Author Archives: Rusty

Scarecrow, fiction by Hilary Leftwich

Scare­crow Dol­ly fakes her death by star­va­tion while the oth­ers at the table take sec­onds from the bowl of mashed pota­toes and slices of meat­loaf. Mama announces there’s no pie for dessert, just but­ter cook­ies. She has lit­tle tol­er­ance left … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Law of the Whippoorwill, fiction by Cecile Dixon

In the dim, neon truck stop light, I stud­ied Gerald’s face. His jaw was clenched tight as he said, "Pharyl, these things are com­pli­cat­ed. It's not like work­ing at fuck­ing McDonald’s,” Ger­ald rolled the words off his tongue giv­ing sound … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Fiend's Last Job, fiction by Matt Phillips

One You do this job long enough, and you get so you want an audi­ence; it’s not van­i­ty, but a vague notion that you’re not appre­ci­at­ed. If a lit­tle old wife watch­es you smash her hus­band’s hand to pieces with … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Blue Lights, essay by Paul Crenshaw

When the cop pulled us over at close to 4 in the morn­ing, my drunk­en uncle said to let him do the talk­ing. The blue lights lit his face in the rearview mir­ror, and lat­er it would occur to me … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Taking Grandma Home, fiction by Ginger Hamilton

There are two main sec­tions in the fam­i­ly ceme­tery, the unfor­tu­nate "sol­diers of the cause" and the "damned Yan­kees." Fac­tions of my kin­folk still don't speak to one anoth­er due to choic­es made dur­ing the War Between the States. This … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Bear Takes a Meeting (Trinity Ridge)

Our Com­plaints & Ques­tions Bureau is based in the bot­tom of a dry well. We will help you down there if you wish to file a report on my asso­ciates’ con­duct. Which creek-bed is your favorite? We’ll mud you in, blame acci­den­tal … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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Anna, Whose Last Name Is Covered In Lichens, 1851–1920, poem by Matt Prater

And I was there as well, I saw. My hands, too, went out and made the world. I did not only imag­ine the sol­diers, I touched them. I soothed, with cool rags, the dying John­ny sol­dier; I soothed, with cool rags, … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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I Hear You Weeping, fiction by Robb T. White

Jim­my Shan­non from She­boy­gan, as he liked to intro­duce him­self to peo­ple who came into his bar, had nev­er been to Wis­con­sin in his life. He’d done time for check forgery in Michi­gan and three years in Penn­syl­va­nia for hus­tling … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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The Last Thanksgiving, poem by Taylor Collier

first appeared in Tar Riv­er Poet­ry Spring 2010 Dur­ing din­ner my uncle's behind the house help­ing a heifer through her first deliv­ery. Inside, dry turkey, hot din­ner rolls. The heifer's cries bel­low­ing through the house. Green beans, sweet pota­toes, and corn­bread stuff­ing. All … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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A Redneck Eats Thai Food, essay by William Matthew McCarter

I can still remem­ber those dark days–not long ago–when you couldn’t hang out with a group of grad stu­dents at a uni­ver­si­ty cam­pus with­out some­one say­ing “Let’s go get some eth­nic food”–like they had just smoked a bour­geois blunt and … Con­tin­ue read­ing

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