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July 30, 2009 | From TC 9:2 - "In the Footsteps of Robert Running Bear"
Jimmy, my cousin, is lanky for a twelve-year-old, but not awkward. Once he clobbered a baseball so hard it sailed clear over the fence in the park. He always says, You're a scrawny runt for ten. I've never hit a home run or come close. Our mothers like to dump us off at Grandpa's farm on weekends 'cause it's a convenient way to get rid of us. Whenever Aunt Betty sees me, she squeezes my cheek to put a dimple in it. Then Grandpa hangs onto both of them 'til I look like a bloodhound. I don't like being called cute or being squeezed and poked, but I guess that's the way relatives are.
Today Grandpa is riding the tractor to break up and turn over soil. Worms and bugs are everywhere. A swarm of seagulls has flown in from the coast and follows the tractor wherever it goes. The birds squawk and dive down to pick up the quivering insects in their beaks. A red pickup turns off the road and kicks up a stream of dust as it heads toward the barn. Grandpa stops the chugging tractor and climbs off. He says, "That must be Robert Running Bear."
Posted by The Editors at 12:05 PM in Literary Journal
July 25, 2009 | From TC 9:2 - "Search, Rescue" by Andrew Minnick
Two hours after the walk began the dog was lost. The master had set off in the mild cool of a warm February day with light gloves and a pocket full of old steak. A gentle motion and a quiet word, a "go," or "off," or "run," released the beast from obsequence to instinct and the master watched the dog run through the cluster of aspens into the pine forest beyond.
It had been so warm that day, the odd cloudless sky offering the land to the sun. Now it grew cold. The treacherous flame of life leaving open the door to darkness and the chill it spoke. No movement in the pine, no sight of the dog. The master slid his hands into his coat pockets and kept on.
Posted by The Editors at 06:30 PM in Literary Journal
July 20, 2009 | From TC 9:2 - "Withdrawal" by Adam Poltrack
I wring you,
Like a fresh squeezed citrus fruit,
Empty you like a piggybank,
Leaving only pulp and pennies.
Posted by The Editors at 10:29 AM in Literary Journal
July 15, 2009 | From TC 9:2 - "Cane Island" by Paul Silverman
The Cane Palace brochure said nothing about swarms of Portuguese Man of War in the waters of their very expensive private beach. Yet there was the official sign, posted not ten feet from where Ray Ryan was interrogating the towel boy on what the sign actually meant. "Your sign says Portuguese Man of War hazard December through May," Ray said. "So what are those people doing out there?"
The towel boy kept on folding, kept on setting out the bottles of Cane Palace water and the little paper cups of complimentary sunscreen. He looked odd performing these fey activities, because he was cut like a linebacker. Ray read his behavior as sullen, as though he didn't consider Ray's question worth answering. "Your sign," Ray said, pointing. "What does it mean? Is it correct?"
"The sign is correct," the towel boy said, his native island face blank as the sand.
Posted by The Editors at 03:16 PM in Literary Journal
July 10, 2009 | From TC 9:2 - "Two Suns in the Sunset" by Andrew Rivas
1
The whole fucking mess was Jonesy's idea. Six weeks ago, he came to me with his bag filled with pills, higher than God, but still he convinced me in spite of his shot-blood eyes, slurred speech, smoke pouring out of his nose and mouth. Six weeks ago, he convinced me to take this fucking road trip, convinced me that we'd be famous, convinced me that I'd get my book published, convinced me that he could drive in spite of the light blue oxys, the white vikes, the also white Quaaludes. His rainbow-streaked bag of drugs. The hashish, the marijuana, the PCP, the uppers and downers which Jonesy used to call quicks and slows, the Ketamine, LSD, and Xanax, more painkillers which were always Jonesy's weakness, the psilocybin mushrooms which were Marks', and more psychedelics depressants stimulants than I could name if my life depended on it.
Which it might; I am not completely sure about that yet. Writing is hard in spite of the vikes, which dull the pain but can't eclipse it completely, can't block out the red spires of pain that muscle into my vision when I move even the slightest bit, which keep me trapped here in this metal cocoon encompassing.
I should rest. This is going to take a lot out of me.
Posted by The Editors at 12:07 PM in Literary Journal
July 05, 2009 | From TC 9:2 - "The Taste of Blood" by Walter Kraut
He liked the taste of blood. It was as simple as that. Some people like good wines, others single malt whisky, Peter liked nothing better than a good glass of tasty blood, no ice, no water, just pure, freshly poured from a popping vein. It wasn't an addiction though. He could do without it for weeks, months even if he had to—and sometimes he did have to, because supply was uneven and he wouldn't settle for just any blood, which to him proved he wasn't a bloodoholic like some of the people he knew.
Posted by The Editors at 11:47 AM in Literary Journal