Wednesday, January 24, 2018

Psychic Pop

Another tale from the spring when Flo and I were first dating.

Near dark, after having picked Flo up at her apartment, we were heading west on 38th Street, to one of our hangouts, the Pizza Inn, next door to where I worked. I was driving down the middle lane, when I saw a flashing red light and heard a siren—a motorcycle cop was racing up behind me. I flipped on my turn signal and eased into the right lane, as the cycle led a line of posh cars and a limo or two west to the interstate, probably headed for the airport. These sights are not uncommon here in the spring, as we get close to the Indianapolis 500.

As the last car in the caravan raced by, I checked to see if a chase cycle had taken up the rear, as is often the case, but I saw nothing behind me, so I flipped on my turn signal so that I could make my way over to the left lane, as my left turn was approaching. Just then, more flashing lights—the chase cycle blew past me as he tried to catch up to the caravan. As I remember, he gave me the evil eye as he passed, but I had not encroached on his lane, and he was far behind the motorcade, desperate to catch up.

I made my way over to the left lane, and my turn, and as I pulled onto High School Road, there was the chase cop, angrily waving me over to the side of the road.

He tore into me with a rage that would have been justified had I endangered him, but I had not. Before he could finish reading me the riot act, a familiar car pulled up from the opposite direction. My father approached the fellow cop, and flashed his own badge. Explanations ensued, the motorcycle cop’s head dropped, and I was spared his wrath.

I was both grateful and befuddled—how did my dad show up here, with such perfect timing? He was home, watching television, when he suddenly had a feeling that I was in danger. He grabbed his jacket, hopped in his car and drove directly to the spot where I was.

The timing, though… he had rolled out of his driveway well before the motorcycle cop had pulled me over, probably, even, before the cycle roared past me on 38th Street.

How he did it, I don’t know, but my father had a knack for that sort of thing, one that served him well both as a soldier and a police officer. Made for a pretty cool dad, as well



Sunday, January 21, 2018

Animal Day II


Dirt Upon My Skin, by Steve Toase
кот древнее и неприкосновенное животное (poem), by Sonya Taaffe
Just Wait (poem), by Neal Wilgus
Corey’s Hallowe’en, by Barbara Rosen
Laika (poem), by Holly Day
Bones, Bones, Bones, by Nicholas Stillman
The Prince of Denmark Plays Solitaire (poem), by Suzanna Hersey
Unmagical (poem), by J. J. Steinfeld
The Intersection of a Venn Diagram Where You’re Least Sober, by Willem Myra
Fatherless Daughter Syndrome (poem), by Susan L. Leary
Art: John Stanton (cover), Barbara Rosen

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Thursday, August 31, 2017

Not One of Us Issue # 58


Pigeon-Bone Soup, by Patricia Russo
The Man Who Embraced His Own Fungus (poem), by Josh Pearce
Abhaus (poem), by Mat Joiner
Eqalussuaq, by Tim Major
The House Always Wins (poem), by Sonya Taaffe
Beside the Paprika, a Pinch of Cyanide, by Michael Piel
Back in the Day (poem), by Kent Kruse
Tidal, by Rose Keating
God Is Spying on Mankind (poem), by Holly Day     
The Daemons (poem), by K. S. Hardy
Burn the Kool Kidz at the Stake, by Mike Allen
Dive (poem), by Sonya Taaffe
Peek Up (poem), by Neal Wilgus      
Art: John Stanton

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Monday, August 28, 2017

Indiana Horror Review 2017

Edited by James Ward Kirk


Attention, Please, by James Michael Shoberg
Missing, by Eric Kruger
Heaven on Earth, by Dale Hollin
In Memoriam, by RJ Meldrum
Festival of Harlequin, by Sebastian Crow
The Midnight Circus, by Sheldon Woodbury
Mama’s Girl, by Christopher Hivner
Tired, by James Michael Shoberg
The Robbery, by Mike Jansen
The Riddance of Long Snout, by Scáth Beorh
Never Die Alone, by John Kujawski
Ott Behavior, by James Michael Shoberg
Tabitha’s Room, by Glen Damien Campbell
Problem Child, by Sheldon Woodbury
It’s the Little Things, by James Michael Schoberg
Transference, by James Owens
Danse Macabre, by Sebastian Crow
The One-Armed Bandit, by Mike Jansen
The Devil’s Bench, by Wondra Vanian
The Doctor Is In, by Mark Brandon Allen
Don’t Stare, Don’t Point, by Thomas M. Malafarina
The Girl in the Mirror, by Hayden Quinn
Housewarming, by Justin Hunter
Obsidian Heart, by Flo Stanton
Nocturnal Preeti, by Singh

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Sunday, July 30, 2017

A Few Words on Belief

We call something a “faith” or a “belief” because we DON’T know. If I say that I “believe” something, it simply means that I have made a choice, and that I have to live with the consequences of that decision. It would be a bit kinder world if we could simply and without bias share our experiences, about beliefs that did or did not happen to work out for us.

Beliefs are a conceptual bridge between the known and the unknown – and some are more stable or useful than others. I suppose it’s an odd glitch in human nature, that the more stridently and intractably one expresses a belief, the more the public tends to accept it – leadership must not hesitate, or pause to consider complexity, probability, ambiguity, guile or even justice, least it be condemned as unsure or dishonest. Every cop, politician, doctor, clergyman, boss, huckster and con man knows this.

As an example – my wife used to run a mainframe computer. Whenever the power went out to the building, coworkers immediately asked her what happened – and when she didn’t magically know, they treated her with disrespect. They were all standing in the middle of the same building, surrounded by darkness. Just as an experiment, once when that happened, she answered that a drunk had taken out a light pole a couple of blocks away – something she couldn’t possibly have known – and that absurdity was accepted without question, because it was delivered with authority. My point is, all theological debate aside, most beliefs are pinioned to our unconscious responses to adamancy and hierarchy. Little progress and less peace will be made until we consider how we are wired psychologically and socially, before we cross swords over belief.

Wednesday, March 29, 2017

Not One of Us Issue #57


Don’t Look Back, by Gwynne Garfinkle
Wednesday’s Mail (poem), by Holly Day
Andromache (poem), by Sonya Taaffe
Scott and Lara Go to the Woods, by Gillian Daniels
Voice from the Tree (poem), by K.S. Hardy
Back to the Wall (poem), by Neal Wilgus
The Magic Touch (poem), by Malcolm Morris
One-Soldier Army of Ghosts, by Robert N. Stephenson
A Letter to the Dead (poem), by Josh Pearce
Trauma Tattoo, by Billie Hinton
Superdrug, by Bentley Allen Reese
Twelfth Night: Joan in the Quarter (poem), by Diane Unterweger
Art: John Stanton (cover), Allen Koszowski, Sonya Taaffe

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Monday, January 16, 2017



Nice and Tuesday, by Patricia Russo
The Conversation (poem), by Sonya Taaffe
Old Tom Bedloe (poem), by Herb Kauderer
Did You Pack Your Own Case?, by Dan Crawford
Spider on the Ceiling (poem), by Kent Kruse
Repast (poem), by Davian Aw
Joyride, by Matthew Brockmeyer
Chalk Outline (poem), by Neal Wilgus
Doctor Stone, by Francesca Forrest
Free Universe (poem), by Gene Twaronite
Art: John Stanton

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