Submissions Have Re-Opened!!!!

Submissions are now open for the 2015 Editor's Choice Award!

Deadline: December 31, 2015

The Results Are In!!!!

The Winner is . . . 

Scavenger Hunt by Donna Barkman . . .

Scavenger Hunt

The boy was devising a game for his father

who might soon wake from a nap, his third that day.

He called his son the boy since the surgeon’s

knife had sliced most names from his memory. The boy

called his father Mr. Gus when they were playing pirates.

 

In his best first-grade printing, he wrote instructions on

small squares of paper for Mr. Gus to find the treasure chest:

“Number 1: Go to the Bathroom.”  He smiled at his joke

and placed a second note on the toilet tank: “Go to the Bedroom.” 

a third: “Living Room.” Yes.  “Go to the Living Room.”

He knew his mother would help Mr. Gus read the clues.  

Number 4: “Kitchen.” 

Number 5: “Tree House Ladder.” 

Number 6: “Ship,” -- the derelict porch at the back of the house,

loaded with all that a seagoing scalawag could hope for. 

In time, Mr. Gus found the boy’s cherished booty: bits of sea glass,

polished stones, foreign coins, and his great-aunt Jane’s

discarded pearls and brooches. 

They’re yours, Mr. Gus.  All for you!

Mr. Gus loved the boy with all his heart and soul.  He knew

where his heart was and could even find his pulse points,

but wondered obsessively about his soul:  Was it there

behind his eyes, floating in the reservoir of tears? 

Perhaps in his throat that clutched when the boy piped

sea chanteys they’d sung together.  Maybe in his gut,

where he would shit it out as a last angry act.  Or his lungs

where it could leave in the death rattle he knew was approaching. 

He tried to picture it hovering somewhere in a never-never-land

until it was joined by the boy’s, decades hence. 

He heard the boy calling and found him standing on the toilet lid,

rummaging through the medicine cabinet above, pulling out

bottles and tubes and vials. 

This is what the doctor will do, the boy shouted. 

She’ll go through all the pills in her closet and way at the back,

she’ll find the ones that will fix your sickness, his voice

bounding from the walls.

Their blue eyes met in a gaze of longing and possibility.  The boy

touched his father’s grizzled face, then he jumped to the floor.

 

Wanna play swordfight, Mr. Gus? he asked.  I’ll find the cutlass,

and he ran from the room. 

Second Place is . . . 

Visitation Tuesday by Denise Weuve . . .

Visitation Tuesday

Women in tattered sweat pants,

swallowed by thread-bare t-shirts nest

outside the  visitor entrance

waiting  to  see their papis,

         babies,

         better halves,

         soul-inmates. 

The chica beside me tosses her brass blonde 

feathered hair, grabs the spaghetti

strap of my cerulean dress,  This ain’t a ball sister. 

         Don’t look at our men.

Her doorknocker earrings swing,

a caged bird’s empty

perch.  There are no windows inside. 

No way for them to see airplanes

soar, with vultures and families

escaping this dried up town. 

To the left a mother, her son

no longer legally a child, confined

behind 2 inches of Plexiglas,

cries, picks up the phone, toys

with the cord that links them. 

He is the only detainee

unable to hold his visitor. 

Her hand flutters, grazing the cage

that took 20 years

to build.  In Colorado, guards shoot

crows during target practice

then serve them for dinner to inmates.

Visitors are ruffled, frisked,

then released to an open room of their men—

the well-behaved, in white jumpsuits.

He is in orange

Baby I have missed you so much. 

You drop off some cash at intake?

When I’m sprung, we’re taking off for Cali. 

We got 30 minutes baby, talk.

Black wings rip through my shoulder

blades the color of desire

that cannot be contained in a state

issue plastic chair. 

I glide above the prisoners

beak first against Plexiglas. 

I snap, chirp a misunderstood subsong,

the guards ignore my caws

take aim.

Third Place is . . . 

Mathematics by Christopher Hivner . . . 

Mathematics

The distance traveled

on the plane

had value

for the crew

as far as

fuel consumption,

wear on the aircraft,

and the mood

of the passengers.

            In row E, window seats,

            two fingers to the lips

            meant shh,

            surrender

            to the captured time,

            absorb the turbulence

            and remember

            it will end some day.

The hotel

was ten miles

from the airport

on a road built

with ruts,

and held together by

dust and stones.

            Midnight crowed

            like a rooster

            insane from the heat,

            row E, window seats,

            shed their skin

            reborn as room 235,

            two fingers to the lips

            meant shh,

            this is all we have.

Time travels

at a fixed speed

and cannot be altered,

you can pray

to the father, son,

or holy variable

of the long lost

algorithms,

time will not

respond.

            Sun-heated

            blue-green water

            carrying bodies

            on dappled waves,

            buoyant layers

            of indirection,

            two fingers to the lips

            meant shh,

            we’re almost done

Air speed is something

you don’t feel

when you’re in the air,

during flight

no one thinks about

flight altitude

or the precise combustion

of the modern

jet engine.

            Real world math

            feels leaden,

            time reversing

            through fluid

            thick with

            sleepless thoughts

            and fissures in

            the new blood,

            two fingers to the lips

            meant shh,

            we have to start over.

The Honorable Mentions . . . 

The Traffic in Old Ladies by Mary Newell . . .

The Traffic in Old Ladies

I’m crossing traffic on 8th and 34th

Looking for the cross-town bus, 

confused by the numerous vectors.

Leaning against a rail

casual, one leg bent,

a bright-eyed cocoa-toned young man

croons solicitous: 

"What's bothering you?

 Hey, cum'ere …" 

 I don't remember what he called me

 but he called, again.

 Suspecting him a player in

 the traffic in old ladies, 

I didn’t answer. But his solicitation

propelled me to the mirror back at home.

Twilight softens the contours,

not the intensity.

Face  

Not the woman who twice rebuilt a crumbling life

courageous and persistent

(some would say stubborn)

Nor the adventurer friends tap for vicarious trips

(some would say reckless)

Not the bitterness that sometimes thins my optimist smile,

the worry that tightens my jaw

(some would say tense),

Nor the laugh old friends can recognize

across a teeming room

no…

the shocked look of the curly-locked girl in amber silk

staring confused 

through undulating water 

wondering why

her lover

is holding her

under 

this small rain by Alexis Rhone Fancher . . .

this small rain 

this small rain sambas on San Vicente

wanders through Whittier

mambos past Montebello

and East LA

this small rain moves like a Latina

over-plucks her eyebrows

drinks Tequila shooters

fronts a girl-band

this small rain works two jobs

dawdles in down pours

this small rain seeds clouds

this small rain drives to Vegas in a tormenta

has a friend in Jesus

needs boots and a winter coat

in this drought-wracked city,

this small rain dreams of flash floods, 

depósitos, indigo lakes,

cisterns, high water,

Big Gulps, endless refills

in this drought-wracked city,

this small rain settles on the hierba seca

sleeps under freeways

plays the lotto

is unlucky in love

this small rain longs to hose down the highways

this small rain chases storms

this small rain has a tsunami in her heart

this small rain kamikaze's

in the gutter

suicides on summer sidewalks

dreams of a deluge 

that overflows the river banks

washes L.A. clean

in this drought-wracked city,

this small rain scans the heavens,

looking for a monsoon,

searching for su salvador in the

reclaimed desert sky.

yerba seca: dry grass

tormenta: rainstorm

su salvador: her savior

deposito: reservoir

and . . .

Signs of the Apocalypse by Terri Simon . . .  

Signs of the Apocalypse

Last night, everyone on the planet

had a good night’s sleep.

This morning, everyone used their turn signals

and were gleefully allowed to merge.

No one used racial slurs,

sex was not warfare,

and warfare, finally,

was declared illegal.

The ridiculously rich

fed the poor, voluntarily,

and even fast-food chains

decided to pay a living wage.

Zeus and the Pope

sat down to tea.

And I opened up my hands

and let go.

The List of Other Semi-Finalists . . . 

The Total Treatment                                        by William Doreski

Starving                                                           by Barbara Bald

Portrait                                                                        by Terri Simon

Learning Spanish                                            by Denise Weuve

Sentinels                                                          by Sharon Webster

Magic                                                              by Jay Sizemore

Safe Haven                                                     by Barbara Bald

When the Clock Strikes Midnight                  by Barbara Bald

Speed Dating in Plato’s Cave                         by Bobby Steve Baker

I Sit Here                                                        by Sharon Webster

Breaker Bar                                                     by David Hardin

In Shadow                                                      by Barbara Bald

Rain, Steam, and Speed – 

The GreatWestern Railway                                             by David Hardin