POETRY! FICTION!
PHOTOGRAPHY!
Poetry
Grabbing the last bag, running through the rusty frames
Caught in the dreariness of morning dew droplets
Not bright enough to illuminate the sky with violet rays, but not dark enough to hide faces hidden in the shadows...
Everything is dying here
Even the alopeciac pines
seem sea sick in their staggering sway
Poor scurvy-stricken pirates.
May they drink rum and belch
bawdy crescendos one day soon...
Come in 12 AM on the dot
Leave out at 3:45
Go to the back and put my makeup on
Blending in the hairs and sharp jawline form...
Dave Wanczyk
He had to move fast and flee
El Oro this week, everything...
FICTION
Rick is my motel’s only patron. Every eight to twelve days he drives up in a dust cloud from either the East or West and asks me if there’s vacancy. I stand tall and proud behind my ply board desk and tell him that I’ll see what I can...
Junction City, Kansas. 1867.
It was a cold day, the coldest yet of that winter.
Victor Otxoa was cutting old, rotten rail ties to feed the hungry stove. He had amassed a sprawling pile when his eldest son came home, breathless, eager to make his report.
The news was dire.,,
Six vaqueros slap faded leather and ride into a sunset, or maybe sunrise, driving a herd of longhorn cattle through the dust rising in the West Texas desert...