The minstrels strode on the old roads
in the day of the ox and wheel
bearing news ‘till riders passed
at the gallop in cloaks of steel.

So the old roads became slim lines
well bound in the ox’s leather
holding words preserved and dry
away from the changing weather.

Slim lines then twined in spider chains 
joining the limits of travel
so minstrels tarried by glowing hearth
with boots that never trod gravel.

J.S. MacLean lives in Calgary Alberta. Hs work has appeared in such places as ditch, Why Vandalism? battered Suitcase, Feathertale, Soundzine, and various others. In his spare time he wears various hats on the staff of a new online journal, The Triggerfish Critical Review.

There was a straw mattress
full of bedbugs under the dead willow,
where the tears of every lover
in town are as open as red hibiscus.
It was the only place left to wait.

We went our separate ways,
but when I reached the train tracks
I picked up a few rocks to throw
at the racemes of trouble hanging
in the meadow orchard ahead.

My feet, undefined wanderings
of a bite, were in pain
as I suspect they will continue
to be until my time spills over.

I knew there was a mystic
in the ordinary--(à la Rilke) that would carry me
(Oh Orpheus sings! Oh tall tree in the ear!)
through the rest of the day,
like that first cup of coffee,
or a prayer chanted in the
distant past.

Ortiz has a B.A. in English literature from Inter-American University, and a M.A. in philosophy from World University.  His poems have been published, or are forthcoming in: The Acento Review, Poesia, The Driftwood Review, Words-Myth, The Taj Mahal Review, and other journals and anthologies.  His chapbook, At the Tail End of Dusk (2009), was published by Flutter Press.


 

 

I await her still,
the one whose words
are more than the
small sounds of dying mice.

She who is blessed
with wild things racing
within her brain, and
whose smile is a debt
demanding repayment.

Together, we will solemnly
drink the velvet from the night,
and I would learn the meaning
of being lost at sea.

David Kowalczyk's poetry and fiction have appeared in seven anthologies and over one hundred magazines and journals, including California Quarterly, Istanbul Literary Review, St. Ann's Review, and Rumble.  He has taught English in San Miguel de Allende, Mexico and Changwon, South Korea, as well as at Arizona State University.  He was founding editor of the late Gentle Strength Quarterly.

out here the land
speaks in Quaker silence

fertile soil enfolds
the nourished seed

like a feral lover

the wind & rain
bequeath their song


the sun too draws
into the quiet story

of germ, generation
bittersweet and sweet

times of harvest.


Ed Higgins' poems and short fiction have appeared in Pindeldyboz, Mannequin Envy, Word Riot, Otoliths, Tatto Highway and qarrtsiluni, among others, as well as in a variety of print journals.  He teaches creative writing and literature at George Fox University, south of Portland, OR.

Steal words from others, blame the royal tutor
if caught, miss the beginning of movies
on purpose but notice the first buds,
try painting it all one color and then stop
somewhere on the road and ambivalently wait
to be seated amid lost packages and strangers
and the slow, ancient waltz of maladroit busboys.


Howie Good, a journalism professor at the State University of New York at New Paltz, is the author of 12 poetry chapbooks, including most recently Visiting the Dead from Flutter Press, My Heart Draws a Rough Map from The Blue Hour Press, and Ghosts of Breath from Bedouin Books. He has been nominated four times for a Pushcart Prize and five times for the Best of the Net anthology. His first full-length book of poetry, Lovesick, was released in 2009 by Press Americana. He is co-editor of the online literary journal Left Hand Waving.

AND THE SNACKIES GO TO. . .

STORY:  “The End” by Andy Henion
Appearance Date:  February 28, 2010

Henion’s skill with fiction shows a style and control that solidifies him as one of the best practioners of flash fiction on the web.  Not only does this story have a traditional structure vis-à-vis conflict and resolution, but we are able to glimpse decades worth of relationship dynamics in an amazingly short space.  As a bonus, when the narrator says in the final line, “and I know suddenly that this is the end,” it’s up to us as readers to decide if he meant the end of Uncle C’s life or the end of the narrator’s marriage or both.  The depth of emotion of this piece continues to resonate with me months after its appearance.

POEM:  “Beside the Road” by John Swain
Appearance Date:  March 3, 2010

The economy of language, powerful images, and seamless structure made this poem a pleasure to read over and over again.  Each word and line break seems inevitable.  It is exactly the kind of poem I had in mind when I started LITSNACK.

Congratulations, John and Andy.  I enjoyed the read.  I will be contacting you to see where you would like me to send your gift card.

THE SNACKIES are a non-prestigious award given by the chief court jester and dishwasher here at LITSNACK.  Based solely on his highly-subjective tastes, THE SNACKIES will be awarded roughly every six months, with one poem and one story being chosen for the preceding time period.  Recipients will receive one $5 gift card to Starbucks in recognition of their fine skill and finesse with the English language in their chosen genre. 

Expectations in the bottom
of my wine glass
Drunk with hope
Empty
Lips stained by a promise broken

Chris has always dabbled in languages. Poetry is a new outlet in which she hesitantly dips her toe. 

Whenever I mention you
the doctor always asks
what do I see,

now that you’re gone,
when I think of you.
I say I see thighs,

tanned and gleaming,
kissed by the proper
Bonwit skirt, rising

through the terminal
toward me and above
your thighs

that smile,
a Southern girl’s,
uncoiling.

Donal Mahoney, a native of Chicago, lives in St. Louis, MO. He is the son of Irish immigrants, which explains why there is no "d" at the end of his first name. Pronounced with a long "o," "Donal" is Gaelic for Daniel. It was his father's choice. This name caused his son considerable consternation in grammar school as he had to explain to nuns on the first day of class why he could not spell his own name.