Unlikely 2.0

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Editors' Notes

Maria Damon and Michelle Greenblatt
Jim Leftwich and Michelle Greenblatt
Sheila E. Murphy and Michelle Greenblatt

A Visual Conversation on Michelle Greenblatt's ASHES AND SEEDS with Stephen Harrison, Monika Mori | MOO, Jonathan Penton and Michelle Greenblatt

Letters for Michelle: with work by Jukka-Pekka Kervinen, Jeffrey Side, Larry Goodell, mark hartenbach, Charles J. Butler, Alexandria Bryan and Brian Kovich

Visual Poetry by Reed Altemus
Poetry by Glen Armstrong
Poetry by Lana Bella
A Eulogic Poem by John M. Bennett
Elegic Poetry by John M. Bennett
Poetry by Wendy Taylor Carlisle
A Eulogy by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Vincent A. Cellucci
Poetry by Joel Chace
A Spoken Word Poem and Visual Art by K.R. Copeland
A Eulogy by Alan Fyfe
Poetry by Win Harms
Poetry by Carolyn Hembree
Poetry by Cindy Hochman
A Eulogy by Steffen Horstmann
A Eulogic Poem by Dylan Krieger
An Elegic Poem by Dylan Krieger
Visual Art by Donna Kuhn
Poetry by Louise Landes Levi
Poetry by Jim Lineberger
Poetry by Dennis Mahagin
Poetry by Peter Marra
A Eulogy by Frankie Metro
A Song by Alexis Moon and Jonathan Penton
Poetry by Jay Passer
A Eulogy by Jonathan Penton
Visual Poetry by Anne Elezabeth Pluto and Bryson Dean-Gauthier
Visual Art by Marthe Reed
A Eulogy by Gabriel Ricard
Poetry by Alison Ross
A Short Movie by Bernd Sauermann
Poetry by Christopher Shipman
A Spoken Word Poem by Larissa Shmailo
A Eulogic Poem by Jay Sizemore
Elegic Poetry by Jay Sizemore
Poetry by Felino A. Soriano
Visual Art by Jamie Stoneman
Poetry by Ray Succre
Poetry by Yuriy Tarnawsky
A Song by Marc Vincenz

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Two Short Stories by Eutemia Cristina Hernandez

Honey-goo Skidoo

"I wrote this song for you back in 1927 when my name was Gus Kahn."

After his signature intro he began the ukulele serenade. She'd taken to calling herself Betty again, just for the night, and drinking a dirty martini out of a dirty glass. Two others were in the women's parlor but they weren't much help. Doris was too busy scooting away from Rupert's (the Giant) pucker to slap the swoon out of her. Gus' vocals reassured "I'd rather be lonely than happy with somebody else" and his lies never sounded so good.

New Betty was a pageboy silhouette in a parked car loading a Smith & Wesson. For a few more minutes however, the past was the present and the Odd Fellows lodge was safe for old lovers and for believing forgotten words.

Hopscotch A Go-Go

Los Angeles is not a good place to play dead. Safer to play a psychedelic go-go dancer or horror movie writer.

"Ah. Our next contestant. What do you think, dead or passed out?" Nadine dug her stiletto into the sprawling bum's thigh.

Trish hated this but didn't show it, her painted lips hovering over the derelict's face, "his eyes are kinda open but I can't feel his breath."

Nadine kicked his leg not convinced. Not wanting to waste any more bourbon on another dead. She tipped the casket-shaped flask pretending libation.

It was decided earlier in the evening over pancakes--black wigs dipping accidently into pools of syrup—half-conscious bums are the perfect portals. And not to another colorless city but to dream-soaked worlds. And no one would miss them anyway.

The next slumping mass lay under neon signs. It was Trish's turn. The toe of her white boot nudged the bundle of stains and wool. Her shadowed eyes darting up, down the street. Why was everyone in this town already dead? And why wasn't she? And why did she have to get this morbidly smashed to leave her apartment?

Skull-spinning, Trish crumpled beside the shrouded mound. Straining to see stars through light pollution, a sober thought stabbed: day or night, this anonymous body was the first to watch the sky with her, "It whispered something."

"Oh for Chrissake." Nadine sucked the last of her cigarette embers, stumbled towards the liquor store across the street.

Trish tugged the scratchy covers over her head and arms. Nuzzled her new friend. Lips plunging, drawing in anything contagious and pungent. She floated upside-down above clouds, away from 2AM murmurs, right up to the all-too-still angels.

Eutemia Cristina HernandezBy second grade Eutemia was designing murals for her elementary school. She was also the recipient of numerous awards and heralded as a genius child. Then she grew up. Much to the disappointment of friends and family.

Comments (closed)

ricky dean
2011-10-01 17:11:08

i always knew u were a genius child! great writing. keep the stories comin'

Justin Holcroft
2011-10-03 17:59:29

Your brilliance continues to shine.

2011-10-08 09:16:32


C & Me
2011-10-09 20:19:28

Amazing that you can say so much with so few words!