“The Bootlegger’s Sketchbook” by Edward Johnson

NEW POETRY

(image c/o briefly)

The looming curve of the water towers,
all hip pose and body scold,
guards the swampy no-man’s land
between concierge and drum thump,
mealie meal and silver spoon forgetfulness.

Up in town, jagged bottle glass
is concreted along the tops of walls.
Down in the townships, doors are left open
to the night breeze and come what will.

Awake in Soweto in the tiny hours,
the wind brings in the chant
of mendicants huddled outside the shebeen,
beyond that – hyena, zebra, open space.

For now, it’s best to listen.
Sound is the burglar’s bible
tuned tonight to the book of wonder
and the distant sleepless ocean
named for where they thought they were.

Edward Johnson is a legal aid attorney from Portland, Oregon who has spent the past 30 years representing people living on and over the edge of homelessness. He is currently living fulltime in a log cabin in the North Cascades working on poems, old and new. He has work recently out or forthcoming from Eclectica Magazine, Beatnik Cowboy, Indefinite Space, Main Street Rag, Ginosko Literary Journal, Packingtown Review, The Dissident Voice, Evergreen Review, Whisk(e)y Tit Journal, Abraxas Review, Dog Throat Journal and other outlets.

An Excerpt from “In Translation” by Cliff Aliperti

NEW FICTION

“Look, I understand,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “You had problems over there. That’s why you’re here now. But the man said he doesn’t want any trouble.”

“No,” the IT guy repeated. He turned and looked at me, his expression pained but frozen. “I apologize if I do not express this correctly. But that is exactly not what this bastard says.”

“Look,” I said, growing annoyed. “I just heard him—”

“No, I am sorry, Alex.” Wow, IT guy knew my name. “You just heard the translator. These words the translator said, they are not what that bastard says.”

“Wait a minute,” I said. “Now I really don’t understand.”

“Look, there is no reason you would know this, since you do not speak my language. If they were smart, they would mute his sound and just let the translator talk. But they do not, so I can tell you with certainty that these words the television say are not the words this bastard says.”

“What’s he saying then?”

The IT guy exhaled before dropping his head. “He said that we are a powerful nation, not one to be bullied by foreign powers, no matter how strong such foreign powers pretend to be. He says we will defend ourselves to the last drop of blood, and he says if his demands are not met, he is happy to smash first and force action.”

“Jesus,” I said. How could that be? “How could that be?” I asked.

“That could be because your people are as shitty as my people. Just as happy at fooling the sheep. This bastard, he’s a bastard, but he’s not the one lying to you.”

COMING SOON to New Pop Lit!

“Already Almost Over: Part Three” by Filiz Turhan

NEW FICTION

(image c/o forgotten ny)

I met Dizzy Gillespie once. No joke, it was really him. Who could mistake him for anyone else? The charming smile, French beret, puffy cheeks and yes…the famous trumpet. My friend Freddie and I had wandered into the Village Gate on Bleecker Street one night. I was an underaged teenager and thrilled to be in a jazz club at 1am, even if it was just around the corner from my college dorm.

A hostess led us to a little table and asked resentfully (the place was empty and obviously she wanted out of there) what we’d have to drink. We ordered a round (a beer and a coke) and then poor Freddie nearly plotzed when he saw Dizzy standing by the piano, trumpet at the ready.

I had always been a fan of old music and old movies, so I, too, recognized Dizzy immediately. In fact, it wasn’t my first such celebrity sighting: just a few months earlier, I had been in Los Angeles for the first time, staying at a friend’s parents’ house. One night they hosted us at Spago, a restaurant so famous that even I had heard of it. Once we were seated, I began scanning the room for famous faces. Right away, I spotted one and gleefully stage whispered to the table: “Look! There’s Louis Jourdan!” My friend’s dad was impressed. Why? because I was 18 and it was 1986 and Louis Jourdan’s last big movie, Gigi (I know, cringe), had come out in 1958. Had I seen Molly Ringwald and Judd Hirsch making out in the corner, I couldn’t have been more excited.

So there we were: a coke, a beer and… Dizzy Gillespie!

I don’t have words to describe the music. Actually, Dizzy was wrapping up this unofficial gig in an empty club and so this magical moment was already almost over. We asked if we could speak to him, and when Freddie explained that he was a professional saxophonist, Dizzy graciously chatted about the business with him for a few minutes. He then kindly turned to me and said, “You look a little bit kind of familiar.” He asked me a couple of questions and when he heard I was Turkish, he said, “Oh, yeah that’s it. I remember…in Constantinople….” His voice trailed off and his eyes fluttered to the ceiling.

I couldn’t think of anything to say, so I just followed him up to the ceiling, gazing at the something I could only guess at.

Filiz Turhan is a writer and community college English professor, living on the North Shore of Long Island. Her work has appeared in The Sonora Review, The Threepenny Review, The North American Review, Litbreak.com, and elsewhere. She likes cats.

“Already Almost Over: Part Two” by Filiz Turhan

NEW FICTION

I was attending the opera with my friends Jenn and Melissa. Before going in, we ran into an acquaintance of theirs. As they chatted, I was thinking, “Gosh, this man looks so familiar!” Later, it came to me. He resembled the actor John Lithgow. I meant to mention this to Melissa, but in the rush of people getting in to see Madama Butterfly, I forgot all about it.

After the show, we were in the corridors under Lincoln Center on our way to the subway. We approached a doorway and they went first; as I entered behind them, a man tried to dart through from the other direction so that we were both in the doorway at the same time. I am very short and the man was very tall.

It was John Lithgow. The REAL John Lithgow.

In that moment of proximity, he asked, “Excuse me, do you know the way to the stage door?”

Time stopped as I was already calculating the wild improbability of this encounter. I wished I could have explained to him all about the Lithgow look-alike, how, in my opinion, real-Lithgow should have waited for me to pass through the door first, that we had a cool six-degrees of separation thing (I had briefly known his Third Rock co-star, Kristen Johnston, back in 1986 when she was the summer roommate of my best friend Meredith), that in fact, I had no damn idea where the stage door was (why should I), but alas, this was already almost over because neither of us had ever stopped moving.

What I actually blurted out to the perplexed man was: “I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you right now.”

Part 3 coming in three days.

“Already Almost Over” by Filiz Turhan

NO. 1: MOMOA MAMA

New Fiction: a story in 3 parts

(image c/o uhdmaxdotnet)

A storm was expected and the ocean was already churning. I had been walking along the shore for a while, leaving behind the blankets, frisbees, and guys hawking ice cream cones crowding the beach. All my senses were engaged by my surroundings: the sight of the sea foam bubbling on the shore, the roar of the surf, the smell and taste of the salt sea air, and the feel of scratchy hot sand underfoot. A wide-brimmed hat and Italian movie star sunglasses protected me from the beating sun.

Walking toward me was Aquaman star, Jason Momoa.

OK, it wasn’t really him, but a guy who looked just like him, a gorgeous man with perfect hair, a beautifully sculpted six-pack, and photoshopped pecs (except, wait, this was reality!) I mean, just wow. With him was a little girl, maybe three or four years old, tight dark curls above a lovely little face. Dripping wet, they must have just emerged from those pounding waves.

As we came abreast, the little girl side-eyed me a few times. I realized she was going to say something to me. What could it be?

“Mama,” she goes, “Is that you?”

Time stopped as I played through several alternate realities, the primary one of which involved me saying: “Yes, my darling, yes, I am your mama, and this man, this aquatic man, is your daddy, my husband!”

And then Jason, Ariel and I would dive under those insane stormy waves and swim away to our underwater palace.

Alas, no.

Jason Momoa laughed and said, “Sweetie, that’s not your mama.”

Then he called to me over his shoulder (because none of us had ever stopped moving and this was already almost over): “Sorry about that!”

Oh, no, Jason. Please, do not apologize.

(NO. 2 coming in two days.)

“The Man in the Park” by Ben Macnair

NEW POETRY

It is 12.03, early afternoon.
The man in the park takes another
swig from his can, and tells everyone
in hearing distance to enjoy every second.

He is having a good time of it,
but everyone else looks uncomfortable,
their lunch time break tainted, as they walk by.
It is only luck that means we can pass,
and think, there but for the grace of God, go I.

Ben Macnair is an award winning poet and playwright from Staffordshire in the United Kingdom. Follow him on Twitter/X @benmacnair.

“Rick” by Julia Piehler

NEW POETRY

Leaning backwards pressed against the wall
Yellow roses fill my arms
I rarely liked photos of myself
But this candid
Framed by Rick’s camera
Really pleased me from the first

It was a wrench that the
Flowers and the photos
Came from Rick, my parents’ friend
And not my parents

I rode home on the back of his Honda 750
The hot exhaust pipes shiny
My long white graduation dress hiked to my hips
Panels waving in the wind
Leaning with him as he steered
Me through the curves

Julia Piehler authored our two previous poems here, as prelude to the next feature at our main site.

“Otherness” by Julia Piehler

NEW POETRY

Creature from beneath the waves
Made its way through the turbulent ocean surf
To die drowning in the sharp air of our windy shore

The giant Pacific octopus is five feet long
Its skin is white and its huge eyes blue
I feel desperate to save it
But when I circle it in my arms to carry it to the water
Its proper milieu in life
I find a mortal wound on its underside
Blood not red, but blue, leaks quietly

Do its three hearts throb with love and fear of death?
How do I comfort it in its departing moments
When it is so foreign and its habits solitary?

Ten days before Dave died
Cancer having stripped him
of flesh and height
We stood hugging each other deeply
And I whispered
the volume of my love.
I knew how to comfort him.
In that moment
No otherness divided us.

Julia Piehler authored our previous poem at Fast Pop Lit, “A Rose Dance.” We’ll be presenting one more poem of hers here– as lead in to our next feature at our main site.

“A Rose Dance” by Julia Piehler

NEW POETRY

My roses waltzed in the gusting breeze
Partnered by their shadows created
By the low-angled sun

Unseasonably warm for March
Which has slighted the gardens
of the rain due them

Saturated colors and pungent perfume
A return for the care showered on them
Irrigation I furtively give
Despite the drought

Their cousins the apple trees
Also load the breeze
With offerings of curtains of petals
Curtains tapering like arms of stars
In the Milky Way
Each petal softer than a breath

Do roses recognize the gardener?
Do they know the character
of all the snipping and clipping
while painful brings new growth?
Do we?

Julia Piehler has published in technical journals and compendia during a high-tech career. Her work spanned many job functions. Throughout her career she has collected bouquets of stories that will appeal to the general reader. She was educated at Harvard and Stanford where she specialized in geochemistry.

An Excerpt from “A Fading” by Aspen Audley

NEW FICTION!

It was the first day. I was new to the school, knew no one, and hoped that, with this fresh start, I could shed my usual shy personality and make real friends.

The girl on my right had hair as short as a boy’s. She was petite in stature, small-boned, with rosy cheeks, glossy lips, and heavily-lashed, ice blue eyes.

She noticed me looking at her. “Hey, are you new?”

We weren’t supposed to be talking, and I’d never broken a classroom rule, but I decided to answer her.

“Yes.”

She smiled. “I was new last year. Do you have Recess A or B?”

I told her I had A.

“Me too,” she said. “My name’s Megan.”

A bubble of happiness rose in my chest. “I’m Camila.”

She leaned forward as though she were going to say something else, but Mrs. Donavan interjected.

“Megan and Camila, no talking. That’s one mark for each of you. Remember: three marks, and you must stay inside at recess.”

Her voice hurled out like a cannonball, and I slid down into my chair, trying to avoid my classmates’ stares. I gazed at the floor, letting my vision go blurry for a moment. When I refocused, I saw a tiny ant scampering about under my desk. It meandered in circles a few times then darted off into space, out of view. I grew jealous. Ants can run away whenever they want. Sure would be nice.

COMING SOON to New Pop Lit!