What have you been dreaming about lately? A common image in dreams is teeth. Dream experts say there is an abundance of meaning behind these nocturnal film festivals starring your pearly whites. Dream of losing your teeth? Yes, that’s freaky. But it’s not uncommon. Some scientists of abnormal psychology wonder if dental anxiety in dreams can symbolize death anxiety, fear of exposure, how others perceive us and terminal illness.

The human mouth has 32 permanent teeth. The word tooth is used in botany to describe a “a small, marginal lobe.” And as you know, dead bodies can be identified by dental records and that is why your dentist tells you to brush, kids.

With all these toothy possibilities, it isn’t hard to incorporate poetry. Gargle heavily with words, fill every cavity with the sugar of poetry. Floss with a string of pentameter — 32 lines in all. Today’s poems are brought to you by the number 32 and the word “tooth.” Clench all 32 of your teeth and brace your jaw for the latest from 32 poems, a journal that publishes poems within that two digit constraint.

– Lori Huskey

(more…)

“Okay, Mr. Parsons, now roll your hand into a fist.”

Despite the obvious fact that I don’t have a hand, I do as I am told for the hundredth time in the last hour. My brain forces my non-existent muscles to move. I realize this is a real problem, not having a hand. Hits me the same as when I’m suddenly out of ice cream and need to make a stop at the store. Maybe my hand is just invisible — the human eye can only see wavelengths from 390 to 750nm. Maybe my hand is choosing to transmit only wavelength 751 or greater. I always was an overachiever.

The nurse is wearing a sea green uniform. Give her some hair gel, she’d be a man. Whiskers on her chin and everything. But, I’m sure her whiskers keep her warm. Too much androgen. Slash it off, bleach it, pluck it. Something, please.

Her small talk, prior to hooking me into the massive array of wires emerging from my eyelids, nostrils, and shaved head consists of how many times she needs to stick the average person, before she can find the vein. Sea green, probably the best color to contrast with blood stains. Comforting. Her disinterested tone means I’m Number 50 of 55 patients she will see today. I hope my entire body isn’t transmitting wavelength 751 or greater.

(more…)

The Wives Are Turning Into Animals

by Amber Sparks

The husbands are almost sure of it. They have strong memories of an earlier time, of the wives with soft smooth faces and ten fingers and toes.

But lately, things have changed. Some of the wives have grown scaly patches, or sprouted thick pelts. Some wives have shrunk considerably. White, wide wings have unfolded, horns have appeared, tongues have grown longer and rougher and pinker, noses wetter and more sensitive than before.

The men have grown uneasy at night, listening to the wheezing and snorting of the wives as they sleep, as they embrace their husbands with tentacles and talons and long tails. The husbands aren’t sure what to do, whether to say something. They wonder if it would be rude to ask about the wives’ new appetites, their sudden hunger for mice and mealworms and raw, wriggling fish. They worry that they won’t be able to keep these ravenous wives fed. They worry that the neighbors will complain about the carcasses littering their lawns.

The husbands worry, most of all, that their wives will finally fly or crawl or swim away, untethered from the promises that only humans make or keep.

______________________________________________

Amber Sparks is pretty sure she’s human, though she does live with a husband and two beasts. She has work published or forthcoming in places like New York Tyrant, PANK, Wigleaf, Bust Down the Door and Eat All the Chickens, and the Collagist. She is the fiction editor at Emprise Review, and you can find her online at www.ambernoellesparks.com.

I first crossed paths with Tania Hershman through Zoetrope Virtual Studio’s Flash Factory office and immediately felt impressed by her tireless dedication to the promotion of the short story and other writers’ work.

I can only imagine the amount of time, work, and effort she puts into The Short Review, her monthly journal dedicated to reviewing short story collections, and into her blog where she consistently spreads the good word on literary magazines and writing contests the world over.

I enjoyed and admired her short story collection The White Road and Other Stories. The title story in particular has stayed with me, an ending that is as haunting as it is brilliant. Tania took some time out from her hectic schedule and generously responded to my questions. Here she is, under the spotlight, adazzle.

–Ethel Rohan

Writing-wise, where are you now?

This may sound ridiculous, but I am still recovering from the publication of my first book, The White Road and Other Stories. The book deal in June 2007 was a 30-year-old dream come true, and I felt as though I was holding my breath for the 15 months until the book came out. I couldn’t believe it was actually going to happen. Then the effort required to promote and market the book as an author published by a small press came as quite a shock to me, and has been consuming much of my time and head-space since.

I have been writing almost exclusively flash fiction, under 500 words, which I generally write in one sitting, with not much revision. While I love flash, and I’m really lucky to have found a number of editors of lit mags who like my flash stories, I do miss the process of working on a longer story, watching how it unfolds over time, spending months polishing it. I hope to get back to that, but now that I am living in the UK again — after 15 years in Israel where there was really no local English-speaking market for my book — I am so excited about being here that I am saying yes to everything and doing the rounds of library book groups, reading events etc… It’s wonderful! But it’s also another thing that keeps me from writing.

(more…)

This past Sunday the poet Peter Orlovsky died. Rest in wicked peace, Pete.

My Bed Is Covered Yellow

by Peter Orlovksy

My bed is covered yellow – Oh Sun, I sit on you
Oh golden field I lay on you
Oh money I dream of you
More, More, cried the bed – talk to me more -
Oh bed that taked the weight of the world -
all the lost dreams laid on you
Oh bed that grows no hair, that cannot be fucked
or can be fucked
Oh bed crumbs of all ages spiled on you
Oh yellow bed march to the sun whear yr journey will be done
Oh 50 lbs. of bed that takes 400 more lbs-
how strong you are
Oh bed, only for man & not for animals
yellow bed when will the animals have equal rights?
Oh 4 legged bed off the floor forever built
Oh yellow bed all the news of the world
lay on you at one time or another