March 2-8, 2015: Ryan Quinn Flanagan and C.S. Fuqua

Ryan Quinn Flanagan and C.S. Fuqua

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Ryan Quinn Flanagan

Bio (auto)

Ryan Quinn Flanagan presently resides in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada plugging in his car to minus 45 wind chill. He is very excited for the spring thaw. The snow plow is not his friend

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by Ryan Quinn Flanagan and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

The Arm Wrestlers
of Azerbaijan

sit in shallow trenches
daring one

Shooting at mud slung rats
and taking turns
at the pisser.

………..The enemy is somewhere
out there,
almost by mistake,
as the arm wrestlers of Azerbaijan
line up grip to grip
elbow to elbow

#ffffffand put
money down
on the

sitting for hours,
grunting and posturing
like circling

Where the Squirrels Gather Nuts
like the Madhouse

Think of the fields
where broken clavicles
are buried,
severed hands
without arms
still jerking off
to the
think of boxes of wood
and heads
of stone

of flowers
well on their way
to wilting.


C.S. Fuqua

Bio (auto)

C.S. Fuqua’s (Las Cruces, New Mexico) books include White Trash & Southern ~ Collected Poems ~ Vol. I, Hush, Puppy! A Southern Fried Tale (children’s picture book), Rise Up (short fiction collection), The Native American Flute: Myth, History, Craft, Trust Walk (short fiction collection), The Swing: Poems of Fatherhood, Divorced Dads, and Notes to My Becca, among others. His work has appeared in publications such as Main Street Rag, Pudding, Dark Regions, Iodine, Christian Science Monitor, Cemetery Dance, Bogg, Year’s Best Horror Stories XIX, XX and XXI, Amelia, Slipstream, The Old Farmer’s Almanac, The Writer, and Honolulu Magazine. Visit C.S. on the web here:

The following work is Copyright © 2015, and owned by C.S. Fuqua and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Dimming Wit

It’s now the fad
of misspelled words,
intentional and not,
to be as accepted as ain’t.
I knew a man whose wife
never talked to him,
but who e-mailed constantly
to people she’d never met.
Then his phone chimed
with text one day
and he read divorce.
In the psychologist’s office,
two women whine
while thumbing words
to the targets of their complaints
via OMG-gadgets.
The constant beeping
in their palms
proves incessant,
and I begin a silent wager
on how long it will take
their damn thumbs to
fall off.


Rob sure wished his kids —
two by different mothers —
would visit him.
They showed up at the funeral,
meeting for the first time,
grown and expecting more
than the cancer had allowed Rob to leave.
I didn’t attend, so I can’t say
how they got on or why they even attended.
Rob left nothing for his kids,
unlike my father who’ll leave enough
for his wife’s children and me to fight over,
but I won’t.
I refuse.
I want nothing,
and I’ve told him.
When the time comes,
I’ll tell his adopted brood as well.
Unlike Rob’s kids,
I’ve met my paper siblings
far too many times
to want to again.
They’ll be happy.
I know.





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