Month: May 2024

Teen Angels by Karen Crawford

On By okaydonkey7In flash fiction1 Comment

We always get past the velvet ropes. (Always.) We weave through the crowd. Past the blue-collar and fur collars clambering to be noticed. Waiting to be judged. The three of us, shy of 16 with glammed-up hair, smokey blue eyes, and pink lacquered lips. Our hearts thumping to the beat of black beauties. We separate once inside. Farrah to dance it off on a monster speaker. Jaclyn to tease some shirtless bartender into buying her a Mai Tai. And me, forever Kate (not our real names), heading to the bathroom to pee.

We always check in with each other by the lounge. (Always.) But tonight, I am panic-attacking in the restroom, my heart exploding from the pills that Jaclyn (borrowed) from her mother’s purse. While a guy sexier than a cover girl stares me down in the mirror, applying lipstick like a pro. His eyes are two Fourth of July sparklers. Mine, two moons eclipsed. Girl, he says as he lights up a joint, you really need to breathe.

We always meet up for a toke on the balcony. (Always.) But tonight, I’m sucking in air by myself, trying to turn the beat around, watching the action below. That’s when I spot Jaclyn’s mom?! dancing with a man wearing nothing but a speedo and a peacock feather headdress. Jaclyn’s mom, Jaclyn (not her real name), is a panther in black spandex. A Rockette in red stilettos. Jaclyn’s mom, Jaclyn, is white-hot hot, partying under a moon with a spoon with a man wearing nothing but a speedo and a peacock feather headdress.

We always sniff out trouble. (Always.) But tonight, someone is ninjaing into the seat next to mine. I smell him before I see him, Paco Rabanne, maybe Aramis. Heavy and thick like the gold chain around his neck. Jaclyn’s mom would call him bridge and tunnel. I’m thinking Greased Lightening. He whips out a teeny bottle with a teenier spoon and takes a hit. His friends slide in through the other side. One of them leans over, a spritz of rum and coke in my ear. You know what goes on up here, don’t ya, pretty baby? The disco lights strobe. Black. White. Yellow. Red.

We always get lost in the music and lights. (Always.) But tonight, it’s a madhouse assault on the senses, a twilight zone of faces, glitter, and skin. I try to get up. Greased Lightning pulls me down. Where you going, pretty baby? I just got here. Someone is yelling, Get a load of Catwoman! Greased Lightening thrusts his tongue inside my ear. The disco lights strobe. Black. White. Yellow. Red. Jaclyn’s mom is slinking down the aisle, flexing her claws to the beat of “Devil’s Gun.” Jaclyn and Farrah (teen angels) in tow. I get to my feet, peep toe Candies sticking to the floor. There you are, Jaclyn’s mom purrs. White-Hot-Hot.

Karen Crawford lives and writes in the City of Angels. She is a Pushcart Prize nominee and was included in Wigleaf‘s Top 50 Longlist 2023. Her work has appeared in Maudlin House, Spry Literary Magazine, Emerge Literary Journal, Cheap Pop, 100 Word Story, and elsewhere. You can find her on twitter @KarenCrawford_ and BlueSky @karenc.bsky.social.

Pikachu as Van Gogh with Grey Felt Hat by Matthew Murrey

On By okaydonkey7In poetryLeave a comment

Maybe as a kid Vincent had ruddy cheeks;
God knows he never painted himself
that way. Nothing in his self-portraits
says “See how electric and spunky I am!”
But when he turned those green eyes
on the world, then everything crackled:
leaves and lamps and streets and stars,
even grapes lemons pears and apples.
So I’m glad for the pert yellow ears poking
up through that grey felt hat. I’m pleased
with the playful little smirk on its pudgy face.
I’m even okay with the round, dewy eyes,
lit and bright as his must have been before
he knew how hungry he’d be, how poor.

Matthew Murrey is the author of Bulletproof (Jacar Press,  2019) and the forthcoming collection, Little Joy (Cornerstone Press,  2026). Recent poems can be found in The Ekphrastic Review, Roanoke  Review, ballast, and elsewhere. He was a public school librarian for 21  years, and lives in Urbana, IL with his partner. His website is at www.matthewmurrey.net, and can be found on Twitter, Instagram and – sometimes – Bluesky under the handle @mytwords.

All Children Eat Their Mothers and I Saw a Man Kill Himself by Mea Cohen

On By okaydonkey7In flash fictionLeave a comment

CW: violence and suicide

All Children Eat Their Mothers

It starts in the womb, then moves to the tit, of course, and only continues from there.

I am constantly taking small bites of my mother. Every time she tucks a loose lock of hair behind my ear, I sink my teeth into the bones of her hand, before pulling the lock loose against my face again.

When she stands at the door with her purse strung over her arm, telling the new babysitter what to feed me and when to tuck me in, I gnaw at the soft flesh of her middle. She smooths back my hair and says, Ok, sweet girl. Be good and eat your supper for the sitter. But I’m already full. I sneak one more nibble before she’s out the door.

At the doctor’s office, I tell him my stomach aches. He asks me to point to where it hurts. I point to my mother. They both laugh. I don’t.

I Saw A Man Kill Himself

I saw a man jump clear off a building. Make a bright red splatter of himself on the sidewalk below. I should have seen it coming, but still it surprised me.

I was walking my dog down a typically uncrowded street in Chinatown. A private treasure of ours. A secret pleasure. I should have known something was strange when I saw a group of old ladies gathered on the sidewalk, red plastic shopping bags dangling in their hands, their necks all craning upwards at the roof of an apartment building.

Before I had a moment to join their gaze, a man jumped to his end at their feet. The ladies screamed in a high-pitched chorus. I froze with my dog by my side. I should have tried to help him, seen if there was anything that could be done. Instead, I stared at the body. Watched the blood form a slowly expanding, darkening pool. The color grew deeper as the pool grew wider. The ladies backed away, still screaming, some crying.

Later that night, trying to sleep in my bed, my dog curled up by my side, I thought of the man’s blood again. I thought of my own blood the same color, inside my body.  Wondered about the pool it would build around me if I jumped off my own building. Wondered who would take care of my dog.

Born and raised in Palisades, NY, Mea Cohen is a writer based in New York City. Her work has previously appeared in West Trade Review, The Gordon Square Review, OPEN: Journal of Arts and Letters, and more. She earned an MFA in creative writing and literature from Stony Brook University, where she was a Contributing Editor for The Southampton Review. After working in the publishing industry for companies such as the David Black Literary Agency, Trident Media Group, and Audible, she is now Founder and Editor in Chief for The Palisades Review and a Partnership Manager at Stitcher.

Magazine City by Katherine Schmidt

On By okaydonkey7In poetryLeave a comment

Everything is too real and also pigeons.
Glossy city filled with magazine people
& dog shit. Too many cherry blossoms
& not enough tourists. You know, what we say
becomes reality. Yesterday I sipped the Potomac
from a chalice & grew wings. Today
I’m marinating in springtime 80-degree weather,
trying to ignore people talking too loud
over the corner store’s music. Do you believe
cities breathe? There’s no other explanation.
“Make sure to vote,” they say. But also,
“Nothing is real.” That hurts because.
What is more real than this?

Katherine Schmidt is a poet currently based in Washington, D.C. and the co-founder and co-editor of Spark to Flame: A Journal of Collaborative Poetry. Her work has been published in Bending Genres, Variant Lit, Rejection Letters, 3Elements Review, Unbroken, and elsewhere.