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Author Archives: Rusty
Roulette, poem by M.S. Lyle
You move around the house, a cord attached to that spot on your back that no matter how hard you try to reach, you cannot reach. At the other end, the chamber. And you are so small; you heard the doctor say … Continue reading
Big Red Cap, fiction by James Leary
Not so long ago there lived a young man who suffered greatly at the death of his father. The young man, who became known as Red Cap for the old, dusty Marlboro hat he always wore, was loved by all … Continue reading
Frogball, poem by CL Bledsoe
We couldn’t afford bats so we scavenged, broken lengths of PVC pipes, crooked sticks, hands, if that’s all we had. Likewise, instead of baseballs we used pinecones, dried cow pies, rocks. One kid started catching frogs and smacking them into … Continue reading
not getting served at the subway inn, poetry by John Grochalski
not getting served at the subway inn ten minutes before this we were still in the hospital room watching my mother-in-law wrestle with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich just something, the nurse told her to get in her stomach to take away … Continue reading
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Hyperhidrosis, fiction by Cassie Adams
The day I found out that grandma Dolly was a prostitute, I realized that I’d never given much thought to the sex industry. But now that I was thinking about it, it was everywhere, from the obvious stuff (prostitution, strip … Continue reading
Ry Cooder's musical journey has taken him India, Africa and, finally, Appalachia
by Wayne Bledsoe Just listening to Ry Cooder's catalog is like taking a college course in music, but a lot more fun. His albums have celebrated blues, folk, calypso, early jazz, rhythm and blues, rock 'n' roll, gospel and the … Continue reading
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Tagged Appalachia, bluegrass, ricky skaggs, ry cooder, sharon white
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Buried Treasure, by Benjamin Drevlow
How you’d even react, young buck, if you knew how I ogled, like some long lost uncle, that sliver of pale flesh running under the silver crucifix your girl said she’d never take off, how hard you’ve tried to anoint … Continue reading
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Matt, poem by John Dorsey
played the piano read bukowski to prostitutes while sipping steel reserve and chewing on pain pills as if he was doing community outreach at night he would talk about jazz, art history and how he once had sex with his sister to make his … Continue reading
Joplin, poem by Michael Thompson
Once the war ended, there wasn’t anything else to do except play the horses and hoist a few pints at Tinhorn Flats where the sticky surface of no-pest strips hanging behind the bar are caked with flies Waiting on long shot lives to come in, those who take … Continue reading
