POETRY FOR THE EXILED BY DC COPELAND 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 89

INVENTIONS PT 110 BY WILLIAM ERICKSON 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 89

BODY PAINT, NO TATTOOS BY HR HARPER 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 89

RONNIE AND THE NIGHT CLERK BY JOHN PALMER 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 89

THE TRANSFIGURATION BY ELLEN MCGRATH SMITH 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 88 

She had never been available to this man she had to admit she did not love except in some very fundamental way that had something to do with her love for her father, whom she had also failed to save. 

DEATH DOESN’T SUCK BY LEE GROSSMAN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 88

See, I got a grant from the university that let me stop time at the instant each of you was about to die and bring you all here. So you’re not dead until we stop. Get it?

HALF-FOOT HEROES BY BEN UMAYAM  34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 87

At the age of 13, a typical pubescent Filipino boy, I was obsessed with my inadequacy in the penis department. I was taught the Asian Myth. Asians have minuscule members. The other guys and all the girls knew your Asian putz was smaller.

SERVICE CALL BY GABRIELLE ESPOSITO 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 85

Mr Christopher DiLeo, horror author and teacher extraordinaire, who taught my creative writing class,  required students to read a chapter from Stephen King’s On Writing. It was late, maybe 10 o’clock at night, but I wanted to finish the reading before class the next day. I was sitting up in bed, holding the photocopied paper to the bedside lamp. I read something fantastic. King wrote, “You must not come lightly to the blank page.” 

LOVE AND PHILODENDRON BY PATRICK SEAMAN 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 83

Do you remember when we would go fishing together? It was a quick walk down to the little creek that ran through your father’s backyard. We would kick off our shoes and ball our socks into our pockets and feel which rocks were the slimiest and search for crayfish with our toes. I remember you wore my hat and laughed as we walked home hand in hand and I told you to keep it and you did.

The glimpses that we have of the intensely private Samuel Beckett from his friends reveal a man, a writer, driven by his commitment to words, not just any words, but words stripped bare, edited, and reduced, as if by doing this he could remove every inconsequential modifier and reveal meaning in its simplest form, the most direct form, without embellishment, without fluff. 

THE INJURY BY SUNSHINE BARBITO 34THPARALLEL MAGAZINE ISSUE 66

My dad was a famous rock star. People literally clawed at one another to get to him, he signed guitars and posters and still loved Mom and only her until the accident, the injury. And now this is his life. Married to some kid who can’t do anything right.