Fiction by Meg Pokrass and other short pieces from First Class Literary Magazine and Right Hand Pointing

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We waited for the phone to ring, for money to plump itself up and walk through our door.  Plenty of moments passed with yarn and crochet hooks.  I made hats that never fit and were put away in a trunk with the old games we didn't have the energy to play.  
--From "Diagram," one of ten pieces of microfiction by Meg Pokrass, FRiGG (Spring 2009).  

My husband, Gordon, looked as though he'd found religion—as though he'd never tasted real food before this beef stew meal at Angie and Ron's.  He appeared to be sucking his teeth after every bite, taking his time, thinking about what he'd sucked—then stabbing a new forkful.  
--From "I Married This," short fiction by Meg Pokrass, The Literarian, Issue 9.

Look at the Korean woman.  How she uses her teeth to pull a prawn off a chopstick.  How she catches the tail from her mouth on a fork.  
--From "Ajumma," postcard nonfiction by Peyton Lunzer, First Class Literary Magazine (January 5, 2015).

I ask 
if you
have put
the sheets
I washed
back on 
the guest
bed . . .
--From "The Problem," postcard poetry by Rebecca Lartigue, First Class Literary Magazine (July 27, 2015).

At Subway, I politely but firmly order a drink and cookie with my sandwich hoping they don't say anything.  And the cashier always says "the meal comes with a drink and TWO cookies."  And I'm always like "yeah, I just don't need two cookies."  And they're always like "well you're paying for two cookies.  It's actually more to just get one." 
--From The Note for Issue 89 of the journal, by Claire Wisely, Right Hand Pointing, Issue 89 (2015).

Because the world is mean . . .
--From "I Study Her Like an Escape Plan," a poem under 25 words by Glen Armstrong, Right Hand Pointing, Issue 89 (2015).

Scrawled on the side . . .
--From "Graffiti," a poem under 25 words by Tammy Bendetti, Right Hand Pointing, Issue 89 (2015).

Nobody showed up for the premiere of my play Performing Privacy.  
--From three pieces on the concept of "sort" by Mark Cunningham, Right Hand Pointing, Issue 88 (2015).

Faith in Love and Quantum Physics and other poems, short stories by John Jodzio and Raymond Carver

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In one, my brother's in the gutter, 

literally, face up almost floating along

second street after a hard rain, the clouds

finally clearing, the clean stars directing

traffic, his indelibly dirty palm planted 

around a forty, which, in this life, 

is all he ever drank.

In another, my brother isn't wrecked. . . .

--From "Faith in Love and Quantum Physics," a poem by Brittney Scott, first published in Linebreak (February 3, 2015).

 

My roommates are gone for the weekend so I snort one of my mom's blood clotting pills and invite Lindsay over.  When she gets there I take a steak knife and slice open my palm and show her how no blood comes out.  It's a good trick, one my dead brother Alex taught me . . . 

--From "How to Get Goth Girls Hot," a short story by John Jodzio, first published in Fiction Southeast (February 2, 2015).  

That summer Wes rented a furnished house north of Eureka from a recovered alcoholic named Chef.  Then he called to ask me to forget what I had going and to move up there and live with him.  He said he was on the wagon.  I knew about that wagon.  But he wouldn't take no for an answer. . . .

--From "Chef's House," a short story by Raymond Carver, first published in The New Yorker (November 30, 1981) and reprinted in Cathedral (Knopf, 1983), pp. 27-33.

He tells me she's his wife.  But she won't look at me.  She looks at her nails instead.  She and Holits won't sit down, either.  He says they're interested in one of the furnished units.

"How many of you?"  But I'm just saying what I always say.  I know how many.  I saw the two boys in the back seat.  Two and two is four. . . .

--From "The Bridle," a short story by Raymond Carver, first published in The New Yorker (July 19, 1982) and reprinted in Cathedral (Knopf, 1983), pp. 187-208.

When my parents split up, my mom dated so many men

that it now takes two memories to keep them all, mine and

my sister's.  In a recent phone conversation, I said to my sister, 

remember the one who said his tan wasn't his tan but his Cherokee

blood?  Remember how he used to take his place at the dinner table, 

bare-chested?  Why doesn't he wear a shirt, we asked.  And mom said, 

who cares, that's not what matters.  She herself wasn't wearing much, 

a nightgown that might have been lingerie. . . .

--From "Love Stories," a poem by Timothy Schirmer, first published in FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry, Issue 44 (Fall 2014).   

I see a woman that is maybe a man.  Just in case, I practice for poverty.  Just in case, I walk nowhere very slowly.  Once, on a bad day I went for a long walk looking for trouble. . . .  

--From "I see a dog that is maybe a wolf." a poem by Timothy Schirmer, first published in FRiGG: A Magazine of Fiction and Poetry, Issue 44 (Fall 2014).