New Stories for October 21, 2019

“To My Barista at Bluebeard Coffee Roasters and to the City You Serve” by Sasha Victor

An erasure poem


Source: If on a winter’s night a traveler

By Italo Calvino; Translated by William Weaver


faces seen thousands of times

in a city

whose streets

bear a weight of habit


habitual faces, whose features

thicken or sag

evening after evening



beauty of the city; even now I feel

a kind of weariness settle

on her

To continue reading “To My Barista at Bluebeard Coffee Roasters and to the City You Serve” click here.


“Like Nature” by Cindy Hutchings

How do I

not think

nature is

not thinking


nature is


doing what she’s always done

in a new, beautiful way


cycling through

green growth





will these things

help me

not think


if I can

I will dig my roots

in deep

like nature


if I can

I will drink

from spring showers

like nature


if I can

I will blossom

feed the world

with my bounty

like nature


if I can

I will burn

let my leaves change

color our world

like nature


if I can

I will let life fade

go within

draw deep into my roots



To continue reading “Like Nature”  click here.


“Corvidae” by James Stuart

t had been three days since the crows came, and still, they covered the yard in a bobbing tangle of distilled black. There was no question to their motive; the rain had brought out the worms and they outnumbered the corvid hoard a hundredfold. It was a feast for the ages and one which seemed frantic for the birds; as if the writhing creatures existed only in a fever dream.

From his seat in front of the window, Vernon watched as the birds hopped from place to place, skewering their beaks into the soft earth, pulling the squirming creatures from the ground, and swallowing them whole. He did not know if this was normal crow behavior because he had never considered crows normal. They were false animals, holdovers from a time of myth and fantasy that only existed for the purposes of omen, parable, and storytelling. Once, when Vernon was a child, he had heard someone in his father’s home say that crows had once been white as the driven snow, but had been stained black when their cousin, the Raven, stole fire from the gods. He couldn’t remember who had told him this. He would ask the woman in the house, who might also know which snow is driven and which is just plain snow.

The wicker of his chair snapped and popped when he moved. It had been a gift from Robert, whom he had only briefly called Bob. He remembered that about him – how even as a child he had never been a Bob; nor had he been a Bobby, Buck, Rob, or – worst of all – a Bert. His headstone said “Robert” and Vernon was very pleased with this, although such a formality was hardly unusual. The dead always use their Christian names. The woman in the house was named Ellen, but Vernon did not know if that was a nickname or not. There had never been any saints called Ellen, which made a strong case for nickname; yet try as he might, he couldn’t remember for sure. This lack of certainty had born a lump of doubt in his stomach and Vernon was completely unresolved in his feelings for her.

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“About that Werewolf in the Valley…” by Elizabeth Beck

A pantoum


Fallout shelters at the edge of town

Now make-out Meccas for virgins and the newly not

They built the arcades there in the 80s

Still the screens paint the night like fluorescent sirens

Now make-out Meccas for the virgins and newly not

The werewolf took his first victim on that ridge

Still the screens paint the night like fluorescent sirens and

some say it was hot-blooded teen lust, unbridled

The werewolf took his first victim up on that ridge

But it wasn’t his last, he savaged about…

half the senior class

To continue reading “About that Werewolf in the Valley…” click here.