[by Shannon Connor Winward]
—after Edgar Allan Poe
___Midnight in the cemetery, prowling, hunting, fat and merry
One black Cat grew rapt and wary, pausing on the bone yard floor.
___In the sky the moon hung low, setting earth and grave aglow;
___All gleamed white without shadow, but for a looming sycamore— Continue reading The Raven’s Hallow’een
[by Linda McCullough Moore]
I am sitting in a coffee shop, attempting to outwit my life. It’s gotten out of hand—hard as that that may be to reckon, given the fuzzy silhouette it casts on even brightly-lighted days. My life, a tiny, cramped and cosseted production that fills up only the odd corners of the house I bought to live it in. Today I think it would so easily fit into a tiny, one-room flat, between the hot plate and the daybed. I take it out for solitary walks around the block; it suffers no sea change. It will not vary from itself in one iota, no matter that I use a cattle prod electrified by the same power company that fuels my antique television for seven hours at a stretch.
Hence: the coffee shop.
Hence: the intention to trade my life in on a saner model. Continue reading Freeze
[by Dan Stout]
fettuccine et crevettes en sauce à la crème bayou
Begin by placing the Seasoning Mix in a small bowl. Refer to page 842 for Seasoning Mix ingredients. Glance at the clock and roll your eyes as you wonder how many more detours you’ll find in this recipe.
Place the ingredients for the Cream Mixture (a single 12oz can of evaporated milk and ½ cup cream cheese) into a blender and puree until smooth and creamy. Announce that you’ll have dinner ready soon. Listen for a reply. When you hear only the sound of the television, peek into the living room to make sure she’s still there. She is. Continue reading Fettuccine and Shrimp in Bayou Cream Sauce
[by Keith Skinner]
Through the windows of the Doryman Pub, I watched the storm batter the coast, the same deluge that had raged since early morning and showed no sign of waning. Wind-driven breakers clawed at the ragged scarp of Chéticamp Island, an oblong stretch of offshore land that was both the town’s namesake and it’s only shield against the Gulf of St. Lawrence. Continue reading Cheticamp Brigadoon
[by Joel Reeves] Egladine, the witch of the Old Northern Forest, squinted through pale blue eyes at the large black tome opened on the oaken table. Like all witches, she had green skin, a wart on her cheek, a tuft of hair sprouting from her chin, a pointed hat, and of course, a large bubbling iron […]