You say it’s springtime, Darling but I don’t believe you. The houses on that hill have tired eyes and take labored breaths. Our feet would be cold on their bare floors, our voices too loud for so much dust and peeling paint. You say there is an echo, Darling but I hear nothing. There is… Read more »
Posts By: Tim Lepczyk
Love your city skyline, its tallest buildings, shortest. Make these your holy places, more spiritual than forests, vaster than the choppy blue sea, truer than any church cross. Learn to love how we build beards on the face of the earth, stubble made from rubble. Love also, inside these obelisks, those who wander and speak,… Read more »
Rehoboth, Delaware The beach will fill up with colorful umbrellas soon. Children will play in the surf, letting it tickle their ankles and skimpering away when its froth licks up, coming for them. Older boys will slowly wade out, into the cold drift of deeper waters. The brave among them may splash the timid young… Read more »
One of our best-selling mugs doubles as laceration hazard. Twelve reports worldwide of Rund glass mugs have broken while being used. In five cases, injuries resulted. An investigation revealed variations in glass thickness. Sleek and thin is not always in. Sharp edges are not compatible with soft lips. Blood is thicker than decaf. Customers are… Read more »
The plates are set; the silverware adjusted to its proper place; the napkins crisp inside their rings. Candlelight illuminates the wine, glasses glint below the chandeliers, and mirrors line the walls, behind each empty chair. Just two of us sit, at opposite ends of the long table, awaiting the arrival of our guests. The food… Read more »
Ladybug, ladybug, fly away home. Your house is on fire; Your children all roam. Except little Nan Who sits in her pan Weaving her laces as fast as she can. —Traditional English nursery rhyme, c. 1744 (var.) Give me the hush-hush, those first moments navigating to bed, before I crack the spine of a… Read more »
With hands against my ears I have named you sonic boom, I have named you Doppler and scream and electric guitar. In rage I have named you ghost and pillow and thorn. I have named you with the taste of blood in my mouth, breath rasping, heart pounding wild rhythms in my heaving chest. I… Read more »
You must be trained to read it. You can’t just pick it up, swing back a page and — Go to town! And I was trained. I understood as well as anyone the danger of brandishing the book while every other day wanting to suck-start a 9mm pistol. I recognized the apocalypse he wrote of… Read more »
MaryAnne Kolton’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in numerous literary publications including the Lost Children Charity Anthology, The Toucan Magazine, Lost In Thought Literary Magazine, Anatomy, Her Circle, and Connotation Press among others. Her story “A Perfect Family House” was shortlisted for The 2011 Glass Woman Prize. Author Interviews have appeared most recently in… Read more »
The other night I stopped for orange juice at the Pico station on the north side of Boerne, and I picked up this men’s magazine just to browse it, and then I wound up buying it because of this article about sex dolls so realistic you could dress them up and no one would know… Read more »
October 2002 – September 2003 Small Part Ingestion Hazard – IKEA SNUTTIG toy (700-371-56) Rock-a-Bye-Baby and the head breaks. Arms tear. Seems rip open from fuzzy limbs that bleed plastic beads. Beware: children may love them too much. Ingest them like Swedish candy. But lungs can’t function when foreign objects are inhaled. Breathing won’t work… Read more »
Pablo Peschiera lives in Hickory Corners, MI, and teaches creative writing at Hope College. He translates poems from Spanish, writes poems, and teaches, and has published in Pleiades and Shenadoah, among others. He also enjoys his family very much.
David James’ second book, She Dances Like Mussolini, won the 2010 Next Generation Indie book award for poetry. He’s also published four chapbooks. Dozens of his one-act plays have been produced from New York to California. He teaches writing at Oakland Community College
Alison Swan’s poems and prose have appeared in many publications, including Michigan Quarterly Review, TriQuarterly, Dunes Review, and Willow Springs. Her book, Fresh Water: Women Writing on the Great Lakes, was named a Library of Michigan Notable Book. She teaches in the Environmental Studies Program at Western Michigan University and lives in Saugatuck, Michigan.
Last night our house settled deep into swells burnished by moonlight Our sleep was the sleep of mollusks I’m walking sidewalks imprinted with years, hands, and animal tracks The concrete ages like coral torn from the sea A red day-lily blossom floats in grassy leaves browning toward winter Rose petals fold back into hips One… Read more »
Jennifer Sperry Steinorth is a designer for a small green building firm in northern lower Michigan. Her poems have appeared in The Southeastern Review Online, Mobius: The Journal for Social Change, Damselfly, The Dunes Review, The Bear River Review, and Re: Union. Her first collection, Forking the Swift, was published in 2010. She is a frequent contributor to Foreword Reviews and the vice-chair of Michigan… Read more »
They say don’t sweat the small stuff But of course that begs the question, Of what, to sweat, is big? The oceans and the sky Are big by global standards, Lake Michigan from a rowboat, Your cock, if it’s in my mouth. My orthodontist said I have a small mouth, So definitely don’t sweat it…. Read more »
Holly Wren Spaulding is a writer and teacher of creative writing living in western Massachusetts. Her work has appeared in Michigan Quarterly Review, Witness, The Nation and elsewhere. She is founder of Poetry Boot Camp and Poetry Forge.
“In this way, the length of our life is metaphorically the length of thread that is coiled on a spool.” —Wikipedia definition for ‘Mortal Coil’ To cull— as in wheat from the chaff, the best from the lot, the weak in a herd of livestock. To turn— leaves and then the year. I turn to… Read more »
—after Darwish Bright wind in a fleeting summer and the leaves are white, white and the sun is a ball of plated gold. Don’t say that I know a field of high cotton. I know nothing of my country that has stumbled from the mountains to the sea except my father’s coat and the spine… Read more »
What matters are the writers and their work, without their dedication and creativity, Scintilla, wouldn’t exist. The inspiration for the magazine came from my love of writing and a desire to work with writers. I looked around at publications I loved and thought, I wish I could be involved. It’s easy to put up barriers and… Read more »
Rachel has her MA in creative writing from the University of Nebraska-Lincoln. She lives in Lincoln, Nebraska, with her husband and their 4-year-old peekapoo.
My mother once said that the women went mad from the sound of the wind on the rocks. She warned me: never wait for that scream at the door. But still I lie awake in the dark, imagining each howl a silhouette on my stoop, a stranger’s step, your hand a-sail up my leg. The… Read more »
Melissa Fondakowski is a freelance writer whose reviews, articles, poetry and fiction have been published in magazines and journals including Girlfriends Magazine, Curve Magazine, The San Francisco Chronicle, Lodestar Quarterly, and Many Mountains Moving. Her poetry chapbook, “Impatiens,” was the winner of the 2001 Sow’s Ear Review poetry chapbook competition and was published in 2002…. Read more »
Take me with you into the bath the water so hot hives rise from some dark epitome— read my Braille with your scalloped fingers, all the secrets of my skin revealed in every shiver and chill, all the inky secrets of my soul bleeding through my thin vellum— grip me like the Harlequin a hungry… Read more »
It fit me like a barrel, the thicket of woven wool with a teddy bear sewn on front. It was the kind of sweater you hoped never to get. I picked it out myself both from the store and tonight, for the dance. I spied K’s circle of girls at mid-court in low and strobe… Read more »
Eric Heyne teaches American literature and critical theory at the University of Alaska Fairbanks (http://www.alaska.edu/english/people/faculty/heyne/).
That particular silver light slanting off the aspen leaves, evoking olive groves rinsed in Iberian sunlight and spread out to dry against the windy frame of plowed red fields, utterly out of place in the subarctic, is left in the wake of leaf miners scraping meals from the green of whole groves and hills, weakening… Read more »
D.R. James’s poems have appeared in various magazines and three chapbooks (Finishing Line and Pudding House). His first full-length collection, Since Everything Is All I’ve Got, is forthcoming in 2011 from March Street Press. He lives in Holland, Michigan, where he has been teaching writing and literature at Hope College for 25 years.
In the shadows of the backyard, swung vertical, on edge, like a topsail puffed taut in a wind, the hammock has unloaded a pillow, half-glasses, and an autobiography. They lie scattered at my father’s feet. He died a year ago, strung between retirement and the monitors that told his family the waiting was over. Now… Read more »
The stillness fills with all the sounds that were covered by the wind: the slow trickle of water seeping between roots gathering, dripping from leaves, the celebration songs of frogs in the field, the lilting call of the robin in the darkness, and the massive silence of the skies still flowing with patches of black… Read more »
Elizabeth McBride writes from Grand Ledge, Michigan. Her poetry has appeared in Dunes Review, Red River Review, Third Wednesday, Seeding the Snow, Scintilla, Poetry Breakfast, and the SCBWI-MI Bulletin. She is a Fellow of the National Writing Project, an Affiliate of Amherst Writers and Artists, and is deeply appreciative of the teaching and insight that… Read more »
With the sound of a buzzer, breakfast is done. The onions, peppers that were cut, the eggs that were broken, the bread that was sliced is now toasted. We sit back together, cloth napkins in our laps, and take that first aromatic sip of tea. For the next half hour, nothing comes between us. No… Read more »
The big blue chairs rise from the weeds. Majestic in their ease of triumph. Backs straight, aligned, they define the day’s light with their shadows.
Ben has a degree in English Writing from Knox College, is a contributing editor to River Stix, and is a member of The Haiku Foundation. His poems appear in The Heron’s Nest, Acorn, Shamrock, Glint, The Cape Rock, Roadrunner and Haiku Ramblings. Learn more about Ben at http://sites.google.com/site/benmoellergaa/
Linda Nemec Foster is the author of nine collections of poetry including Amber Necklace from Gdansk (finalist for the Ohio Book Award in Poetry) and Listen to the Landscape (short-listed for the Michigan Notable Book Award). Her most recent book, Talking Diamonds, was selected by ForeWord Magazine as a finalist for the 2010 Book of the Year. Foster’s poems have also been… Read more »
Dear Ms. Nemec Foster: As I clean and clear my office for someone new to occupy, I think how the years have gotten away from me. I think how long it has taken me to write this letter, even though I suspect “word-of-mouth” may have reached you about my attempt to change your grade. The… Read more »
A man I know walks down the road behind his house. All year, he wears a scarf and stocking cap. When he nears our place, the dogs bark. I know there is always grape jelly on his shelf. He told me. And he also told me at night he thinks about birds. Sometimes he decides… Read more »
Jack Ridl is the author of the collections Broken Symmetry, co-winner of The Society of Midland Authors Best Book of Poetry Award and Losing Season, named Best Sports Book of the Year by The International Institute of Sport. His next collection, Practicing to Walk Like a Heron will be published by Wayne State University Press… Read more »
The lilies we transplanted last week seem to be doing well. It’s been hot and dry, but they are fine. My wife’s father didn’t recognize her when she visited him yesterday. He is now refusing to take a shower. “I’m not interested any more in being wet.” We skipped going to the fireworks on the… Read more »
–The last words of Henry David Thoreau Why not “It’s been a good life. I sucked out lots of marrow”? Why not “The cabin was cold, but I got a book out of it”? Or how about “Wolf. Settler.” “Honeybee. Loner.” Or “Why all those beans?” Or “My god, I kept track of everything except… Read more »
Colors. Imogene heard colors, or rather, she saw them—little bursts of bright yellows, pea greens, and aquamarines. With every sound that filtered through her eardrum, Imogene saw a color to match. She first noticed her power as a little girl: With the back and forth, sway and repeat of the wooden swing in the backyard,… Read more »
The sky this morning won’t give up its rain. The trees stand perfectly still, leaves up, praying for it. The flowers bow down in the grayness while birds do what birds always do. The air feels wet as if the molecules could spontaneously burst into droplets. We’ve let the asparagus grow wild, a good two… Read more »