Heathen by A. Razor

I am on the run tonight

from the memories of

past judgment and

failed futures

I cut the lines that

run down the middle

of the road

with wild swerving

maneuvers that are

barely cloaked in

the luminescent

darkness that

shrouds the industrial

part of town

I sense a pervasive

Sense of life’s coil

unwinding

as the road

rolls by in torrents

of blackness lashed with

iridescent lines that promote

some order to my direction

I am tempted to lose control and

drive into walls and objects

but the feelings pass almost as

fast as the lights and the painted stripes

that seem to demarcate my life from my end

and as the all that life and feeling and light and

world trail past me

I feel like I might have lost what was

in pursuit of me and

what I had been in pursuit of

all at once

and I was left to wonder

which I would miss more

and which I would need less

as if the whole thing could be

divided that easily

into separate sides

of reality

when you are

traveling

at this

speed



A. Razor was born in Brooklyn, NY in 1963. He was soon brought out to southern California and raised in areas ranging from Yuma, AZ to Las Vegas, NV to Hollywood, CA to San Bernardino, CA. His early experiences living on the streets of Hollywood and Venice Beach, CA and his later institutional experiences as an inmate and parolee as well as a squatter and homeless rights advocate inform his writing with a perception of a marginal and disposable existence in a society where life is cheap and hope sometimes seems unattainable. However bleak it may seem, there is always an element that speaks to the spark that the writer believes to be the essence of the human experience. He has read his works and been published in many places by many people over the years. A short film, 13 Cuts Of A Razor, will soon be available on the internet and at bookstores. Excerpts of the archived footage can be seen on YouTube.

This Man by David Erlewine

The man sitting across the desk once offered me $20 to run down his block in my underwear. He never paid. Such moments still snake through me. He ends his phone call, holds out his hand without standing up. No blink at my fake name (thank you, chemo!). Before I can answer, he informs me I look like a Lexus guy. It is quite possible this man has never given me another thought. I find myself unable to listen to other things he goes on to say. This man will listen to many, many grievances during his final hours.


David Erlewine has flash fiction and short stories published in a variety of print and web lit journals, including HOBART, IDENTITY THEORY, IN POSSE REVIEW, LITERAL LATTE, PINDELDYBOZ, SLOW TRAINS, SMOKELONG QUARTERLY, and WORD RIOT. Most recently his work has appeared in the anthology "WHAT HAPPENED TO US THESE LAST COUPLE YEARS?"

He lives in Washington, DC, with his wife and two children. When informed that Daddy writes, David's son exclaimed, "And he does dishes!" Thankfully he didn't reference Daddy's unhealthy time spent refreshing Facebook.

Notice, Submissions

We've only been up a little over a week and already we've had an overwhelming number of submissions. I'm pleased to say the majority have been wonderful to read.

LiteralMinded is working on a new site: new format, new writers, forums, and much more. Some of you who have sent submissions but were not published will receive an email very soon informing you when LM will be open for submissions. Many great writers, but the content isn't what I'm looking for.

I started this zine because I read pieces from writers whose work should be visible. If you are a good writer and can give me something different each week, I'll take it.

Although we've had a great response by way of submissions and viewers, I want to clarify what I am looking for when it comes to publishing those pieces.

I like dark pieces. I'm not into vampires, or goth, or the supernatural. When I pick up a book of poetry or a piece of fiction, I want to look inside and see the darkness we all have within us.

I like writers who are so true to themselves and what they know that when I read one of their pieces it's like thumbing open a rib and climbing inside.

You might be a great inspirational writer or technically sound, but I want to showcase work that is gutsy and edgy and poetic or shows me what other writers have been writing around for years. It has to be real and honest.

Thanks for all the submissions, views, and comments. I hope I continue to receive the quality of work I have seen so far.

I Thought We Had A Friend In The Diamond Business by Thomas Sullivan

The jewelry ad glitters and gleams
Sparks of light radiate off an oversized polished diamond
The jumbo rock perches atop a pure silver band
Beckoning the fortunate in an insolvent world.

The pitch emanates from a huge callout bubble
“Make her ex-boyfriend hate you even more”
When did getting people to hate each other become a marketing strategy?
Maybe with Cheney, Iraq, and Halliburton.

I thought we had a friend in the diamond business.

When you see her ex on the street in front of Saks
He won’t look down at your fiancé’s hand and hate you
He’ll smile at you with silent gratitude
For helping him dodge a serious bullet.

Thomas Sullivan writes short essays from his home in the Pacific Northwest. His writing has recently appeared in a number of webzines and magazines, including Eleventh Transmission (Canada), Lit-Up Magazine,The Short Humour Site (UK), and Backhand Stories. Thomas was a finalist at the 2008 Pacific Northwest Writers Association contest for his memoir Life In The Slow Lane, which recounts a hair-raising summer spent teaching driver’s education. Contact the author at tmpsull@hotmail.com.

Collapsed Dependencies by Matt Douros

He was a tall, thin, rakish figure with a long face and nose, and skin almost pale as paper. Though young, there were a great many creases radiating down from the corners of his lips like cracks in mud. And he wore black. All black: shining black leather shoes, a black suit with a black shirt and tie. Hair? Black. Eyes? Well, they were a dark-chocolate sort of brown, but you may as well call that black, too.

The children, filthy and playing in the rusted hulks of a thousand broken cars that were scattered throughout most of the streets in the city adored the fellow. Children do tend to love the strangeness of anachronisms they don't recognize, after all.

None of the children knew his name, and there was a legend that he didn't know his name, either. As a representative of another time, they called him by names of things from the vast and growing linguistic tumor of antiquated vocabulary. "Lighthouse," they called him, for his height and the stark contrast of his skin and his garb. "Bard," they called him, for his habit of wandering and the ease with which he'd tell a tale.

He had many other names, and some were only whispered. There was also a legend that he was a ghost, because nobody, not even the adults, ever saw him eat, or sleep, or take a piss. Even the children were afraid to ask him if he truly was a ghost. These were very superstitious times.

Instead, the children took the role of paranormal investigators. They would ask him questions to see if they might imagine some his personal insights--reflections of the distant past. They might ask, "Bard, what happened when the net went down?"

He would look then into the child's eyes and something would change, almost imperceptibly. Those with keener perceptions would later say that, while his lips would always maintain that dour expression, in those moments his eyes would smile. His voice was clear, sharp, deep, and precise as he recited:

"The dark day the net went down,
It used its lips and tongue.
Only clergy wore fixed frowns,
As the whole world did moan and cu--"

"That has nothing to do with the Great Crash!" the child might cry. "Tell us of the old times! Of the net!"

"Mm. I just told you more about the net than you realize," he would look then to a shattered tower of rubble on the horizon, and add, mostly to himself, "It's lucky for me that my little poem is going to go over your head for a few years."

Faces bent under the pressure of confusion and changed subjects would follow, "Ma says I'm growing like a weed." The child would then pause and wrinkle up his face in the melodrama of his transparent manipulation as he would probe, "What's a weed?"

The man would reply, "It's a plant people may use to make themselves relaxed and stupid."

Incredulous responses, being the domain of children no matter what era you're living in tends to produce things like, "Why would people want to be stupid?"

With the eyes of a cat playing with a trapped mouse, the man would say, "Life is sometimes fun when it isn't clouded with questions."

"You sayin you want me to stop pestin you with questions?"

"Only if I run out of answers."

"Oh," the child would say, and the man's eyes would flicker and he would turn and walk away without a word. Depending on the size and nature of the crowd that would then be dispersing, there might be some further pondering of the mystery of the strange man from a time long gone. Or maybe children would launch themselves into playing in a shared fantasy prompted by such ancient recollections, as children sometimes do.

No Regrets by Scot Young

Scot Young couldn't write a creative bio if his life depended on it.
Recent rumors of his death were blogged to sell his work and
should not really be taken seriously.

Worst by Mikael Covey

the mom
holds up
a photo
of her dead
girl
Nikki’s Fund
the caption
reads
in
front page
news
for students
who need
money and
a reason
not to
kill
themselves

I hope
you’re feeling
better Nik
imagining
your mom
with your
dead photo
funds
your name
and
nothing
nothing
nothing
of her
girl
who went
away

Mikael Covey is editor of Lit Up Magazine. His writing has appeared in a number of on-line and print journals, including Storyglossia, 3AM Magazine, Laura Hird Showcase, Word Riot, and Dogmatika.