July 4-10, 2005: G. Scott Hughes and C.C. Russell

week of July 4-10, 2005

G Scott Hughes and C.C Russell

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G Scott Hughes

Bio (auto)

G Scott Hughes lives w/ his family in Carlsbad, CA He pays the bills as a radiologic technician & likes it that way He digs on fireworks, innocence, good vibes, the pacific ocean, WEEZER, TOOL, ANHTRAX (the band not the virus, silly!) & MATTHEW SWEET He LOVES his family, iMac, his heavenly father & his job.

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by G Scott Hughes and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

After The Gig

We practiced
for the big time We cracked thin paper labels
on cheap liquor bottles
& guzzled We blared the classics-
& JUDAS PREIST through
our p.a system We screamed, howled
& hooted at the moon
visible through the skylight We packed bongs tight, inhaled
& hacked our lungs out We commenced a demolition derby
using shopping carts Early a.m hours
of the industrial complex
erupted in splendid
metal to metal cacaphony When we awoke
the next morning,
sunlight replaced moonlight It made us squint,
groan, mumble The cassette player was jammed;
endless seconds clicked
off the walls No tour bus awaited to shuffle us
to another gig
in another city No groupies lounged
in the nude;
awaiting false pleasantries We stumbled out
of the studio,
stepped over
the grocery carts,
& kicked broken liquor bottles We got in our vehicles The engines started
& that was good enough

The Cost Of Freedom

I remember old man Ted A reliable neighbor & friend He lost two fingers
on his right hand
killing kraut bastards
in europe He came home, married,
had kids
& chased
the american dream
I remember old man Ted After he recieved a letter
that said his son
wasn’t coming home
from Vietnam That Independence Day,
he raised Old Glory,
saluted, fell to his knees
& openly wept I knew why.

Waiting For The Bombs

Rachel was this girl
I flirted with in high school;
The cold war
was at its zenith Her parents had
a fallout shelter She invited me
to spend the weekend:
“Hey, Greg Wanna pretend
like we’re the last
two people left alive
in this town?”
I said yes
& waited for Saturday night Before going in,
we watched a triple-header
that consisted of-
& THREADS After which, we loaded
up on provisions
& descended into the shelter Rachel had a weird look
in her eyes
& wrung her hands rapidly:
“Yep .anytime, now .annnyyytiiime “
I smuggled a pint
of Old No 7,
opened it
& gave her a shot After a few more,
we found an old phonograph
& 45’s by PERRY COMO,
& DEAN MARTIN We slow danced
& kissed
like we meant it Rachel produced a pack
of smokes from
her dad’s stash We tried to look cool
whilke we hacked
our lungs out We lost track of time
& passed out I dreamed I talked
to a mushroom cloud The big, bright cloud kept asking:
“Greg .HEY! Are you awake?
HEY! GREG! Get up!”
I woke to see Rachel She smiled,
walked across
the shelter
to examine the bottle She began to gag
& that made me gag Nausea surged as
we rushed up the ladder I popped the hatch
& we hurled on the lawn After, we inhlaed oxygen The cool lawn felt good
on our backs The sky was blue I stood up, looked around Her parents house still stood;
as did the rest
of the block
& the entire city I gazed down at Rachel:
“So much for being
the last two people
left alive in this town “
She got up;
wiped leftover effluvia
from her chin:
“A tad anticlimactic, Greg “
We walked into her house She stripped down
& made me the best
breakfast I’ve ever had.

C.C Russell


C.C Russell has lived in Ohio and Wyoming and currently lives with his wife in Hicksville New York His short story “Slow” was recently nominated for a Pushcart Prize He is tired of living somewhere that doesn’t allow pets.

The following work is Copyright © 2005, and owned by C.C Russell and may not be distributed or reprinted in any form whatsoever without written permission from the author.

Astaggering, Staged

The duplicities of cloud this morning
while several parades,
unaware of themselves
in this capacity,
Listen There are things we did
that we are not proud of
Let us speak of them today
while the world is paying
no attention
Later, we will go back
to holding our tongues
(previously published in Grasslimb, vol 3, no 1)


A song, then, given for joy,
its fractured sentences.

An Apology of Sorts

While cities watch our hands
enter each other
with their eyes
upon eyes
While cornfields continue to hide
the dead and the living,
the laughter of children echoing
down their overgrown halls,
the shadows that contain everything
And somewhere between the two,
one commuter train –
Bred at the edge of extinction
bearing a hundred more of us home,
the rotten scent of our ancestors
clinging to us like a faint, stale smoke.


tugged down
over flat belly.

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