He needs something to look forward to. But it didn’t last. After a while, he wasn’t surprised when she brought him something special. He lost interest, stopped coming to the door, gave up shaving and dressing. When she found him on the sofa, slumped and lifeless like before, she almost cried. “Oh Simey,” she pleaded, “don’t leave me again. Can’t you snap out of it?” But he couldn’t. The poor man was fading fast. She just had to find a way to surprise him again. But how? She thought about it and thought about it but didn’t know what to do. Then one afternoon on her way home from the market she noticed a wheelchair parked near the curb. No one was around. Grab it! The words shouted in her head. Simon’s legs were already wobbly and, as long as he sat on the couch all day, they would only grow weaker. If he could get outside, she thought, he might be encouraged to walk. With unaccustomed speed, she set her groceries on the seat, took hold of the handles and wheeled the chair home. Simon was watching Days of Our Lives when she rolled the chair beside him and announced, “Your limousine is here, sir.” She had cleverly disguised the chair with flowery chintz pillows; it’s rightful owner would never recognize it. Simon turned toward her in that slow, dull way of his. Suddenly his brows arched, his upper lip stiffened and he said with a pompous nod, “Why thank you, Jeeves.” It had been a long time since they were playful together. He dressed quickly and let her wheel him to the small park across the street. It was just a strip of grass with some trees and benches but that day, it felt like their private country estate. They sat in the sun, watched people and cars and pigeons and squirrels and Simon even got up and walked. The next day, they went again. Before long, they were going every day and she put the wheelchair back where she had found it; Simon didn’t need it anymore. One afternoon, Mr. Wilson, who sometimes shared their bench, brought a deck of cards and the three of them played rummy for hours. The next day, Harry Goldman, who had the apartment below theirs, joined in. Before you knew it, a bunch of old fellows started showing up. Mrs. Plotnik even moved to another bench to make room for them. They brought lawn chairs and sandwiches and radios, and there was Simon, right in the middle of it all. She could not have been happier. But one long afternoon, when the men were playing their games and talking their talk, Mrs. Plotnik sat all by herself and realized how lonely she was. Mr. Bigshot over there doesn’t need me anymore, she thought. For all he cares, I can just sit here alone and rot. She was losing him again — not because he was weak this time, but because he was strong. “Losing me?” he scoffed when she told him how she felt. “Don’t be ridiculous, Helen.” She noticed he hadn’t called her “Mommy.” And it wasn’t the first time either. “Can’t we spend some time together?” she persisted. “Not now, dear. I’ve got to meet the guys.” That’s when she came up with a new plan. She had heard there was a casino nearby and a bus that could take them there. Not that either of them would dream of gambling away money, but casinos have other entertainment and restaurants too. And Simey and me could spend a whole day there, just the two of us, she thought. It would be the best surprise yet. But how to pay for it? She thought about it and thought about it and was still at it the next day when she left for the market. On the way, she had an idea. Women often put their handbags in their shopping carts and leave them unattended. Mrs. Plotnik felt a surge of excitement. All I got to do is keep my eyes open, she thought, and when I spot an unwatched bag, I walk off with it, cart and all. If anyone stops me, I just say I made a mistake and -- And that’s when it happened. She glanced up in time to see a man charging toward her, eyes zoomed in for the kill. There was a sickening thump and the world turned upside down and left her sprawled in the gutter. For a long, suspended moment she drifted out of time – a girl on a hillside floating with a cloud. Then pain wrenched her back to the present. Faces stared down at her. She tugged her dress over her knees, touched the sore place on her lip, then sat up with a start: “My pocketbook! He got my pocketbook!” Tears filled her eyes. It was over. She could never be a thief again. A thief! She hadn’t used that word before but that’s exactly what she had become. I’m no better than that animal who robbed me,she thought. How could I have fallen so low? A smooth, moon face loomed over her. It was the store manager in a white bib apron and a green bow tie. “Don’t worry, dear lady, we called the police. Do you think you can stand?” She nodded. People were lifting her but inside she was sinking. Oh Simey, she wanted to cry, I’ve been so bad and now I’ll never be able to surprise you again. They were taking her into the store. Someone brought a chair. Suddenly she realized, “This is a surprise!” “It certainly is, dear lady,” the manager agreed as he helped her sit. “No, no,” she tried to explain, “I mean this will surprise my husband.” “I’m sure it will,” the man nodded. “No,” she said with a grin, “I mean it could be the surprise he needs.” The manager gave her a worried look and told her to take it easy, then asked for her husband’s number and phoned him. “Sit tight,” Simon commanded, “I’m coming to get you. And Mommy? You’re not to go to the store alone. Not anymore. Got that? From now on, I’m making it my business to go with you… Mommy? Are you there?” She was there all right and had heard what he’d said – every strong, emphatic word – but was too happy to speak.
I Can Make It Rain
When I was younger, I got up early and worked my tail off in a sweltering aviation plant, twelve-hours a day, despite hangovers from hell. We girls were on a mission back then. I wouldn’t wish today’s headache on my worst enemy. Wiping my forehead, I force a smile and hesitantly wave bye to my husband and his three ungrateful grandchildren. The red and white striped mini-bus pulls away from the resort and heads toward the falls at the top of the volcano. Ernest hangs off the side, one foot on the lowest step, and grips the railing. He leans outside, rubs and slaps his naked, hairy belly and yells,“Come on, you can make it, Peaches!” I shake my head. Gertrude, Gert anything but... If he ever calls me that again... A few more steps to The French House by the Sea and I’ll be able to relax on the veranda. “The usual, mum?” asks the young waiter. “You know me well, my handsome prince.” He laughs when I call him that. I sit and gulp my daily aspirin with a cocktail of Navy Strength Plymouth Gin, Fanta, a splash of tonic, and a lemon wedge. Love the smell of citrus when I’m near the ocean. Ten more will do it, Gert. Might also do me good to take a stroll along the waterfront. Do me even better if Ernest took a long walk off a short pier. Ninety-pounds heavier since the army, no hair on his head, and more obnoxious than ever. How the hell is that possible? A runaway bride. An older man in uniform... What was I thinking? I stick around for his grandchildren. His drunk driving led to my miscarriage. My last chance at a baby. I cried for months thereafter. We continue to live in a loveless marriage. Bar tab settled, I move on from the veranda to an aged palm tree, and try to enjoy the wind. The hypnotic rhythmic waves lightly spray my face every twenty-seconds. Wearing a sarong I run to the water’s edge, splash around, and turn windward. I brush my graying hair aside and caress my cheeks after a salt water facial. As I slog away, I contemplate how to end a marriage with a man who can’t even bend over to pick up his socks. Under a brief darkening of the skies, ebony scorpions the size of Chihuahua puppies scurry back and forth before burrowing into the white sand. Under the returning noon-day-sun, other oddities happen all around me. Not the least among them, an odd power guides me from the beach and draws me behind the Sugar Shack. In the distance, I see Bea coming my way. Bea’s the proprietor. During WWII, she was a ship-fitter like me. Fourth husband mysteriously drowned and never left the island after that. Strange bird, but I’m fond of her and the independence she never lost after the war. After her last old man died, she stayed on, opened the bar, and became a permanent resident of Paradise Isle. She says she’s never been happier. Now she helps others heal their ailments and troubles through dreams and fantasies. A literal magician who refuses to reveal her tricks. Her business card reads: Beatrice The Dream Mentor (Women Only) I can do magic. Satisfaction guaranteed Right there on the bulletin board next to: English as a Second Language Teacher needed “How are you, Gert?” “Headache, can’t shake it.” “You’ve come to the appropriate place, love. Your husband, again?” A sly smile. She meets tourists and escorts them behind the bar to special hammocks. A relaxing spot to free one’s mind of daily troubles. She records dreams, fantasies, and memories on a high-powered recorder. Fifty-dollars for the full experience and a copy of the tape. “And my headache?” “Ah, gone with the breeze, love.” “What do you mean?” Not answering my question, Bea ushers me into the special hammock. After a few more cocktails of course. She doesn’t speak but tilts her head, squints her eyes, and holds that mischievous smile. “What have you got to lose? Think about your desires. And try one of these.” “Okay... now what do I do?” “Breathe. Inhale, exhale, and continue to do so.” She models the pattern. Bea rocks me. “Relax, in... out... Stay focused. Listen to the surf and enjoy the breeze. Slow your breath down. Lower your heart rate and blood pressure... simple pictures at first. A flower unfolds. Other images will come into consciousness...” I envision a naked cabana boy with a white Queen of the Orchids in his long black hair. He lies beside me on a deep and dark secluded beach. Mahana gives me a drag, puts it out in the sand, and lays still on his elbow like a warrior taking his rest. We tune into the sounds of a subtle breeze through the palms. The moon is full. I’ve got eyes on the boy. He glances over my wet, smooth, and hairless skin. “You’re an incredible young man, Mahana.” “Thank you.” While stargazing, clouds cover the sky... I point skyward, “Llueva mañana?” “I can make it rain for you, mum.” He touches and caresses my shoulder. It feels wonderful. I can’t resist his attraction... his magnetism. A lightning bolt flashes over the HMS Bonnie, resting on a reef, accompanied by a burst, an echo of thunder, and a light sprinkle. After a few hours he vanishes into the dark, along with my headache. ~ ~ ~ The following morning... “Get your lazy ass up! How can you sleep so late? Cock-fights start soon. You don’t wanna miss ‘em. We’re on holiday. Come on, Peaches.” “Sorry... dreams.” I reach down for two business cards and a white orchid on a wet floor... Peaches! Did he just call me Peaches?
flash fiction by Dan Robishaw
poetry by Ann E. Wallace
You can hear it, right? I inhale, deep, deep, in search of words. I can barely breathe. I see her coming, coming, so fast. My heart drums firm, quick, a ceaseless beat. You can hear it, right? She drifts, so far, over double lines. My arms lock, foot pushes, focus sharpens. I can barely breathe. She does not flow with the arc of road. My eyes scan, flare with the thunderclap of impact. You can hear it, right? She is here, slamming silver, then gone, sliding. The noise, the silence, the smoke flood my mouth, my head. It is so hard to breathe. Flashed frozen, drawing on will and fear unfathomed, I turn toward my daughter so silent in her seat behind me. You do not hear her either, right? I do not think I can breathe.
The Crash
She named her Rain. It was the first time the sun shone since the last birth one year ago. Swaddled, hobbled and bloody, baby and mother made their way out of the cave into the path of yellow sky. Two hunched together. Mother squinting and smiling weakly - muttering the customary prayer of thanks to the gods. She was still naked. After two glorious hours spent together nursing in warmth and dryness, Mother became aware of the first change in light. An almost imperceptible blueblack cast over the landscape. She gazed at Rain and whispered an apology before limping back into darkness.
micro fiction by Jean Passarelli
Rain
The Gainsay
short fiction by Ken Poyner
You would think by now everyone would recognize me. I do nothing to disguise myself. Typically, I stand out like the clichéd sore thumb; or the elderly, semi-colon shaped, patron at a strip bar. But a few people pass me by, wondering. They see me standing and think I must have some mission, some purpose; but they will not waste the glycerin to fathom what my surely nefarious purpose might be. I suspect these would be people whose concerns, in any way, would not further my concerns: so, good riddance. But most know me. Most have seen me here or there and, if they are not a previous customer, they at least have known others who were my customers, or watched as customers were made. Not that I try to make myself obvious. I am simply recognizable; the motions of my avocation are simple and branding. Ordinary people walk twice past me, hang just out of hearing, quiet and pondering. They think in wide angles about what they have heard, what they have said, and how much all of it together is worth. They work their mouths as though to pop them back into joint, or reset their leaning teeth. A few go on, heading to the end of the street and hastily around the corner in a zip of disappearance. Health to them! But most who have come this far are going to commit a transaction. It just takes them a stash of time to work up the mental erection. I wait, and I make a game of my waiting by trying to guess what they plan to sell, probing my fancy to imagine the idle uses I will find for the soon new gains. When at last they come to me, it is in an arc – as through plummeting out of a broken orbit. They slingshot slowly into my grappling gravity. They pull in close to me and look off-balance into their sheltering hands, their breath racing like a boy falling into stolen, incomplete sex. For some, it is just an article they have to part with. For others a conjunction; for unnumbered others, a pronoun. For most, however, it is their nouns. Fat, unworked, unkneaded, still crisp and unpolished nouns. Sometimes it is an entire gluttonous array of nouns, matrices of meaning, entire fields of exposition. They expect to haggle, but I work from a standard price list. I am much more of an ethical businessman than a mere slithering opportunist. My cause-and-effect demeanor helps to calm them, to give them the confidence of their own irregular decisions. I know they can sell me “thermodynamics” or “Shakespeare”, and never again miss those words. In fact, they would have never used them, slyly or purposefully, even if they kept them wise and warm in their linguistic arsenal – but nearly all my sellers feel as though they should not be trading themselves so close to silence: even though, in truth, they are no more close to not having words populating their arsenals through selling them, than they would be through their simply not using them. I listen to the words they would be rid of, rattle off the fair list price, wait for the next word, and at the end let the silence draw dizzily out like a woman stretching in syrupy hotel sunlight on a bed of recent consequences. They try not to look over each shoulder as they take my flat, clean money. The receiving hand is kept as close to the chest as possible, open enough only to be effective, and I have to reach forward, balancing. Then they spit the relinquished words into the cup I offer, and watch torn yet obsequious while I close the cup’s top and swirl the admixture vigorously so that all the night’s bartered syllables rub gluttonously against each other and commingle angrily or happily or unaware into new expressions and previously unimagined corollaries. The seller walks quickly off, like someone who knows the dog has been too long locked up back at the secure home and must be let out before the abandoned animal soils the carpet. What loss is it, these few words? Not often will meaning be missed. And the cash can be burnt in an hour or two of covering diversion. The dog has been kept locked up too long. I have little use for the meanings myself. Like my secretive, word-harvested marks, I have no need for further understanding, for greater depth or specificity. The shorter the distance between the opposites of my limitations, the more easily I am complete. I listen to the words argue amongst themselves, arise in ever more complex patterns and families of dissonance. It is my joy to be so wealthy with the useless. Over time, popular language and thought will become so thin that it cannot warm anyone’s intellect, and I will need to come up with some other commodity to buy, some other trifle the populace is willing to cast off that might for a small while amuse me. Only someone with language can extend exposition and thought into more language, and soon I will have so much of the market cornered on available words that I will have to move on to gestures, or collecting salvageable bits of emotion. I have the true collector’s faith: there will always be more to amass, even if it, and the amassing of it, is meaningless. The joy in it is the joy of the unabashed collecting itself. Three times the girl in the blue coat has gone by me. Her carefully rouged cheeks bulge with conversations withheld. How happy she would be if she were less likely to unpredictably wax polysyllabic! How comforted she would be if she could put down the burden of having something to say! I can pay her for her comfort.I can harvest her possibly inconvenient, possibly scintillating words and send her new and brilliantly unconcerned back into the silencing world we share. I look her in her half-filled eyes and with deference tilt regally forward. There could be more and there will soon be less and I imagine her mouth moving, the language left there lingering like a lover no longer waiting just one more go. I have, in defense or offense or explanation, absolutely nothing at all to say.
Mercury Rising
I see my dead father from time to time. He drives through our old neighborhood in a late model Mercury; a little blue car stuck in the game of Life. Sometimes I raise my hand in greeting, but it’s the same kind of hesitant hand raising I did in school when I wasn’t quite sure of the answer. Not that it matters. My father never looks in my direction. I have thought, from time to time, to turn my car around and follow him. Then I hesitate, like those who are lost. What would I do if he stopped and got out of his car? Would I walk to him, face up to him, say to him, Dad, you’ve been dead since 2006. Did you really come back just to drive the same car on the same street in the same sunglasses? He is likely to shrug in response. Would I beg for a morsel like a sad dog in a TV commercial? Would I whimper, Daddy, have you seen me driving past you? But this is not a dream and there is never a time I turn my car around. I’m not sure what any of this means. I also see my mother from time to time, but only in my dreams. She is a newer dead than my father. I never have to beckon her, but I do stay watchful. She sneaks into the corner of my sleep carefully, like a child playing at hide and seek. She wants no part of stepping over the line, falling back into our world. We talk as if time is nothing more than infinite spins on a game board. Sometimes she offers me wisdom, dressed up as guilt: It’s easy to love those who are easy to love. Mostly she wants news about family and friends. And the new princesses in England. I still mourn for Diana, she sighs, even after death. My mother is as interested in me as anyone is with a conduit. Mom, I want to ask, what did it all mean? Our family? Could we have taken another path? But my mother is a dream and I am here to transmit, not generate. I don’t ask questions she might sigh about. Or answer honestly. I’m not sure what any of this means either. Still, from time to time, I’m afraid I know too well.
flash fiction by Denise Tolan
It was early December and a program about Pearl Harbor was playing on the History Channel. My parents had left my grandmother with us when they went out to get Christmas presents. "Yesterday, December 7th, 1941, a date which will live in infamy..." "Oh, Pearl Harbor. That day was the only time I ever saw my father cry." (Commercial) "...The Arizona was hit by four armor-piercing bombs and exploded, leaving 1,177 dead." "Oh, Pearl Harbor. That day was the only time I ever saw my father cry." (Commercial) "...and congress obliged President Roosevelt's plea within the hour..." "Oh, Pearl Harbor. That day was the only time I ever saw my father cry." (Commercial) "...in fact, the UK declared war on Japan nine hours before the United States..." "Oh, Pearl Harbor. That day was the only time I ever saw my father cry." (Commercial) "...and, ultimately, the attack led to 41,582 dead or missing in the Pacific Theatre." "Oh, Pearl Harbor. That day was the only time I ever saw my father cry." By now my younger siblings were giggling, but I had an inkling as to what was happening. ... ... ... "Good news: the doctor came today and when he said her name, she opened her eyes and almost sat up."
Infamy
poetry by Carson Pytell
Wonderland
"Wake up, Alice dear,” said her sister. “Why, what a long sleep you’ve had!” —Lewis Carroll, Alice's Adventures in Wonderland You are five, or seven, or eight, and sick in bed. Your mother walks into your room with a plate of Saltines or a glass of juice with a straw. “How you feeling, Skwutch?” she says, sitting on the edge of the bed. She runs a hand over your unkempt hair and smiles. She gives you a hug; she is soft and round and warm under her lightweight turtleneck. Kneeling to the floor, she pulls a mustard-yellow and cream-colored portable record player from its spot next to the bookshelf, opening the latch with a flick. Her ankles poke out from knit pants that are always a little too short. She takes a record box from your nightstand—Alice in Wonderland. Six records nest inside, pen-and ink drawings on the jackets: Alice chasing the White Rabbit; The Mad Hatter’s Tea Party; the Queen’s croquet grounds. She removes Volume One and places it on the spindle of the record player. It begins to rotate, thirty-three and one-third times per minute. She lifts the plastic arm and gently places the needle at the record’s edge. You are five, or seven, or eight, and sick in bed. You hear the flute, bassoon and French horn of the musical interlude signaling the beginning of Volume One. Soon you will travel with Alice down the rabbit hole and meet once again the Caterpillar, Gryphon, and Mock Turtle. You already know what they will say. And you know that by the time the story is over, you will feel better. You are forty-five, and Mom has died of cancer. For weeks after the funeral, you call your dad every day. You are surprised at how quickly he sets himself to the mundane tasks that need attending to after someone dies. Joint checking accounts. Retirement accounts. Taxes. He ticks them off his list day by methodical day. Then he starts sorting through closets, drawers, and boxes. Some things he tosses—a bag of her old shoes and socks. Some things he displays—Japanese keepsakes from the year she spent overseas as a child; stained glass sun catchers that haven’t been hung up since three houses ago. Some things he offers to relatives—a set of dishes goes to your sister, another set goes to a cousin. Some things he donates to Goodwill or the church fundraiser—a stash of hotel and hospital toiletries from her bathroom cupboard; mismatched silver-plate pitchers and serving dishes. Some things he destroys—a box of her business cards takes him several days, as he cannot bear to feed more than a batch or two at a time to the grinding wheels of the shredder. During one call he tells you he has taken a load of old record albums to Goodwill. “You didn’t take the Alice in Wonderland records, did you?” you blurt out. “Well, yes,” he replies. “I thought you made copies of those years ago.” You are twenty-three, just graduated from college and packing your things to move to your boyfriend’s house in the next state, where you and he will live for two years before marrying. You bring two ninety-minute cassettes on which you have recorded the six-volume set of Alice in Wonderland. It seems impossible that the entire set fits on less than three hours of tape. In your mind the story goes on for days. All those days when you were five, or seven, or eight and sick in bed with a bad cold, chicken pox, the stomach flu. You do not listen to the recordings until ten years later. When you do, returning home from a road trip to Utah with your family, it does not seem right to be listening to them when you are well. The end of one record runs right into the musical interlude signaling the beginning of the next, and the story goes by too fast. All too soon you are listening to side two of Volume Six, which is your least favorite side. Alice opens her eyes to find the deck-of-card soldiers are nothing more than dead leaves fluttering from a tree, and the Mock Turtle's sobs only the lowing of distant cattle.
creative non-fiction by Louise Julig
Louise Julig Louise Julig is a writer from Encinitas, California, whose work has appeared in neutrons/protons and the San Diego writers anthology A Year In Ink, Vol. 11.She has also performed multiple times at the VAMP (Visual/Audio Monologue Performance) Showcase of the San Diego literary and performing arts organization So Say We All. She and her older sister still spontaneously recite lines from Alice in Wonderland to each other and laugh. Connect with her online @LouiseJulig. Jean Passarelli Jean is a lifelong Chicagoan and has had several poetry acceptances, most recently in After Hours Press and Ocotillo Review. Fabrice Poussin Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and many other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review as well as other publications. Ken Poyner Two of Ken Poyner’s poetry collections and four of his short fiction collections are widely available. He lives with his power-lifter wife, various cats and betta fish in the southeastern corner of Virginia. He spent thirty-three years in information security, moonlighting as a writer. Now, he writes dangerously full-time. Carson Pytell Carson Pytell is a poet and short fiction writer living in a very small town in upstate New York. His work has previously appeared or is forthcoming in such publications as Vita Brevis, Literary Yard, Leaves of Ink, Revolution John, Corvus Review, Gideon Poetry Review, Poetry Pacific, Futures Trading, Former People and The Pangolin Review. Don Robishaw Don Robishaw’s five Flash Fiction Story Collection, ‘Bad Road Ahead’ was the grand winner in Defenestrationism, 2020 Flash Fiction Suite Contest. His work has also recently appeared in Crack the Spine, Literary Orphans, Drunk Monkeys, Flash Fiction Magazine, O’ Dark Thirty, among other venues. Many of the characters he developed have been homeless, served for periods of time in the military, or are based upon archetypes or stereotypes he’s met while on the road. He likes to write poetry, satire, tragedies, and gritty fictional tales — of men and women from various backgrounds — that may have sprouted from a seed, from his past. Before he stopped working to write he ran educational programs for homeless shelters. Don’s also well-traveled, using various ways and means: Sailor, Peace Corps Volunteer, bartender, hitchhiker, world traveler, college professor, and circus roustabout. Denise Tolan Denise Tolan’s work has been included in places such as The Best Small Fictions 2018, The Best Short Stories from The Saturday Evening Post, Hobart, Lunch Ticket, and was a finalist for both the 2019 and 2018 International Literary Awards: Penelope Niven Prize in Nonfiction. Ann E. Wallace Ann E. Wallace has a new poetry collection, "Counting by Sevens," available from Main Street Rag. Recently published pieces in journals such as Mom Egg Review, Wordgathering, Snapdragon, Riggwelter, and Rogue Agent,can be found on her website AnnWallacePhD.com. She lives in Jersey City, NJ and is on Twitter @annwlace409. Janet Amalia Weinberg Janet Amalia Weinberg is a former psychologist and the editor of an anthology which was an Independent Publisher Award Finalist (Still Going Strong; Memoirs, Stories, and Poems About Great Older Women[Routledge]). Her stories and articles have appeared in Room, Long Island Woman, Psychology Tomorrow, Mused, Wild Violet, New Age Travel, Long Story Short, Ascent Aspirations and elsewhere.
Contributors
Poetry Editors Olivia Kiers Elizabeth McIntosh
Creative Non-Fiction Editor Suke Cody
Editor-in-Chief Kerri Farrell Foley
Short Fiction Editors Becca Wild Konstantin Rega
Crack the Spine Staff
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