Tuesday, 10 October 2017

Avis de parution : SURSIS - micro-fictions poétique et collages de Cathy Garcia

Couverture de Sursis de Cathy Garcia

Treize micro-fictions poétiques, bizarres, décalées, dérangées….

Dérangeantes ?


« Je l'observe avec étonnement et soudain, je vois ses lèvres venir s'écraser contre le rempart de verre et son regard virer au gris. Je la vois se retourner sur elle-même, cette crispation soudaine qui ne trompe pas. Je me demande l’espace d’un instant, si elle pourra obtenir rapidement son sursis, puis je m'éloigne, je voudrais profiter du mien. »

Dédale, collage de Cathy Garcia

Tirage numéroté, édité et imprimé par l’auteur
avec neuf collages papiers originaux réalisés par l'auteur
De cet ouvrage, est prévu un tirage de tête limité et numéroté à treize exemplaires avec illustrations en couleur le reste sera en noir et blanc
28 pages
sur papier 90g calcaire
couverture 250g calcaire
100 % recyclé


dépôt légal : octobre 2017

Le rire de l'attardé, collage de Cathy Garcia

15 € pour les treize exemplaires du tirage de tête
10 € pour le tirage en nombre
port offert jusqu'à fin octobre
chèque à l'ordre de :
Cathy Garcia
Létou
46330 St Cirq-Lapopie

Sunday, 1 October 2017

Chrono Car by Steven Translateur


     Gavin and Aubrey Githors entered a car dealership looking for a sedan.  They came with the $8000 bonus Gavin earned at his job as a watch designer.  He had invented the mountaineer precision chronograph - a doohickey that could keep time almost as well as an atomic clock.
     Rolland Cemt, a salesman gave a complete tour of the showroom.  He introduced they to the company's nifty compact, roomy wagon, luxurious mid-size, commode SUV, and magnificent van.  It enthralled they.
     "What vehicle do you want?" asked Rolland.
     "We have triplets on the way.  We need a spacious sedan," replied Aubrey.
     "What vehicle has a good clock - factory direct in it?" asked Gavin.
     "I recommend the mid-size Landerlux.  It can accommodate a family nicely and it has an excellent time keeper in its dashboard," said Rolland.
     "How much is it?" asked Gavin.
     "$15,000" said Rolland.
     "Too much," said Gavin.  "Can you come down to $8000?"
     "I can make it $13,000," offered Rolland.  "Beyond that I cannot haggle.  You see, I am not really a full time salesman.  I am actually a poet.  So I know rhyme and alliteration and not wheeling and dealing."
     "Ok," said Gavin.  "Let us hear a poem."
     "Very well," said Rolland.  And he took them into an office and read them this:

THE ENGINE OR THE BODY

Silvery sleek fiberglass dream vehicle;
sun roof, fins, unspoiler, fuel tank that is full.

If you are ambitious you can go so far
in a magnificent gorgeous new job car.

Trip after trip, wonderful fun all the way
until the motor bursts and burns to decay.

Swapped the engine with other manufacturers.
Whether it would be noticed, I was not sure.

Who is the maker of an automobile -
engine-er or bodyer or both equal?


     "Ok," sighed Gavin.  "We shall purchase the automobile for $13,000 but we must finance it."
     "Deal!" exclaimed Rolland.  "What color would you like it in?
     "What do you suggest?" inquired Aubrey.
     Rolland proclaimed:  "Red is and must always be for royalty.  Orange is for the unbelievably and courageously outrageous.  White is for winners.  Yellow accommodates yearnings.  Blue is for the beautiful people.  Black is for the very best.  Indigo is so rare that it is certainly interesting.  Purple is for the exceedingly polite.  Burgundy is for the precious blondes and brunettes.  Chartreuse shall get you noticed and appreciated and thought of as original and daring and trend setting.  Brown can get you around town in style and class and show you a great time.  Pink is unquestionably and considerably nearly perfect.  Violet is almost absolutely virtuous."
     "You are somewhat of a bizarre sort?  Are you not sir?  But we like you anyway, "said Gavin.
       "In any case," said Aubrey," we shall take the motor car in the hue of yellow.  Because we are all bananas!"
     "Yellow it is!" said Rolland.  "The car shall be here in a week for pickup.  Good luck with everything."
     The Githors left the dealership smiling.

*****

Steven Translateur's work has appeared in a variety of publications including MEMES, MIND IN MOTION, and NEXT PHASE.

Thursday, 7 September 2017

Crosswise Gaze by Caleb Puckett

Random Words Make A Sentence by Steve Snodgrass


At the behest of heavy appendages, close in. Now that crushed carapace on the roadside,
now those fallen chips on the poker table. A pile of eyes scattering as red trumps green, barrels opening to the thinnest of impossibilities in that crosswise gaze.

Panning wider, we realize we’ve made a rhyme of graven images to serve a less tangible theme. We’re told that death’s jokes rely on making a symmetry of the incongruous. So, a gambler and a turtle walked into a bar…

During the supposition, we arrive at a motto: Deus Vult. Now to assign a moral to the blank before you. Instinctively, each actor felt free to think. Intellectually, we felt bound to deviate. Living this way on paper is no small feat.

***

Caleb Puckett lives in Kansas. He's published a few books over the years and edits the lit journal Futures Trading

Thursday, 31 August 2017

Fallen to Dust by Fabrice Poussin

Northern red oak (Quercus rubra) fallen leaves by Dcrjsr


A snapshot of two scores should not collapse,
corners ripped, creases and coffee stains,
willing to remain on the rusty hook,
unable to keep a horizon, blind to a future.

A grave space saw the light of day where shoulders
used to touch.  A thin mist has made a wart,
so faces look away from a previous goal
shared.  Flakes of fall leaves die on the musty floor.

It seems no magic wand can bring together what
two hands failed to protect from the morrow;
walls cold and alone squeeze in a little tighter
the worm devoured frame cracks in deep distress.

It will not be long now, for all the parts conspire,
exhausted by a journey of sparse rocks and muddy puddles;
the soiled canvas begs for a moment’s reprieve;
it tilts a little more hanging to its last inaudible breath.

Two scores and no more, kindness is the only glue,
cruelty forgiven; purity of soul in the balance
is of no weight to the vengeful heart. Thus go my friend
into the dark shadows that curdle the blood to still ice.

Your partner in old crimes will go on to capture in the folds
of the old image, a smile or two, perhaps some fear;
it is done, broken, mirror of decades full of giddy life,
among cuts of another year’s news, it lays now a corpse.

*****

Fabrice Poussin teaches French and English at Shorter University. Author of novels and poetry, his work has appeared in Kestrel, Symposium, The Chimes, and dozens of other magazines. His photography has been published in The Front Porch Review, the San Pedro River Review and more than 250 other publications.

Thursday, 17 August 2017

Use The Force, Luke by Mark Young


He slept badly. He had visions, accompanied by horrific noises – Lawrence Welk, polka bands, or perhaps animals being strangled, being stuck, having their throats cut. It was as if he had been kidnapped off the streets, then kept in a cell with walls that expanded & contracted, & wheezed, like being in the lungs of someone with emphysema.

Then he was walking into a hall, being lead towards a large throne. There were rows of accordions on both sides of him, but segregated, keys to the left, buttons to the right. More emphysemic noise as they jeered at him. The rhythm of straps being struck on lederhosened legs.

He stood before the throne. An old concertina sat there, connected to bottles of oxygen & mineral oils. "I am the Capo del tutti accordioni," it wheezed at him through a microphone implanted in one of its pleats. "You have been found guilty of uttering threats & imprecations against La Grande Famiglia. You will be punished." The hall erupted into a cacophony of animal noises.

In the morning he awoke. He felt different, metamorphosed somehow. He tried to get out of bed, succeeded, but only by falling from it. He moved towards the mirror. It was difficult to do, felt as if he was forcing someone else to move, that he was being gripped by some thing that surrounded him with an aura of false joviality. That hovered over him & sang, "Am I blue?"

He reached the mirror. & screamed at his reflection.

*****

Mark Young's most recent books are bricolage, from gradient books of Finland, The Chorus of the Sphinxes, from Moria Books in Chicago, & some more strange meteorites, from Meritage & i.e. Press, California / New York. A limited edition chapbook, A Few Geographies, was recently released by One Sentence Poems as the initial offering in their new range.

Friday, 11 August 2017

Hamlet 2.0 by JD DeHart

Bishop of Battle by bavatuesdays on Flickr


Alas, poor Yorick. Life really sucks right now. Insert melancholy Emoji here.

My daddy issues are piling up, and my uncle is not helping this situation at all. He can be such a drag. I just started a blog called “Mom, How Could You?” and it already has 200 hits. I don’t intentionally spread my unhappiness, but the attention really helps.

Sigh, poor Yorick. Oh, sigh.

To be, or not to be? That is the question. Who cares at this point? I can barely get Broadband in this spot, and this ghost guy keeps texting me. I’m tired of questions, and I have the ACT next week. It’s so unfair.

I am really starting to think about revenge, but it can be such hard work. Would I have to get up for that? I really like sleeping in, and a full-scale revenge plot sounds like it could take A LOT of planning. Even more strategy than my Angry Birds app.

Sigh. What would Rick from The Walking Dead do? He would go for revenge. I just can’t decide. Plus, who knows? It might end badly.

But at least I’m not the only depressed teen around here. This Ophelia girl is the most emo girl in town. It’s simultaneously boring and hot.
Should I suffer the slings and arrows of getting a haircut? Everybody expects me to get a job and do something important, but all I want to do is find myself. What is a sling anyway? Is that a new app?

I think I’ll just curl up in the castle and post something on Instagram.

Saturday, 5 August 2017

The Farmer and Toulouse Lautrec by Donal Mahoney

Portrait de Toulouse-Lautrec au boa.


Technology is wonderful, especially in medicine, Elmo told Opal, the day their son Brett called to tell them the good news. The doctor had told Brett and Debbie their first child would be a boy, according to the machine in the doctor's office.

Elmer never trusted machines other than the machines he used on the farm and Opal didn't either but they were happy to hear about their first grandchild.

"It's wonderful news," Opal told Brett over the phone. "Your father and I will have two cups of cocoa tonight. It's as cold as you probably remember growing up in North Dakota. I know that teaching at the university means you and Debbie must live in Florida but your father and I miss you."

Six months later, Brett called again to say the same machine in the Doctor's office now showed their grandson would be a dwarf. Brett and Debbie had seen the baby on the screen. But this was the first baby they had ever seen on a machine like that so they had to take the doctor's word that the boy would be a dwarf. All they could see was a tiny shape pulsating in the midst of a blur.

"Mom," Brett said, "Debbie and I don't now if we want a dwarf for a son."

Opal was stunned by the news about a dwarf grandchild and began to cry before handing the phone to her husband.

Elmo commiserated with his son as much as he could. But Elmo too was at a loss for words. Finally he mentioned to Brett, a professor with a doctorate in French art, that it was lucky doctors didn't have one of those machines before Toulouse Lautrec had been born.

Lautrec, of course, had been a dwarf and his work and his life had both been influenced greatly by his short stature. Elmo couldn't remember for certain but there may have been some deformity involved as well. That kind of thing can happen with a dwarf.

Brett's doctoral dissertation had been on the work of Lautrec. Elmo remembered seeing prints of Lautrec's work around the house and pictures and drawings of the artist as well. He found both interesting and disturbing.

Nevertheless, Elmo, a farmer in North Dakota for almost 50 years, had come to love the work of Toulouse Lautrec, having seen so much of it in books and slides when Brett was writing his dissertation. His son hadn't married Debbie yet and he had come home to finish the paper for his doctoral degree.

After finishing his conversation with Brett, Elmo hung up the phone and sighed. Then he sat down at the kitchen table and scratched his head while Opal poured two cups of strong coffee. It had been kept warm on the stove since early morning.

Finally Elmo said, "Opal, who knows what kind of boy that grandson of ours would have been. He'd have been a dwarf, yes, but Lautrec was a dwarf, and he did wonderful work. I don't know if anyone ever asked him if he would have been happier not to have lived. I know our grandson wouldn't have been able to ride any of the horses but we could have bought him a pony.”

*****

Donal Mahoney has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. He has had work published in various publications, including The Wisconsin Review, The Kansas Quarterly, The South Carolina Review, The Christian Science Monitor, The Beloit Poetry Journal, Commonweal, The National Catholic Reporter and other magazines. Some of his online work can be found athttp://eyeonlifemag.com/the-poetry-locksmith/donal-mahoney-poet.html#sthash.OSYzpgmQ.dpbs=