The Furious Gazelle

Literary as hell.

Month: January 2016

Three Poems by Adam Middleton-Watts

“Maddened by Detail”, “Blue is the Night”, and “The Coffee’s Getting Cold”

By Adam Middleton-Watts

 

Maddened by Detail

there is a solitary moment here

nothing too complex

the sky split by a single bird

white clouds shaped as a ladder

death spread upon the street

under the guise of orange fur

(squirrels still have so much to learn)

the window of a house

Continue reading

Poetry by April Salzano

While I Was Sleeping

I walked on eggshells until the yolks

revealed themselves as the true enemies.

Then I beat myself up over

the inevitable, which, too, was inevitable.

The sun told the moon

to thank her lucky stars chickens

kept hatching, uncounted by sheep

pretending they gave a fuck who fell

asleep. Continue reading

“Mechanism,” a short story by Tyler Wells Lynch

Mechanism

by Tyler Wells Lynch

V

The wrecker was a converted pickup with blue-silver trim sapped beneath a spread of rust. Its jury-rigged A-frame towered over a bed of dusty orange j-hooks, snatch blocks, and collapsed beer cans, all tumbling in submission to the precess of a flatbed hauler. The straps and rusty ratchets quivered in a silent pitch as an old man with skin like boiled leather coerced a screwdriver into the latch of a corroded wheel chock. The whole scene unnerved himthe herniated engine block, the jagged smear of burnt rubber along the road shoulder, the twisted spires of metal caked in blood. It was enough to set the old mans teeth on edge. A slip and his gnarled knuckles cracked against the hard plate of the wheel chock, cold metal chipping flakes of skin revealing pink. He snapped his hand and swatted the pain and shouted, God damn!His partner, along for the ride on his day off, asked what was wrong but didnt demand an answer when none was given. The old man sucked the wound.

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“Economics 1987,” a short story by Rose Ellen McCaig

ECONOMICS 1987

By: Rose Ellen McCaig

 

He’s sixteen, never been to a movie theater. But it’s Friday, the night before Valentine’s Day, and Eric has a date for the ten o’clock show. Her name is Jamie, and she’s one grade younger. In the same way that he understands she lives with her mother in an old, metallic-blue Chevy Nova, which may or may not be stolen, he knows that she knows he doesn’t have a home at all.

It’s dangerous to get attached. That’s what he told himself for the thousandth time since he and Jamie locked eyes a couple of weeks ago, on the fifth day of a toothache so awful he could no longer focus in class. Hoping for some ice, maybe an aspirin, he got into the line of kids for whom the school nurse is an angel and outside whose basement office they collect, a throng of last resorts, snaking down the stairwell to her door.

In the overcrowded halls and along the rows of dented lockers, there are girls prettier than Jamie, with their breasts, bottoms that he’d enjoy seeing naked, but she’s the one he watches, craves: she’s raw and ropy like he is. From the way her brown bangs bounce across her lashes or stick oily flat to her forehead, he guesses the day of the week she has gym and gets to wash her hair. At night, wherever he sleeps, he thinks of that hair, his face buried deep and warmed by its every version.

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Freeform Network Will Destroy You

freeform

Dear ABC Family Freeform Network,

How did you do it? Please stop. I’m serious, get out of my head.

Tonight you’re re-branding yourself as the Freeform Network. I know that isn’t just some rando name change. You are tactically teaming up to destroy my life with television.

I’ll be watching tonight, as you launch #Freeform. How could I resist watching the premiere of Shadowhunters? The show follows a young human named Clary as she learns that she is part angel. But it gets better: Clary is just a bit more angel than all the other angel people. Shadowhunters, based on The Mortal Instruments, Clare’s pseudo-original Harry Potter fanfiction, has already been turned into a terribly unsuccessful movie. This feels like a carefully calculated trainwreck, the kind you know I can’t turn away from.

Clary is tortured because she is literally part angel.

Clary is tortured because she is literally part angel.

I wasn’t always hooked on ABC Family. It begins slowly. Just one episode of Switched at Birth. Wow, the plot seems kind of ludicrous… two families of different races had their babies switched, and one of the parents knew for years but never said anything? This is exactly the kind of content that I, as a young millennial, love to hate-watch. I love to hate-watch it on my Netflix account (that I steal from my dad, obvs). I love to hate-watch it on my phone and my computer, because I am totally hip and free and young. Continue reading

“On Ranting” and other poems by Joan Colby

ON RANTING

 

In response to my most recent rant

About the politics of my state

And the new governor who plans, among

Numerous other evils, to save money

By denying dialysis to those on Medicaid,

To establish “right to work zones” where

Workers can be paid whatever the bosses want,

To cut funding by half to universities

Where people might be educated

To be wary of folks like him, Continue reading

“Chemical Codependency,” an essay by Jen Escher

Late weeknight phone calls throw me into a panic — fearing news of car accidents, mangled kids, suddenly dead parents.  I staggered across my bedroom to the dresser and fumbled to unplug my ringing phone. “Hello?”

“Jenny?”  The voice of Nancy, my ex-mother-in-law, one of the few people who called me by the childish name I no longer used. Nancy called me frequently – sometimes too frequently – and always started her phone calls with my name as a question, as if she weren’t sure who would answer at the number she seemed to have on speed dial.

“Yeah,” I responded, relieved but annoyed, assuming I was awoken for something inconsequential.

“Joe’s dead,” she said.  Just like that – two and a half syllables forming a sentence akin to being stabbed with a paring knife.  She continued speaking calmly, as if she were giving me directions to her house instead of telling me that her son – my ex-husband and the father of my teenage sons – was dead at forty. I couldn’t hear her words any longer, just the murmur of her voice.  My mind drifted to the last time Joe and I had spoken.  He sounded happy.  I should’ve known something was wrong. Continue reading

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