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.