SF&D | October 2012 [Party gHost] by Deadly Chaps Press

SF&D | Short, Fast, and Deadly October 2012 | [Party gHost]

Joseph A. W. Quintela | Senior Editor Sarah Shmitt | Poetry Editor Chris Vola | Chapbook Reviewer

Published by Deadly Chaps Press www.deadlychaps.com www.shortfastanddeadly.com DCsf&d2012 | 10

Calvin Seen | Cover Photo SF&D | i

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heme

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Leslee Rene Wright | The Case of the Grinning Cat

Being a human is boring, so I let the animal escape. The mouth is where I begin, the most living part, gnashing and lunging for a throat full of words. A tail ends me up where I am. Mother’s Christmas coat stitched a dozen rabbits, and Grandma’s funeral hat was a murder of feathers. But not me, I couldn’t stand a dove or a nightingale, with their silly wedding bells, their attachment to peace and motifs. Nor a fish, fooled by the bait. No, I’m happy here in my lion skin. Because I’m alone here in my lion skin.

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Howie Good | Death, The Pyromaniac

A white-haired old woman wobbles down the road on an old Schwinn, Ahead, a beautiful forest â&#x20AC;&#x201C; if it werenâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t full of burning trees.

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Howie Good | Miscommunications

Every night at midnight I would lead my horse & cart down bare, sodden lanes of decapitated mailboxes. In a nation ruled by the junkman, the dumpsters provided the materials for dreams. Burn the fucking theater down, I shouted (but first save it to your flash drive). Until recently, there were no female gravediggers & the lights wore white gloves. Now clouds hide in the attic, revolutionaries hunted by the police.

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Howie Good | Pub Crawl

I’m scratching the faces off paintings with my nails. I’m standing on my mom’s grave to reach a shelf. I’m speaking ironically to a roomful of people who don’t understand irony. I’m marveling out loud that the moon has the blank look of a moron. I’m dipping my tongue in crevices. I’m chasing the king of fancy desserts into exile, his precarious comb-over teetering on his head like a small gold crown of puff pastry.

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Jessica Gleason | Dorothy Whiskey Dick

My grandmother had once sewn me a Dorothy costume. In an effort to get my smelly friend Jake to change his clothes, I temped him with the blue and white gingham treasure. He wore the dress for weeks, while drinking himself towards extinction. And when the women came for some action, he was flaccid and lost in his whiskey-induced tornado dreams.

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Erin Garlock | M'Alice

Dormouse stared at Hatter. The March Hare eyed Alice with contempt. Somewhere the looking glass had warped and the story came out all wrong. Hatter leaped and strangled Dormouse with his chain. Alice lunged with her dinner knife as the March Hare smashed her with a teapot. Encouragingly, the ghost of Time stood back, sipping the missing wine, and watched. Forget the Queen of Hearts. Now things get interesting.

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Karli June | One Night at a Party and then the Haunting (I)

eight glowing orbs hover over chocolate and fondant one breath into darkness his finger finds its way how old are you?

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Karli June | One Night at a Party and then the Haunting (II)

cracked door lightsliver nightfright a shadow intervenes in beds slept out of party sight he comes in and out as he pleases

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Karli June | One Night at a Party and then the Haunting (III)

two too soft lips pressing to two more softer say this is love, lover, love me. why canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t we just have fun?

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Karli June | One Night at a Party and then the Haunting (IV)

terror on a nightstand red glowteeth 11:11 lover in the closet vulvas pressed mouthbreasts fleshy flesh fleshing fleshly stop touching me! but do not leave me hanging

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Karli June | One Night at a Party and then the Haunting (V)

when did the wall rise when did you become so impenetrable? where is he who is she now?

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John Dow | Hindsight

Can you hear the silhouettes crawl the walls when, like nails on a chalkboard, I slide this dusty mug across the bar-top? Where warm faces once sat and smiled now broken chairs and glaring shadows brood. Growing, the shadows herd me out the door. Returning to my exile I leave them to their pints.

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Joyce Chong | Party Talk

These damn white lights and your burnt blue eyes striking like stone on diamond; my mind is rock against your erosion.

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Jessica Hoard | After the Party

“I said I was sorry,” he pouted. “That doesn’t change how embarrassed I am. I have to see those people on Monday.” “I know.” “I told you not to have that last martini.” she scolded. “I know.” “One cocktail too many, and you’re out of your corporeal body faster than a sorority girl out of a prom dress.” He giggled. “Oh that’s funny? Shit, Dan, sometimes you’re so nouveau mort, I can’t stand it.” “Snob,” he grumbled.

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Diane Cambern | Spoils

Corrine rushes over all breathless (well, you know) - I want him! Points to a washboard soaking up a few potentials. You gotta get him to go with a dumb one. This is Moira - waving her imaginary cigarette in the air all-knowing, just cuz she’s been around a century. They’re the easiest to get into. And they’re always sure they just passed out from the best sex they ever had. Turns to find her kill. Well, that’s what happens with me, anyway.

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Chris Fradkin | No Cats

So what do we do now? We could crucify Philandra. Or? Cylindrify a cat. No cats. Well Hedrof’s got a razor. No—it’s too close to the Main Line. Or crush horses’ hooves and make that slimy Jello. Jello—that sounds good. Then let’s get going. That’s a plan. Grab the cleaver— And I’ll meet you down at Rudy’s.

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Jason Joyce | Ghost Moans

The neighbor woman’s head ended up in the dryer because the dryer sheets and constant heat were supposed to make her hair soft. Better to get a man with. Better than eHarmony hits and Lean Cuisine routinely. Now in bed she moans about my mother’s cat tearing up her rose bush. Kill the cat, I tell her. Then you’ll be less lonely. This sets her off as expected. But as lovers go, I’m not looking for anything serious.

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CS DeWildt | The Guy from Craigslist

We found a guy on craigslist who unhaunted houses for fifty dollars. “I see things,” she said. “Invisible things.” The guy yawned, scratched his chin. “Got the money?” “Thirty,” I said, “all we have.” He laughed. “Kids, they’ll take it all, even from the grave.” She cried and I held her. “So, what do you use? Like a vacuum or crucifix or something?” “Nah, none of that. Ready? Look at me. You, girly, quit crying and look at me.” We did. “There’s no such thing as ghosts. You’re both fucking morons.”

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eaturing

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Cath Barton | Statement

Cath Barton has a fondness for the quirky and the whimsical. She is, after all, English. She loves Renaissance polyphony, The Beatles, John Cage and the music that’s out there when you listen. She also loves to photograph the sunlight on a cat’s back and write stories that spring from what just happened. Like her Auntie who ran away with the circus, she’s got wildness in her, and hopes she’ll keep on surprising you.

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Cath Barton | Photograph

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Cath Barton | Boy, Five (I)

In the cemetery the day was too still. I could hear insects sucking, birdsâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; feathers stirring, the white marble of the statues breathing. As if she felt my gaze, the white-clad woman turned her blind eyes towards me. She blinked once, hard, and for a moment the boy was between us and running towards her. Afterwards I walked over to the grave where she stood sentinel: the boy had died aged five years and five days.

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Cath Barton |Boy, five (II)

At the end of a street never before walked down, I visited a museum never before heard of. The curator said how good it was to have visitors, so few people knew of the place. I entered a candlelit kitchen from which a child had just slipped out, leaving his egg half-eaten, his cup of milk still warm. The curator snapped on the light; I saw the dust and ancient stains; behind him the child put his finger to his lips.

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Cath Barton | Boy, Five (III)

It had rained for five days. Ever since the boyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s birthday, I thought. They were still looking for him, but no-one had mentioned his birthday. In the swollen brown river debris bumped downstream: torn branches of trees, twisted metal and bulky, shapeless things. I felt a tug on the hem of my coat and a small cold hand slipped into mine. The small hand of a five year old boy. Then he was dragged away, by the river.

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Cath Barton | In from the cold

Shiny and smart. That’s what people say about me, but it’s all a front. There are those that know. Those from way back. When. I see them pointing at me from behind the drinks table. There’s a woman telling her little boy to look at the funny penguin. Then I look again and there’s just beer on the floor. Next thing someone slips on it and then I’m skating, in my element now. Call me bold if you will. I’d like that.

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Cath Barton | Emptiness

It was all white there and I couldn’t. Couldn’t go and couldn’t even see. Couldn’t see through the emptiness. White and empty should be peaceful. Should be. Draw back a veil and there’s colour, so intense it hurts my eyes, my teeth, my whole being, my absolute self. When you’re gone does the colour go with you? Don’t tell me there’s no more purple. Just don’t say that. Don’t. Just don’t. I think that would kill me.

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Cath Barton | Performance

We didn’t know. Four wooden boxes and some stones. You asked me what they were for. We couldn’t have known. I said we’d find out. It was an assault. The music. The dancers The birds weren’t looking straight at us. The woman asked whether they were, said she was frightened. But they weren’t. Not then anyway. The glass broke quite cleanly. A circle bisected by a line. Beautifully, you would have said. You would, I know.

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ord Art

Spencer Selby | Wrong Again // Dale Patterson | Life in a Drop of Water // Calvin Seen | Tap Water

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Spencer Selby | Wrong Again

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Dale Patterson | Life in a Drop of Water

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Calvine Seen | Tap Water

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rose

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Michael Badger III | The Victim’s Genitals

A woman hits a pedestrian with her car. She screams and screams and screams. The woman walks over to the body screaming: Where’s his pants? Piss flows towards my feet. The operator asks me where I am. I say I’m leaving. Where are you? I say layers of fat are covering the victim’s junk. Where are you? The victim stands, wobbling, pulls a knife and lunges at the screaming woman. The victim trips, the knife lands in its own shoulder. We both scream louder than the sirens coming down the street.

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David Weisberg | Josiah on Vons

Chard, kale, itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all the same thing. I remember my shopperâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s card.

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David Weisberg | Josiah on Love

I feel like having children involves significantly more Tupperware.

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David Weisberg | Josiah in Aramaic

When men are boys they wonder how big Davidâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s stone was. When boys are men they wonder how big Goliathâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s dick was.

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Fallon Collins | Yacht Club

We eat song boats for dinner, wash them down with goatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s milk, pray they say our prayers for us like those tiny plastic kayaks melting in the shed, too afraid to take on the crush of another angry waterfall. After all, we are a little neglected, a little nervous about sinking, sour milk, and the ice that wonâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t retire.

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oems

Fallon Collins | Photo Op // Dillon J. Welch | Shriner on 5th Street // Rebecca Bauman | Freckles

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Fallon Collins | Photo Op

You better stand behind the fountain hope it presses into you like hot glue, like grape juice, like my tiny seed of a heart youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re always trying to give away.

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Dillon J. Welch | Shriner on 5th Street

Old burlap skin in a ruby suit shirt, his torso waving an elliptical weave, feet dangling beneath the chassis dragging like yarn on the street

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Rebecca Bauman | Freckles

Maybe she bashed someone in— in the boom of her crackup, forgot to wash up. It’s a stain now on her face, her breasts. How beautiful she is, as she is, unashamed.

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iews

Chris Vola | (re)View of ME, MEDUSA by Amanda Earl

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Chris Vola | (re)View of ME, MEDUSA by Amanda Earl

ME, MEDUSA, Amanda Earl’s autobiography-as-poem-asaccumulation-of-bullet-fast-declarativephrases, mesmerizingly subverts the snake-head Grecian scourge and recasts her as a fiercely complex, flawed, and ultimately familiar soul-eater, at whom we shiver when we realize “i am your doppelganger.” But there’s a nice solidarity in being reminded that even selfdeclared gods have their doubts: “i’m an insect. i crumble.” //ME, MEDUSA by Amanda Earl can be found online at the Red Ceilings Press: http://issuu.com/theredceilings/docs/me__medusa//

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