The MFA in Creative Writing Program at Manhattanville College

June 5th, 2015

Refrigerator Mom

Mother’s first four children were all appliances. Cuisinart was the oldest, then came the Microwave twins. Everyone assumed I’d be the last. Mine had been a difficult birth; Mom’s screams had caromed off the walls of the warehouse for a day and a half. One of the washing machines told me in confidence that he’d …

Mother’s first four children were all appliances. Cuisinart was the oldest, then came the Microwave twins. Everyone assumed I’d be the last. Mine had been a difficult birth; Mom’s screams had caromed off the walls of the warehouse for a day and a half. One of the washing machines told me in confidence that he’d been afraid her hinges would pop off.

“You almost finished her,” he said. “She was at the repair shop for three days. It was touch and go for a while, but she came back good as new.”

After I came along, Mom kept her doors closed for a long time, but shortly after my sixth birthday, we began noticing small changes. Her lights were shutting off for seconds at a time and there was an odd rumbling in her ice maker, and we all knew she was storing something extra.

Mom was mum on the subject of our fathers, but we had our suspicions. She could never resist a sale. The twins arrived a few weeks after a special on microwaves. Space heaters had been marked down twenty-five percent two months before I pushed my way past her water chute. The early days before my first plug-in are hazy, but I have a vague memory of hearing Mom sigh when a particularly sleek, tricked-out model was taken off the shelf.

The origins of her fifth child, however, were a complete mystery. His birth wasn’t met with the usual round of congratulations from the other machines. No one had a clue what to say or do. We’d never seen anything like my little brother – a small, hairy, mewling creature who was warm and wet to the touch. Everyone just stood around staring until Vacuum flipped him over to check for a battery pocket or electric socket, but the only openings on my brother were small holes at each end that didn’t conform to any plug shape I’d ever seen. When I brushed up against him, he left a greasy smudge on my shiny black surface and I didn’t go near him for a long time after that. Mom released a blast of water from her filter to clean him off and he let out a howl that rose to the ceiling and stayed there, like a dark cloud.

The twins, Cuisinart and I were all more or less able to fend for ourselves after our first power surge, but the new baby remained helpless long after Mom disgorged him. It took him days just to roll over. Unable to turn back again, he just laid there, his four little legs flailing in the air, until Mom managed to nudge him over with her foot grill.

After the initial shock, Mom warmed to the new baby, so much so that her ice cube maker couldn’t maintain its proper temperature and began to leak on a regular basis. From time to time, I had to clean up after her, turning myself on high until the water dried.

“My little Furball,” she would wheeze, flapping her right door open and shut to keep him cool.

“You’re going to damage yourself if you keep that up,” Cuisinart warned, but Mom ignored him. In spite of, or maybe because of, his strangeness, she seemed to love our new little brother best of all. At night, she would scoop up the fuzzy creature in her salad bin and rock him in and out in vain attempts to put him to sleep.

“She never did that for me,” Cuisinart grumbled.

“By the time you were his age, you were already blending and mixing,” I reminded him.

Furball wriggled around all night, but spent most of the morning curled up like a light bulb filament. As the days leached into weeks, I stopped resenting my little brother. Watching his daily struggles softened my springs. Nothing came easily to him; breathing, eating, sleeping all seemed to require a colossal effort that made his whole body quiver. The rest of us used grills and platforms to avoid contact with the ground, but he would purposely lower his pink, squishy belly to the floor and rub against the pocked concrete, emitting strange little grunts as he rolled around in the grit and dirt. When he was done, he would sit up on his back legs and pick off bits of dust and muck with his front ones, occasionally popping some small bit of something into his mouth.

For my mother’s sake, the other machines tried to ignore my brother’s odd habits, but I was strangely compelled by him. Mother often told me that when I was young, I was fascinated by clipped wires and would poke and pull them even if they were sharp or hot. It was the same with Furball. I couldn’t stop watching him, no matter how painful or embarrassing his behavior. He moved in small, cautious steps and sought out dark, cramped spaces. He clawed at holes as if he was trying to bury himself alive. Some days, he kept digging even after he’d cut himself. Then he’d waddle back to wherever Mom was, leaving behind bright, red streaks to mark his trail.

“He’s going to rust over before his first year,” Cuisinart predicted, “and I’m guessing his warranty doesn’t cover self-inflicted damage.”

“I don’t think it’s rust,” I whispered, careful to keep my whirr down so the others wouldn’t hear.

“Then what is it?”

“I don’t know. Something worse.”

“What could be worse than rust?”

I saw a few of the dishwashers leaning toward us so I didn’t answer. Relations with our neighbors were bad enough. Whatever sympathy Furball had generated when he first arrived had evaporated without a trace. When they thought I had shut down for the day, I sometimes heard the others gossiping about our family, blaming Mother for the stain on the community.

“She should have gotten rid of it before it slid down her chute,” Coffee Maker hissed one night, steam coming out of his cover so fast and thick it soaked his filter lining.

Convection Oven agreed. “She had to have known something was wrong. A mother always knows.”

“Killing it would have been a mercy. What kind of life is that – slithering around like a silverfish, sponging up crumbs and spiders.”

“Please, not while I’m baking.”

They changed the subject to the upcoming shift in daylight savings time, which required everyone to re-set their clocks a week earlier than usual.

Cuisinart has tried to convince me that I imagined the whole thing, but I swear I saw Coffee Machine lean over to pour boiling water over Furball a few days later. My little brother was on the floor licking himself at the time. Like so much else about him, Furball’s self-cleaning mechanism was painfully inefficient. No matter how much he contorted his limbs, he couldn’t reach all of his parts. And somehow he smelled worse after a cleaning than before, as if all he’d managed to do was add a layer of fresh must to his already rank odor.

His cleaning cycle took forever to complete. He sometimes worked on the same spot so long I was afraid he’d rub off his glossy, black finish, which was his only attractive feature. Ordinarily, he would turn at the slightest noise or motion, like a highly sensitive thermostat that adjusted to the tiniest change in the atmosphere, but when he was washing, he shut down. Anyone out to harm him would have waited for that part of his day to make a move.

Since it was an unusually warm April afternoon and I didn’t have much to do, I noticed Coffee Maker fill himself up past his high water mark. At first I thought it was a mistake, but then I saw him lean to one side to accommodate the extra liquid. I decided it was some kind of experiment. The last few years had been rough on the coffee machines. They were required to perform all kinds of new tricks – steam cream, foam milk, melt chocolate. I’d heard Coffee Maker complain bitterly about having to keep up with all the new fads.

“You have no idea what the pressure is like,” he’d fumed more than once. “I have recurring nightmares about spontaneous combustion. It’s gotten so bad I had to cut down on the caffeine.”

When I saw him shuffle to the edge of his shelf just before he was about to boil over, I knew he wasn’t testing his liquid capacity. I blew my alarm whistle as loudly as I could. He jumped back at once. The hiss of steaming water hitting the floor was smothered by the fuss over my safety valve going off. By the time I managed to assure the others I was alright, all signs of Coffee Maker’s crime had dried up. Since I didn’t have any evidence, I kept my suspicions to myself. Cuisinart was the only one I confided in and he dismissed my concerns with a single turn of his blades.

“You overheated,” he whined. “No machine is reliable in that condition.”

“I was fine the night I heard him talking to Convection Oven.”

“Let’s face it, he didn’t say anything the rest of us haven’t thought.”

I kept quiet about Coffee Maker, but it turned out that I wasn’t the only one who had seen him cross the line from thought to action. Furball retreated more and more into the dark, moist edges of the warehouse, sniffing and pawing at the ground as though he was searching for something. Every now and again, his head would pop up and he’d bark short, happy barks, but then, moments later, he’d be stretched flat on the floor, like a deflated plastic tube.

He began disappearing for longer and longer periods of time, discovering hidden pockets of filth and damp that none of us would have gone near. At first, Mother panicked whenever he was out of sight for more than a few minutes, but she gradually became accustomed to his absences.

“My baby is growing up,” she would sigh, causing the cubes in her ice maker to shift slightly. She managed to convince us that she’d adjusted to the new independence of her youngest child until the day that he failed to reappear before dark and she blew her light out worrying.

“He’ll be back. You know how he is, always chasing after some dust bunny or piece of lint,” Big Microwave said, but I could tell from his uneven ring tone that even he didn’t buy what he was saying.

Since Cuisinart and I were thinner than our wide-bodied brothers and better able to negotiate narrow spaces, we went out to look for Furball. After an hour or so, I found him crouched up at the back of a packing crate. I signaled to him with my lights, but there was no response. Cuisinart ordered him to come out, but he still didn’t move.

“That’s it,” Cuisinart grunted, gears grinding, “I’m going to get him.”

“Let me do it.” I was afraid Cuisinart might switch into his blend cycle given his mood and the noise would be too much for my fragile little brother. As I inched toward the back of the box, I noticed scratch marks all over the cardboard. Bits of chewed up paper were strewn across the bottom of the crate and it was covered in mouse shit. I couldn’t help wondering if Furball felt some kind of kinship with the rodents that were the bane of the warehouse. Whatever the source of its appeal, he was reluctant to the leave the crate. In the end, I had to drag him out. By the time we brought him back to Mother, she was vibrating from her egg container to her bread box. Streaks of water were running down her sides; I shifted my dial to high to dry her off before she did any permanent damage.

After his discovery of the crates, Furball seemed happier. He slept peacefully for long periods of time. He ate voraciously, gobbling up every cabbage leaf and tomato slice that Mother tipped out of her salad bin. Within weeks, he doubled in size. He no longer tested the floor before taking a step, but covered ground in quick runs, his body a furry blur.

By the end of summer, Furball was no longer the subject of constant speculation. He’d become a fixture of the community, albeit a strange one who didn’t seem to serve any particular function. Life at the warehouse was relatively quiet until the quarterly visit of the exterminator. Since summer was my slow time and I was off a lot, I’d completely forgotten about the seasonal purge. I’ve often wondered if things would have been different if it hadn’t been such a hot, sluggish afternoon and I’d been functioning at a higher capacity, but really what could I have done – sealed Furball in a crate, forced him into storage? By the time his howling woke me up from a deep sleep, it was already too late. Following the keening sound, I found him pawing a pile of dead mice, as if he was trying to wake them up.

He rarely left Mother’s side after that. Every now and then, he would nibble a few bread crumbs, but he didn’t eat enough to sustain a cockroach. His already warm body began to burn. Desperate, Mother scooped him into her ice tray one afternoon to cool his fever, but when she checked on him a few minutes later, he was dead.

At first, she sealed herself up tight, refusing to part with the body. By the fifth day, however, the smell was unbearable and she reluctantly released Furball’s remains. She never recovered from the loss; from that day forward, water ran continually down her sides.

I begged her to activate her cleaning cycle, but she lost all interest in taking care of herself. When the first signs of rust appeared, my brothers and I took pains to hide them, covering Mother’s spots with every magnet we could find, but “Kiss Me I’m Irish” and “West Virginia Is For Lovers” failed to save her. She couldn’t stop leaking. Worse, I don’t think she really tried. It was as though she wanted to pour herself out, drop by drop.

“You and your brothers will be just fine,” she said when I pleaded with her to lower her temperature. My once pristine Mother, who used to reline her shelves every month without fail, was slowly rotting away. When I nuzzled against her, red dust stuck to my surface and powdered the ground. On hot days, when we kept the windows open, the wind blew pieces of her away.

And then she shut down altogether. One by one, my brothers and I pressed against her, hoping to hear the familiar buzz that used to lull us to sleep, but she was gone. The next day, a truck came to take her to the landfill. I knew that I would never stop missing her. Time only repaired the superficial injuries, the cuts and dents that hurt like hell at the time but could be painted over. Real damage couldn’t be fixed.

We reminisced about Mother from time to time, but no one ever mentioned Furball again. It took me a while, but I gradually understood why we were so afraid to acknowledge my brother’s pitifully brief existence. It wasn’t his dampness, his mewling, his weakness – mice and maggots had always been part of our world. What we couldn’t bear was the knowledge that this helpless, hopeless creature had slid out of one of our own, and maybe, just maybe, another Furball was growing inside us, waiting to be born.


Amy Bitterman has had short fiction accepted by The Cream City Review, The Literary Review, The Chicago Quarterly Review, The G.W. Review, The William and Mary Review, Switchback, Kerem,, The Crescent Review, Poetica, The Sand Hill Review, Emrys Journal, Folio and Lilith. In 2015, she received a “Special Mention” for the Pushcart Prize for her story “Breeding Grounds”.She currently teaches at Rutgers University.

What motivates her to create: “To be honest, the primary reason I write is that the creative process, for all its frustrations, makes me happy. I love the effort of focusing my thoughts on a specific idea or emotion and then working through the puzzle of trying to find the right words to express that event or feeling.”

May 26th, 2015


Join us May 31 in NYC as we celebrate our second year building a home for writers, artists & creative minds! There’ll be food. There’ll be drink. There’ll be some damn fine literature We’ll see you there, right? Let us know on Facebook!

Join us May 31 in NYC as we celebrate our second year building a home for writers, artists & creative minds! There’ll be food. There’ll be drink. There’ll be some damn fine literature

We’ll see you there, right? Let us know on Facebook!

Mville Review Presents 2015

March 12th, 2015

Cat’s Paw

I’d lost track of how long I’d been living alone, Padre, but some habits die hard so every June I still hauled the beach chairs out of the cellar, mine and Edna’s, wiped away the cobwebs and dust, cleaned off the mildew, then lined them up straight and neat as a firing squad against the …

I’d lost track of how long I’d been living alone, Padre, but some habits die hard so every June I still hauled the beach chairs out of the cellar, mine and Edna’s, wiped away the cobwebs and dust, cleaned off the mildew, then lined them up straight and neat as a firing squad against the wall of the trailer. Get the joke, Padre? Neat as a firing squad. No matter. I liked the view of the mountains from under the carport, especially in the evening when the sun did things to the greenery. I’d take supper in the carport those evenings, setting my plate on Edna’s chair. Nothing ever changed ‘cept for the weather. That was my only visitor, the weather, until Lemmie, short for Lemieux or Lemoine or Lemaire or Lemanger or some name like that, slouched by walking on the shoulder of the road where no one ever walked ‘less their car broke down and they were looking for help.

Lemmie didn’t stop that first time, just trudged by with a nod. I liked a man what respected another man’s privacy. I wished Lemmie did stop that first time ‘cause if he had I would’ve run him off which means you and me wouldn’t be having this chat.

Few weeks later, saw Lemmie again, this time at the Key West. Funny name for a bar in a place where first snow’s October and ice-out comes late May. Some barkeep converted the last unit of a factory row house into an after hours place with plastic pink flamingos and inflatable beach toys shaped like palm trees and sharks and an old fishing net or two and called it the Key West. Even hung a picture of Ernie Hemingway over the bar, telling the factory workers Ernie was an old fishing buddy. I didn’t read more than the next guy, but I recognized Ernie from Life magazine. That’s why I liked Life, the pictures.
Where was I? Lemmie. Right. Anyway, that night Lemmie sat down the far end of the bar, away from the pinball and the juke box and the horny factory girls wondering where their beauty went, sipping Canadian. Not nursing, sipping. Drunks nurse; drinkers sip. Lemmie was a drinker, never looking nowhere but deep into his glass like some special secret was hiding out  under the Canadian. Me, I only drank beer, one or two a night, and there was no secrets at the bottom of the schooners favored by the Key West. No one but me ever noticed how schooners fit the décor of the Key West more than mugs. I mentioned it to Scales, the barkeep when all this went down, and he gave me that look he saves for people he asks to leave against their wishes.

You say get to the point. You in a rush? Well, one thing I got is time, the whole rest of my life as a matter of fact, and stories always expand to fill the time you got.

Speaking of time, it was the time of year for me to take my chairs in for the season. You remember the chairs, mine and Edna’s, in the carport. I always waited for the third frost, more trustworthy sign of winter than some weather man with maps and radar; but third frost came late that year, postponed by one of them long stretches of Indian summer that lingers like a woman’s smell on your skin after one of them nights. When it came though, it came with a vengeance, like waking up the morning after to an empty bed and an empty wallet and knowing you been had. Still, when the sun warmed the chairs enough to melt the frost, I took them in for the season, stacking them behind the furnace which was the warmest place in the cellar, the place where the cat slept. Always had one. That’s why my friends call me Cat, ‘cept for Scales who didn’t call me nothing. The mildew you ask? I could never figure where it came from neither.

One morning shortly later the doorbell rang which confused me ‘cause I didn’t remember what it sounded like; but I figured it out by the second or third ring. Lemmie looked like he hadn’t found much truth in Canadian, but he didn’t smell like he’d been drinking and I’d already made the coffee so I figured there’d be no harm being neighborly and asking him in to share it. What did I know, huh Padre?

If Lemmie was anything he was direct. Said, they say you’re good with ‘lectricity. I just stared into my coffee, not letting on how right he was, asking him if them’s the same they that call me Cat. Lemmie said he’s looking for a good ‘lectrician so I figure he’s working construction and tell him about some of the others, the ones good with wood, plumbing, bricks, drywall, things like that; but Lemmie just shook his head and said he only needed a ‘lectrician and only one at that. Cash pay, Lemmie said.

Lemmie stopped coming to the Key West after that and I didn’t see him around town none. No one did, but then so many people drifted through on their way to or from that strangers didn’t keep their novelty too long. That’s why no one at the Key West remarked ‘bout Lemmie’s absence. Finally, come early November, Lemmie phoned, said to pack for a few days, said he’d pick me up sunrise in the morning. Not an early riser but I needed the jack so I said I’d be ready. I thought about saying adios to Scales since most others just snuck off without saying good-by. Don’t know why I decided ‘gainst it. Might have been different if I had, do you think? Spare me one of those smokes, Padre. Thanks. Always said I’d quit someday. Guess someday’s finally here.

Anyway, Lemmie picked me up and drove me down county to Munroe Falls, the biggest city in the whole county and all, but Lemmie said he’s got more people on his block back in Brooklyn. Big block, I said, but Lemmie he just smiled and said he liked it that way. Person could get lost in Brooklyn, he said. Person could get lost anywhere, I said back. Anyway, I wired the Christmas displays, doing everything ‘cording to code, testing and retesting the connection, the grounds, thinking nothing ‘bout it ‘til I read in the paper how the Mayor was ‘lectrocuted turning on the Christmas lights. Paper figured someone rigged the wiring, did a big write up on crosswiring, front page. Funny, though, it never actually explained what crosswiring was. Just quoted the FBI report how the wires was rigged to send a killer jolt through the switch. Anyway, that’s how I got fingered for the Mayor’s murder.

Next day, Chief arrests me so I tell him about Lemmie and Brooklyn and all, but no one’s seen Lemmie since he returned me back to my trailer and Brooklyn never heard of him. Lot of blocks in Brooklyn, I guess. Chief asks about fingerprints but that coffee cup Lemmie used it’s been washed ten times over. I still had the hundred Lemmie paid me stashed under the living room rug. Hated to part with it, but, as Chief said, I’d have no use for it if he couldn’t turn up a print. Only turned up mine. You know how it goes when you see a big bill like that ‘specially when it’s been a lifetime since the last one. Another joke, Padre. Get it?

You don’t believe me, do you, Padre? No matter. Everyone here’s innocent or they wouldn’t be here. No, I don’t blame the jury. I’d vote the same way. And that lady attorney, she did her damnedest, but, hell, whoever messed with them wires was a damn better ‘lectrician than me.

Regrets? I’d like my last supper in my carport, beach chairs and all, watching the sun do its thing to the greenery. It’s almost the season to take ‘em out. Instead of lettin’ you pick what you want to eat, they ought to let you pick where you eat it. I’d pick the carport, facing the mountains. Hell, they could do me right there soon as I finished. Wouldn’t be so scary then. Well, Padre, thanks for hearing me out. If you ever make it to the Key West, tell Scales Cat said, hey. Tell him I still got eight lives to go.


S. Frederic Liss, a Pushcart Prize nominee and a finalist for the Flannery O’Connor Short Fiction Prize sponsored by University of Georgia Press, has published or has forthcoming 36 short stories and has received numerous awards and other forms of recognition for his short fiction including The Florida Review Editor’s Award for Fiction; James Still Prize for Short Fiction sponsored by Wind; Midnight Sun Award for Fiction sponsored by Permafrost; Third prize in the Arthur Edelstein Prize for Short Fiction; Finalist for the Raymond Carver Award for Short Fiction sponsored by Carve Magazine; and Honorable Mention in the New Letters Literary Award for Fiction and the Glimmer Train June, 2014 Fiction Open. Liss has also been published in The Saturday Evening Post, The South Dakota Review, The South Carolina Review, Dogwood, The Worcester Review, and Fifth Wednesday Journal. In addition, Liss was a finalist in the Bakeless Prize Competition sponsored by Middlebury College and Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference. Liss earned a MFA from Emerson College, Boston, MA and was the recipient of a Grant-in-Aid in Literature from the St. Botolph Club Foundation, Boston, MA where he leads a workshop in writing fiction.  

What motivates him to create:
“I write fiction because I enjoy it. When it stops being fun, I’ll stop writing fiction. This doesn’t mean its easy as enjoyment is often more difficult to attain than disappointment. I appreciate this response may seem selfish compared to those who claim they write fiction to communicate great truths, but it goes to the heart of the matter. Truth, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.”

February 26th, 2015


If she comes back from Disneyland,
I want to tell her that desire
is ninety percent of the crime.

If she comes back from Disneyland,
I want to tell her that desire
is ninety percent of the crime.
That we’re both guilty
for not staying madly in love
with each other.
It’s not too late to read old love letters.
How the heart swells to the size of the sorrow.
That you can bleed or burn or fall
when you wish upon the wrong star.


Keven McGowan was born and raised in the Plot section of Scranton, PA, he has two chapbooks, Rubric and No Passengers.

What motivates him to create:
“I write for fun and sport. It’s a hunger.”

February 18th, 2015

Recipe for Death

as much
as possible.

as much
as possible.




David James has published two books and five chapbooks (most recently, No Way to Stop the Bleeding, Finishing Line Press, 2014). More than thirty of his one-act plays have been produced from New York to California. He teaches at Oakland Community College in Michigan.


What motivates him to create:

“Writing is a way to make sense of what’s happening around me, to try to create some order from the blizzard of events, emotions, and time. I agree with Wallace Stevens who said, ‘Poetry is the daily necessity of getting the world right.’ To be truthful, I’d have to change the quote to read ‘weekly necessity’ since I don’t write every day. But it is safe to say if I didn’t write, my life would be messier and more confusing than it is…”

February 2nd, 2015

Widow’s Mites

She was standing outside Del Taco, asking for money, assuming I had plenty, one look at my car producing the understandable assumption that I might have resources to share. I glanced sideways at my purse, flung across the passenger’s seat. She was close enough to see the look, and thus started thanking me before I’d …

She was standing outside Del Taco,
asking for money, assuming I had
plenty, one look at my car producing
the understandable assumption that
I might have resources to share.

I glanced sideways at my purse,
flung across the passenger’s seat.
She was close enough to see the look,
and thus started thanking me before
I’d even said a single word in response.

I wanted to help, but had nothing substantial
to give, recently unemployed, bills piling up.
I smiled and told her I’d fallen on hard times too,
then opened my change purse and dumped
all the coins I had into her outstretched hand.

She smiled a near-toothless grin
and called me honey, before thanking
me repeatedly for the handful of change
that amounted to no more than a mere
two dollars and seventeen cents.

We finished the conversation
with a round of God bless you,
before she departed with her grocery cart
and I drove on home, no longer needing to pull into
the drive-thru, having adequately given her all that I had.




Cristine A. Gruber, a Southern California native, is a registered caregiver and a full-time author/poet. Her work has been featured in numerous magazines, including: North American Review, Writer’s Digest, Foliate Oak, Full of Crow, Leaves of Ink, The Old Red Kimono, The Penwood Review, Poetry Now, The Poet’s Haven, and The Tule Review. Her first full-length collection of poetry, Lifeline, was released by Infinity Publishing and is available from


What motivates her to create:
“I write from a place of holistic wellbeing. That’s not to say I don’t touch upon difficult topics; I do. But I create from a place of peace, a wellspring of joy that continually overflows with feelings of universal connectedness and spiritual affinity. Poetry is in everything and everyone, in every moment of every day. I can write a poem about an apple as easily as I can write an ode about the homeless folks I chat with on a regular basis. The words are already there, imbedded in the moment, whatever the moment might happen to be. All I do is bring the words to light, let them come out and play for a while.
“If I’m exceedingly lucky, I may have another thirty or forty years to enjoy life on this planet. But that which I’ve created through my poetry can potentially live on forever through those whom I’ve touched with my words. The art of creation connects us all.”

January 28th, 2015

in conversation with my art

In Conversation With My Art Ernest Williamson III





Dr. Ernest Williamson III has published poetry and visual art in over 450 national and international online and print journals. Some of Dr. Williamson’s visual art and/or poetry has been published in journals representing over 50 colleges and universities around the world. Dr. Williamson is an Assistant Professor of English at Allen University, self-taught pianist, editor, poet, singer, composer, social scientist, private tutor, and a self-taught painter. His poetry has been nominated three times for the Best of the Net Anthology.


What motivates him to create:
“Politics, nature, good and bad experiences, and the possibilities of creating something truly novel all inspire me. The works of Picasso and Dali still inspire me today and my creative efforts inspire me as well. The value of art is the value of life and the value of life is realizing that beauty, joy, sadness, ugliness all contribute to process and process at times can emit transcendental experiences. For me, God is the at the center of overt and covert realities and art can be experienced on a supernatural plane via delving into the metaphorical mimetic signs evinced in color, composition, relevancy, and memory.”

January 22nd, 2015


What are you afraid of,
so tremulous you dance
in the doorway of expression,
a butterfly in love

What are you afraid of,
so tremulous you dance
in the doorway of expression,
a butterfly in love
yet so unsure of its feet
that presses lover-like
on the blossom beneath it.

Where do the words go,
when your eyes
speak volumes despite
the unconscious muteness
that seals your lips closed,
lips just before so open
and warm upon my own.

Why does your heart hide,
when it knows only
the obvious comfort
of a love fully returned,
so beautiful it renders
the world tearful…
and I, as silent as you.




Amalie Howard is the author of several young adult novels critically acclaimed by Kirkus, PW, and Booklist, including Waterfell, The Almost Girl, and Alpha Goddes, a Spring 2014 Kid’s INDIE NEXT title. Her debut novel, Bloodspell, was an Amazon bestseller and a Seventeen Magazine Summer Read. As an author of color and a proud supporter of diversity in fiction, her articles on multicultural fiction have appeared in The Portland Book Review and on the popular Diversity in YA blog. She currently resides in New York with her husband and three children.

What motivates her to create:
“For me, creative inspiration comes from reading great books. There’s nothing like reading something amazing to get you fired up to write something equally brilliant. My love affair with fantasy and science fiction began with Grimm’s Fairy Tales and continued with books like The Lion, The Witch & The Wardrobe, Lord of the Rings, and Dune. Given that, it’s really no surprise that that’s where I feel most comfortable exploring my own writing voice. With fantasy and scifi, I love creating whole worlds with elements that may not exist in real society, and the only limits are the ones that I set. I like being able to create interesting multi-layered characters, and I especially like redefining myself in those characters. They are all different versions of me in different worlds with infinite possibility at their fingertips. There’s something exceedingly powerful about that. Lastly, I’m motivated by how my work has impacted my readers—it’s incredibly humbling to get letters, tweets, and Facebook messages from fans about how much they have enjoyed my books. Readers are an essential building block to the creative process–I wouldn’t be able to do what I do without their enthusiastic and generous support. I’m very grateful for that.”

January 8th, 2015

Last Patch

I gently place my hands on her small shoulders, guiding Rebecca to walk in front of me in an attempt to give the approaching elderly couple some extra space on the sidewalk. They slowly make their way past us, coming a bit closer than is normally socially comfortable. I catch a whiff of too-sweet perfume, stale …

I gently place my hands on her small shoulders, guiding Rebecca to walk in front of me in an attempt to give the approaching elderly couple some extra space on the sidewalk. They slowly make their way past us, coming a bit closer than is normally socially comfortable. I catch a whiff of too-sweet perfume, stale bread, and hair pomade. I can’t exactly tell which one of them is helping the other, bolstered by arms and time. They seem to know one another as well as two people can. Both painful and beautiful to take in, I refocus on my own task of getting us in the door of the clinic. But I am drawn to them once more, momentarily as I hear his nearly inaudible statement, “I’m ready to go.”

We enter the cool dark of the red brick building, which is always a relief from the blistering New Mexico sun. But once inside, it’s all bad here. A toxic mix of bleach, rubbing alcohol, and old carpet hits me like ton of bricks. I’ve got my ibuprofen just in case a headache seeps in. People of all ages clog the waiting room. Most of them are older. My guess is sixty-five and up. Walkers, electric power chairs, and a few regular wheelchairs hold geriatrics lining the far wall of the waiting room. With the frail and hunched are their upright, adult children who push, wipe, fill out forms, and play on their phones. All there to assist their parents and loved ones more comfortably maneuver toward death.

I sign us in at the desk and we take our seats. Rebecca is dwarfed among them. I see a few folks who have noticed us pull their lips in toward their teeth and look down with an I’m-so-sorry face. Most look away except one who frowns as she shamelessly examines Becca’s soupy brown patch of hair, the rest of her head now nearly baby-bald where falls of once-glistening, penny-tinted locks framed her peachy cheeks. Only the sun truly knew the depth of that red. But my Becca does not care if people stare. She says she is a duck as she lets it roll off her back. She smiles at them. Always on the high road, that girl, making me proud.

It’s our turn now. The young aide makes a grand gesture that we should follow her. She’s new, but we’re not. We know the way to the infusion room where twice already this month the nurses have celebrated two patients’ last chemotherapy treatment with bells and clappers. Becca loves it when that happens. She thinks it’s a good omen. It might be my imagination, but it seems like it’s been happening more often. It’s happening again as we enter the room.

“Mommy! They are going to do that for me one day!” I force a smile, a nod, and a “Yes.” I do this because I have to, not because I believe it. There goes another patient set free. Becca runs up and hugs the elderly gentleman who’s surprised but is genuinely grateful. He smiles and pats her on the back with the side of his arthritically bent hand.

Shelly, one of Becca’s favorite nurses, is on duty. We are escorted to the large, sand-colored, reclining medical chair that my little girl will spend the next four hours in. Shelly and Becca chatter about fun, normal things, kid things. Shelly works while she talks and removes the small piece of plastic wrap where Becca smeared on the lidocaine cream more than an hour ago. Running smoothly and on time, as things always do when Shelly administers what could be life or death, the clear poison begins to drip.

Juice box on the side, blankets tucked in tightly, remote in hand, my only child fully reclines and turns her full attention to the wall-mounted TV that she takes complete control of. Flipping through a few soaps, a special on Egypt, and Judge Judy, she deftly lands on the cartoon channel where Spongebob and Patrick are singing something silly in front of The Krusty Krab. She’s already laughing and I can’t help but smile with her. I watch the underwater shenanigans for a few minutes. I’m pulling a book I’ve brought out of my bag as I hear her mumble something. I look at my baby. I am surprised to find that she has fallen asleep so quickly. It usually takes her at least a half hour to doze off. As I study her small features she stirs again. The dull patch of brown so proudly displayed a mere fifteen minutes ago fails to follow as she moves her head. I freeze, witnessing the last little patch lose its hold and slide down the pillow to her shoulder. Heart in my throat, eyes glued to her, she moves her dry lips just enough to eek out an early inaudible statement, “I’m ready to go.”




Bleuzette La Feir was born in Albuquerque, New Mexico, She is a graduate of the University of New Mexico with a Bachelor of Fine Arts in theater. Her work has appeared in Blood Lotus, Blue Lake Review, decomP, Descant, Diverse Voices Quarterly, Forge, Lindenwood Review and Storyscape. Her flash fiction piece, “Bangs,” was nominated for the Best of the Net 2012 anthology.


What motivates her to create:

“Putting words on the page is magical. Remembering the childhood books I read such as The Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe by C. S. Lewis, gave me my first taste of the bittersweet world of storytelling. Bittersweet because once I began reading a wonderful new story I knew that it would end. I never wanted the story to end.

“I lose myself as I let rise then begin to knead a new story. I press and fold words together that create rich environments that paint luminous images and birth multi-dimensional, relatable characters. It is the way for the story to live on. Now that I create the stories they have lost the bitter and are just sweet. I am stuffed full and satisfied.”

December 17th, 2014

Two Poems

Keep my journal short.
Just review January through March.
Life is a dig deep snow on my sorrow.
Bare bones of naked sparrows,
beneath my balcony, lie lifeless.
The few survivors huddle in bushes.

Missing of the Birds

Keep my journal short.
Just review January through March.
Life is a dig deep snow on my sorrow.
Bare bones of naked sparrows,
beneath my balcony, lie lifeless.
The few survivors huddle in bushes.
Gone, gone is kitchen bowl that holds the seeds.
Sparrows cannot get inside my refrigerator door
nor shop late at Wal-Mart during winter hours−
get away with it.
I drink dated milk. I host rehearsals of childhood.
Sip Mogen David Concord Wine with Diet 7Up.
Down sweet molasses and pancake butter.
I give in to condominium Polish demands.
My neighbor’s parties, loud blast language.
I am weak in the Jesus feeding of the poor.
I now merge day with night and sleep
avoid my shame and guilt.
I try clean, my thoughts of shell spotted snow.
I see fragments, no more feeding of the birds.
Chicago Street Preacher

Street preacher
server of the Word,
pamphlet whore, hand out
delivery boy,
fanatic of sidewalk vocals,
banjo strummer, seeker of coins,
crack cocaine and salvation within notes.
Camper on 47th from Ashland
to California promoting his
penniless life, gospel forever
Kingdom here it comes.




Michael Lee Johnson lived ten years in Canada during the Vietnam era. Today he is a poet, freelance writer, photographer, and small business owner in Itasca, Illinois, who has been published in more than 750 small press magazines in twenty-seven countries, and he edits eight poetry sites. Michael is the author of The Lost American: From Exile to Freedom, and several chapbooks of poetry, including From Which Place the Morning Rises, Challenge of Night and Day, and Chicago Poems.


What motivates him to create:
“To begin with, I’m prolific in thought and number of poems. At 67, I’m like a young women running out of time to have a child. I do not do poetry for profit, rather a hobby and hopefully a legacy after I’m gone. I also think the rugged life I lived in exile and difficult times I had in my youth lead to many attempts at poetry, many of which have been successful.”