I’m ever honored to be featured in an issue of The Dog Throat Journal, founded by
Check out this newly released issue for some absolute stunners. See brief previews of each piece below, then head to the website to read the full pieces for yourself. All pieces are less than about 1,000 words, and some are much shorter, perfect for short stints or bus rides.
A bird in the hand is as much meat as proverb - by Trilety Wade
He looked me dead in the still-living parts of my eyes and leaned into my hand to suck the sauce from the meat of pig and palm. His tongue was all muscle, and I was all nerve, as he lapped the spicy stream from the crevices of my shallow lifeline. With the tenacity of cat, he continued to lick the pink from the pork until I was just a handful of animal.
Colors by Peter Cashorali
The European flesh tones and Cuban gold of dawn were crueler than anything I had previously known, making a racket such that I wondered how anyone could sleep, and the blood and gunpowder of sunset made me proud and bitter to be a man, Alexander carrying his own death wound down the stairs into oblivion.
Ignite by Sarah Rohrs
The wax drips and I spell out the strange lines in the scars. I spread the red drops of the potion on my lips.
Pastoral by Claudia M. Stanek
But the man minds more than he should so the restive hens might go hungry today, if not for the hope of the girl.
A Taste of My Own Medicine by Brad Rose
The whereabouts of my body remains unknown, but I don’t take it personally. In fact, of all the criminal cephalopods, I’m told octopuses are the best.
In An Attempt to Navigate the Chaos by Mercedes Lawry
There was no regulation and so I went full abandon. The sky opened like a flower. I rose and fell, developed wings and went through a gentle rain like flour through a sieve.
Ask the Trees by Glen Armstrong
I flip a quarter, and George Washington dares to tell me repeatedly that the days are getting shorter. I do not trust him. There are no depictions of him crying.
Harmonica by Jeff Burt
I lay in my bed, I lay on the couch, I lay on the floor, I lay dying on the dying grass, playing my new harmonica, driving my parents mad.
Work of Art by Patricia Hope
Sometimes, a sculptor can attain the curves and valleys of a woman’s body, the plain skin covering her belly and hips, the hardness of thighs topping long legs that can stride through life bending to all its purposes.
What Shall I Do With My Hands by Robing Shephard
I loved this piece so much that I included it in its entirety
What shall I do with my hands? Let them hang limp at my side. Fold them crosswise under my arms. Lift them lightly, waist high, palms upturned. Perhaps I’ll let them flutter like birds at the end of my fingers. If I were to give them freedom to choose, would they work for good or do harm? Would they close around the neck of a wounded dove, and would the killing be merciful or cruel? What words can I give my hands in their wrestling with free will? Like a good father I want to protect them but love them enough to let them make their own mistakes. They must earn their scars like tender red trophies. They must learn to get on their knees and pray. I’d like to hold them in my hands, these hands with minds of their own. But it’s their hearts that worry me most, for in the heart of every hand is a wicked, wicked man.
Horns by John C. Mannone
Dust settling after disturbed by heavy hooves // of tires trucking wildly // Wounded, she falls on her side, pulls // off the road to assess the damage //
Table of Contents by Cyn Kitchen
An aurora borealis of words, syncopated. You were already enough. A valorous Viking among women filling each room you enter.
Just in Time by Ken Poyner
Work, food, sex, and television can become statistically unspectacular. Without the orchestra, our citizens simply drone on.
Thanks Trilety, both for your contribution, and for helping to spread the word!