A sequence of poems by Dilruba Ahmed (poetry, ’09) appear in The American Journal of Poetry:
Menu
Preventative Measures
Inoculation sampler.
Includes two flu strains
each with 13% efficacy.
Duration of effectiveness
not guaranteed. But
with our prices, why not
sample both? Great for all ages.
Chief Concerns
Beelzebom.
. . . continue reading here.
A poem by Sally Molini (poetry, ’04) appears in The American Journal of Poetry:
Laudromat Report
At Whale of a Wash
the daily all-day news cringe –
overhead TV loud
with political ir-rationales
and sly ditzy spins,
hot air blowing
. . . continue reading here.
A poem from David Prather (poetry, ’99) appears in The American Journal of Poetry:
I Am Not America
I am not the assassination of Harvey Milk or Martin Luther King, Jr. I am not
the battered body of Matthew Shepard or the bloated form of Emmett Till.
I look over my shoulder and you are there, framed by a shattered window
in an abandoned building. Or you are there driving a rusted hunk of junk
over potholes, the starving mouths of the earth beneath our feet. I hate
to admit that I am under the influence and driving home during the witching
. . . continue reading here.
A story by Eric Rampson (Fiction ’16) appears in the Summer 2017 edition of MATADOR REVIEW.
My dad crippled a guy on TV last night. Broke his neck with a snap so loud the mics picked it up. He was howling, my dad, when he did it—an animal sound from somewhere high up in his chest. The guy twitched a few times and then laid still while my dad stood over him, all heaving breath and crazy eyes, hair wild and wet with sweat.
Across the ass of my dad’s shiny red spandex trunks it read “Señor Sinister” in Gothic script black as his leather boots and wristbands, his hair, his thick goatee. The guy with the broken neck was in a silvery singlet, waves and waves of thick blonde hair, a pair of aviator shades, skewed from impact, across his eyes, his robe fluttering like a flag from the post in his corner, “ALL-AMERICAN ALAN” on the back in star-spangled letters.
Those aren’t their real names. My dad is Vito. All-American Alan is actually Albin. He’s Polish. My dad’s Italian, mostly.
The crowd was silent for a full minute, waiting for All-American Alan to get up and when he didn’t, the booing and hissing started, scattered here and there at first but pretty soon everyone got into it, plastic beer cups sailing from the cheap seats, and my dad ran off like a frightened coyote.
Read the rest of the story here: Villains
A story by Emilie Beck (Fiction ’17) appears in the Colorado Review. Here’s an excerpt:
Long white-blonde hair in front of the white clapboard chapel. Her body almost invisible in the afternoon sun except for tan legs, bare feet, the straps of sandals held in one hand like an invitation. A small valise at her feet, weathered, blue, hardly big enough for a change of clothing. He noticed her before he saw her thumb, out of place the way she was in front of Phillips Chapel. One thing for a white man who had business there, but a white girl with white hair standing on that corner in front of the church, white in the daylight, he wasn’t wrong to pause, to question, just for a moment, before deciding the answer wasn’t important. Her thumb pointing the opposite direction of the way he was driving. His foot on the brake before his mind made the decision. No harm in it.
He regarded her from across the road. The green patterned fabric of her dress met itself in seams, draping her hips. Her lips were red, but not from lipstick. He’d been on the road for two weeks. It was July already, and he had a few hours’ drive ahead of him. Years later Jim Flessroy would reassure himself that anyone would have stopped for the girl, that she seemed an innocent, that she seemed in need of rescue.
Read the rest of the story at the Colorado Review website: WHAT SHE IS
A short story by Robert Rorke (fiction, ’10) appears in Amsterdam Quarterly:
Ten Dollar Bill
We came down to breakfast Sunday morning and found Himself slumped on the kitchen floor, back against the white enamelled oven door. His head was hanging down, dark hair hiding his right eye. Mom leaned against the sink, sipping a cup of coffee in her pink flannel nightgown, and looked down at him, as if trying to figure out how she was going to lift him—or if she was just going to leave him there.
He was conked-out. If you screamed in his ear, he wouldn’t have heard you. We’d found him passed out before, usually at the kitchen table, but never on the floor. [. . . continue reading here.]
A poem by J.C. Todd (poetry, ’90) appears in Cleaver Magazine:
THE DAY A LITTLE GLOOMY, SKY
by J. C. Todd
The day a little gloomy, sky
not exactly low but grackles
higher than they ought to be,
their oily, boat-wake tails
dragging worn-out clouds.
And that finch song, isn’t it garbled,
[. . . continue reading here.]
A poem from Jennifer Ghivan (poetry, ’15) appears in The Cincinnati Review:
. . . continue reading here.
Two poems from A. Van Jordan (poetry, ’98) appear in Waxwing:
I’m Done Worrying About Barbed Wire And Borders
… and what I hear on the radio or read in the paper,
after I tear my doo-rag off my head and enjoy
my morning coffee like most Americans I know.
I just want to start my day, imagining
all the people I see outside getting here for the first time,
trying to do their thing while I do mine.
But the news persists …
. . . continue reading here.
. . . read “Incidents From the Pool” here.
Selected poetry from Wilderness, by Jayne Benjulian (poetry, ’13), appears in Mudlark:
I Imagine Inoculation
A slight pricking of the skin and nothing
until bedtime when her arm was sore.
All next day she lay in bed,
drank tisane, something like tea
and broth, smelled like lemons.
Third day, no one knocked—
she walked in a park, far off
mountain called Louis
after the king, nurses in mist,
puddings of rice and plum,
. . . continue reading here.
Subscribe to the Friends of Writers Forum and receive notifications of new posts by email.