Month: January 2025

CNF: Revision

by Jack Bedell

 

My son came into our room last  night wanting to know what fight I’d change if I could rewrite the result. It was tough not to rattle off a list of wrongs I dreamed of making right when I was a kid, or of heroes I’d love to put back on their feet. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that any change I gave him might change too much. If I gave Foreman the win in Zaire, would we have lost Ali’s voice from then on? Or what about keeping Douglas down for that long count against Tyson? Would that’ve ruined Tyson’s chance to redeem his life later? So I told him I’d let Frazier land the big left he missed in round one of his first fight with Foreman. If that punch caught chin instead of whiskers, maybe Foreman could’ve found God earlier. Or maybe he would’ve been ready for Ali when he finally got him. Who knows, but maybe Frazier would’ve gone on to be the champion he deserved to be if that hook found its target. I do know I would’ve gone to bed a lot happier that night if it did, and that might be enough of a reason, right there.

 

Jack B. Bedell is Professor of English and Coordinator of Creative Writing at Southeastern Louisiana University where he also edits Louisiana Literature and directs the Louisiana Literature Press. Jack’s work has appeared in HAD, Heavy Feather, Pidgeonholes, The Shore, Moist, Okay Donkey, EcoTheo, The Hopper, Terrain, and other journals. His work has also been selected for inclusion in Best Microfiction and Best Spiritual Literature. His latest collection is Ghost Forest(Mercer University Press, 2024). He served as Louisiana Poet Laureate 2017-2019.

 

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CNF: hamlet act 3 scene 1

by Zero Laforga

 

when i die, i don’t want to be anyone else’s problem, not like the just dead horse in a forklift i saw today, on my run out in colma, halfway to the serbian cemetery, where no one there has made it past fifty and it feels suspicious that no one has ever reflected on the apparently short lives of serbians in san francisco, but anyways, the horse’s legs stuck straight out, the body so newly stiff it made me wonder if they just ran out of gas carrying the damn thing over or thought it belonged better in the pet cemetery but they didn’t have the space, and maybe they’re waiting on that one guy they know to pull a deal on its cremation since i think it’s technically illegal to do that to a horse but god i don’t know how you’d get rid of a thing so big, i’ve never had to personally get rid of a human body, but i feel like it’s easier than some horse, but can you imagine my body, like that, i can hardly look at my face in the mirror as it is, i don’t need anyone to look at my lifeless face, so i guess they have to burn my body to a crisp and leave it at that and really, no offense to you claudia, but when i die, i don’t need my ashes to be turned into a tree or become a coral reef or a preserved skin suit or a star you can’t even see from the roof of the house because really don’t we all end up in the same place as the worms or the gophers or like shakespeare says i think, that the fish who feeds the pheasant who feeds the king ends up feeding the — doesn’t matter, i just can’t become my father, a mess on the beach spilling out of a yellow sand pail that surely wasn’t full of human remains, but i think everyone else on the beach knew because my wife kept yelling at me to have more decorum, but god, can’t you just let a man not deal with the death of his father, but, oh lorna, i’m sorry that your cat’s gotta get e-u-t-h-a-n— you know what i’m saying, but i guess death just won’t stop staring us in the face, that greedy rat bastard.

 

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Screwball

by Edward Thomas-Herrera

 

She’s the scrappy showgirl from the Zanzibar Room. She’s the dizzy high school sweetheart from back home in Lake Esther. She’s the fast-talking working class gal, holding out for a knight in shining armor. She’s the pitiful wallflower in need of an emergency makeover. She’s the madcap heiress to a fortune in steel who won’t take But Madam, we can’t possibly accommodate a walrus at this restaurant! for an answer. She’s the plucky editrix-in-chief of Modern Miss magazine. Until the right kind of guy comes along, of course. He’s the streetwise tough. He’s the cynical reporter for the Daily Times-Mirror. He’s the jailbird on the lam with a bum rap, trying to clear his name. He’s the incorrigible playboy who needs to grow up. He’s the silver-tongued sea captain with a girl in every port south of the Equator. He’s the high society blueblood who’s had everything handed to him gift wrapped extra special. He’s the uncompromising idealist with an invention that’s gonna knock your socks off. Just you wait. All he needs is someone who’ll believe in him. They meet in a ritzy nightclub. They meet on the subway when she takes a seat on his hat. They meet on the moonlit deck of a trans-Atlantic ocean liner. They meet in an elevator car stuck between the 21st and 22nd floor. They meet in a hotel room, waking up in the same bed, registered under the names of Count and Countess de Carlisle. They take an instant dislike to each other. It’s love at first sight. She decides right then and there he’s the man she’s going to marry – only he doesn’t know it yet. Say, I’ve got an idea! You scratch my back, I’ll scratch yours. But this partnership is strictly business, get me? Nothing funny! A bet is made. A deal is struck. A plan is hatched. An identity is mistaken. Hijinks. Shenanigans. Complications. He’s sailing for Panama the day after tomorrow. She’s out to save the family farm. He’s not ready to tie the knot. Her parents want her to marry the flat tire who works for the post office. He’s already engaged to a beautiful blonde with a permanent sourpuss. There’s a hundred-fifty-pound Great Dane who goes nuts whenever he hears the trombone. There’s a delivery guy out here just trying to do his job, Mac. Now where do you want this Steinway? There’s a society matron who’s never heard of um… what was that delightful game called again? Pinochle? There’s a hard-nosed mob boss looking to collect on a past due loan. There’s a prize fighter who’s one chicken short of a pot pie. There’s a real stuffed shirt who mans the front desk. There’s a secretary with a fresh mouth. There’s a phony Bulgarian princess. There’s a set of identical twins. Maybe two sets. Somebody takes a pratfall on the rug in the lobby. Somebody swipes the Razumovsky diamonds. Somebody slings a cream pie. Somebody call the cops! What are all those reporters doing outside the window? Tell it to the judge, Sister! Now see here! Well, I never! Follow that taxi! Turns out that lousy mug knew the whole truth all this time. Turns out that boyfriend of hers was only interested in her stock portfolio. Turns out that toothless old bum’s really president of the First National Bank. Turns out the lady who writes the advice-to-the-lovelorn column is that mousey dame who works at the library, hiding behind a pair of cheaters. Turns out he’s got a rich uncle who left him everything in the will hidden in the antique clock on the mantelpiece. But it’s not until she gets jilted at the altar and the evening edition hits the newsstands and the show’s a big hit and he spots her waiting for him on the train platform, shivering in the rain, does he realize they’re meant for each other. Close-up. Big kiss. Cymbal crash. Music swells. The end. Roll credits.

 

Edward Thomas-Herrera is a Salvadoran-American poet, playwright, and performer living and working in Chicago. He has a very long resumé of stage credits with which he refuses to bore you, but he’ll be happy to tell you his poetry has appeared in Tofu Ink Arts Press, Beaver Magazine, and The Account.

 

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So what do you do?

by Max Kerwien

 

Google “big toe pain.” See where that takes you. Perhaps to a long chain of YouTube videos of bunion removal. I have seen how rail workers fare in Norfolk’s care, and there are more bunions than paid sick time. I was the Leave Management Officer. To deny their requests for time off were little deaths. Now I coordinate projects for health insurance. I quit making guns to manufacture bullets. I remember a meeting with the Product team last month about making the Claims Denial UI more accessible for the hearing impaired. My VP Kevin made this excellent point about captioning where we can and getting that tech from Brazilian contractors, limiting the financial responsibility of providing benefits for US FT employees. It made me think, what am I currently doing to increase Western productivity in a time of excellent suffering? But the paycheck. My manager and I talk about climbing a ladder. I keep a loose grip and hope I fall. Anyways, I’m rambling. So your profile said you’re from Colorado?

 

Max Kerwien is a disabled poet and comedian. In 2016, he won the Joan Grayston Poetry Prize. His work has been published in the decomp Journal, the DASH Literary Journal, and more. Most recently, his chapbook “Whirs, Snaps, Clicks, and Clacks” was published by Bottlecap Press.

 

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Check out the write-up of the journal in The Writer.

Matter Press recently released titles from Meg Boscov, Abby Frucht, Robert McBrearty, Tori Bond, Kathy Fish, and Christopher Allen. Click here.

Matter Press is now offering private flash fiction workshops and critiques of flash fiction collections here.

Submissions

Poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction/prose poetry submissions are now closed. The reading period for standard submissions opens again March 15, 2025. Submit here.

Upcoming

01/13 • Edward Thomas-Herrera
01/20 • Zero Laforga
01/27 • Jack Bedell
02/03 • TBD
02/10 • Gaurav Bhalla
02/17 • Callie Dean
02/24 • TBD