"Get It Back for Me," a short story by Elizabeth Tallent, and two short pieces by Nicole Rollender and Rachel Peters

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The mashed potatoes had dried in peaks, the roast beef was both gray and, depressed with a fork, bleeding.  Shining small peas each contained a glint of unthawed, original cold as brilliant and brief-lived as a snowflakes's.  How she managed this, he said, was beyond him.  Half the food cooked to death, half the food raw.  She knew he was coming home.  All she had to do, all she had to do was have dinner ready.  His answer to her: One night, one night he'd like to come home to some kind of order.  One night, one night of his life he'd like his wife to be happy to see him.  The other guys' wives were happy when they walked in the door.  She said, How did he know anyone else was so happy?  How did he know?  He wasn't walking in their doors, he was walking in this door, and all he could really talk about was this life, and he said they had to be happier than this, had to be.  
--From "Get It Back for Me," a short story by Elizabeth Tallent, first published in Lear's and reprinted in her story collection Honey (Vintage, 1993), pp. 101-117.

You wanted 
to be buried in the green dress

you always wore with pearls.  We'd sit outside your back
door, watching bats swing over the lake.
--From "Scattering," a poem by Nicole Rollender, Linebreak (April 21, 2015).

I hate writing.  Other people go to the gym after work, or see friends on the weekend, and they don't walk around not realizing they have pens in their hair and under their bra straps.  A friend actually told me once that sometimes he has nothing in his head.  Nothing at all.  Radio silence.  I can't imagine how wonderful that must feel.  Other people sleep at night.  Other people read a good book just for the story.  Other people go entire weeks without an e-mail that says you're not a good fit, not quite what they're looking for, the tone just isn't right.  But best of luck elsewhere.  Other people are allowed to keep their own secrets.  
--From "Why I Write: Rachel Peters," an essay by Rachel Peters for the "Why I Write" column, Fiction Southeast (June 26, 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).  

Fiction by Rebekah Matthews, nonfiction by Liz Prato, and poems by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins, José Angel Araguz, and Pablo Neruda

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The next morning my roommate and I talk online, complaining about Gerard; we wonder if Gerard's girlfriend really likes him more than she liked girls. We look up Gerard on Facebook. There are photos of him posing in front of the mirror, his shirt pulled up, showing his impressively chiseled abs. There are photos of him with his girlfriend. She is pretty with red curly hair and freckles. There is one picture of her smiling at him the way my girlfriend sometimes smiles at her kids. . . .
--From "I Promise to Never Fall in Love with a Stranger," a short story by Rebekah Matthews, Wigleaf (August 21, 2014). 

My brother's autopsy report arrived in the mail on Christmas Eve.  I'd ordered it the week before. . . . 
--From "Anatomy of an Autopsy Report," nonfiction by Liz Prato, Summerset Review (Fall 2014).   

There is a ghost in the machine of my body. The haunting
happens like this: I loll on the bed, open-mouthed,
acting dead. My husband asks, Are you dead
again? My gallbladder this time. . . .

--From "Ghost in the Machine," a poem by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins, Linebreak (September 9, 2014). 

I made up a story for myself once,
That each glove I lost
Was sent to my father in prison . . .

--From "Gloves," a poem by José Angel Araguz, Rattle, Number 28 (Winter 2007), and on the website of the Poetry Foundation. 

Under the trees light
has dropped from the top of the sky,
light
like a green
latticework of branches . . .
--From "Ode to Enchanted Light," a poem by Pablo Neruda, reprinted on the blog "A Year of Being Here" (June 9, 2014).   

Two poems and a memoir by Tarn Wilson

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Late summer 1971, my father quit his job in Washington, D.C. as the Brookings Institution's first computer programmer, bought an old school bus with "Suck Nixon" painted on the side, and packed us off for British Columbia. 
        . . . Set loose in the primeval Canadian wilderness, my sister and I were to be educated by the land, released from shame, fear, insecurities, sexual hangups, and shallow social conventions imposed by a corrupt and repressive culture.  In our natural, unspoiled state, we'd be happy and free.

--From The Slow Farm, a memoir by Tarn Wilson (Ovenbird Books Nonfiction Series, 2014). 

 

 

Betsy's boyfriend dumped her this morning

and when she comes to the door

I am in my underpants, unable to console her. 

...

--From "Living Alone with Small Dogs," a poem by Matthew Siegel, Cimarron Review (Issue 181, Fall 2012), p. 14.   

 

 

She used the stadium. I would have
chosen the bridge. We’re not even

 

Division One. Our tailgate crowds
are mostly enthusiastic about beer. 

. . .

--From "Ready Regret," a poem by Lisa Olstein, Linebreak (July 22, 2014). 

A few poems for April

~
The lake freezes, the lake closes its eyes
and a minor paralysis comes upon us.
From the knees, I stand in landfall, landfill. . . .

From "This Body of Water Is Not Meant to Move," a poem by Jane Wong, published in Linebreak (April 3, 2013).

~
After work I'd go to the little bars
along the bright green river, Chloe's Lounge,
Cloverleaf, Barleycorn, it was like dying
to sit at five p.m. with a Bud so cold
it had no taste, it stung my hand,
when I returned home I missed my keys
and rang until my wife's delicate head
emerged in her high window . . .

From "The Bars," a poem by D. Nurkse, published in A Night in Brooklyn (Alfred A. Knopf, 2012) and presented by Knopf Poem-a-Day on April 4, 2013.

~
I am dreaming of a letter
that I am writing to my
dead sister. The text
appears word for word
before me and I find that
it is the coming accounting
of her eulogy or this poem. . . .

From "Our Hair," a poem by Barbara Gravelle, published in Salome Magazine (April 1, 2013).

~
I wanted to give you something —
no stone, clay, bracelet,
no edible leaf could pass through. . . .

From "The Present," a poem by Jane Hirshfield, published in Come, Thief (Alfred A. Knopf, 2011) and presented by Knopf Poem-a-Day on April 11, 2013.

Four poems and a short story

~
"Where Voices Come From," a poem by Ted Meyer, Linebreak (August 30, 2012).

"Snow Day," a poem by Lauren Camp, Linebreak (October 16, 2012).

"White Night," a poem by Paulina Mazur, Extract(s) (June 12, 2012).

"Last Poem," a poem by Simon Armitage, Plume (Issue 14).

"The Killers," a short story by Kevin Tosca, fleeting (May 31, 2012).

Two poems from Inertia and Linebreak

~
"Paper-Thin Hotel" by Alex Stolis, Inertia Magazine, Issue 11.

"This Friday" by Susan Browne, Linebreak, November 22, 2011.