Month: August 2017

(b)OINK’s Flash Fiction Contest: The Top 20 Finalists

Greeting and salutations people of (b)OINK, Kathy Fish has been working hard on narrowing down the fantastic stories that were submitted to the flash fiction contest. We received an amazing amount of submissions. Below, we have pared down the list to 20 finalists. In order to maintain mystery, we’ve omitted the names of the authors. However, all the pieces are organized alphabetically by last names, so have fun guessing. Thanks again to everyone that submitted! Without further ado, behold, the top 20: “The Car Full” “what it means to be lost” “all their hushed worries” “These Arms of Yours” “Out...

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(b)OINKers (b)OINKing Away

Everyone in the (b)OINK family has been hitting it hard. Check out these pieces and support! Matt Jakubowski (issue three) has a piece “Two” out in The Brooklyn Rail. Check it out here.  Tara Isabel Zambrano (issue four) has her piece “In Its Entire Splendor” out in the Vestal Review. Check it here. Shannon Hearn (issue two) has her piece “NOT REAL/LY TRYING TO SPEAK JUST OFF/ERING” out in Big Lucks. Check it out here. Leah Sophia Dworkin (issue two) has her piece “The Enormous Radio” out at Yalobusha Review. Check it out here. Henry Goldkamp (issue four) has his piece “Capitalism is a Fucking...

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Tribute to Violet Ritis Tuite: Died on August 4, 1992

Violet Ritis Tuite (Mom) died on Aug. 4th, 1992. I lived with her for over a year before she died. In those days she had me thinking about what it is to come to terms with whatever life we have or have not lived. The doctor told her the cancer was her interior landscape that not even a hurricane could revamp at that point. She wanted the unanswered. Why was her second child a stillborn birth? Why didn’t she talk with her only sister, Dolores, about the incest that shattered them before Dolores killed herself alone in a hotel...

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On Stephen Dwoskin’s Dirty, or How I Know I Am Not Ready to Write a Poem About You

Epileptic light reveals everything in the glitchy darkness, that itch of flash exposed—it is pixelated as I see it, the sound shut off so they are glancing at each other with silent fists and open palms, and I put on a song where the vocalist’s voice is as scratchy as the two girls on my screen, and I think about the uncurtained expanse of window behind my sofa and wonder who watched when we lay here, our faces ground into one another’s cunts and what the light was like upon our...

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Self-Portrait as Eldest Son

O mother of railroad spike and salt, dandelion and charm. O mother of candle wax, patient as a museum, see what I’ve brought back with the lips of your first lover: the unrequited axe handle. O mother, here is your constellation of poppies, red heads to hang above his bed. Here is his pant-leg of rust, his shoelace of guitar string. Here is your guillotine, O mother, built from sperm and birth-slap, aluminum and ipecac. Here is his arm of hemp, his lung of carnival tent. O mother, your wilderness at his ankle, your knuckle in his, your mouth...

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