Dispatch, a poem by Andrew Neel

From Hoosier Writers 2012

“As for the metaphysical thoughts, my dear sir, allow me to say that any brain is capable of producing them, it’s just that we cannot always find the right words.”   -Senhor Jose   All the Names (Saramago)

General while enacting your order dated 25 September 19XX
Several men in the trenches began displaying aquatic symptoms
Unexplainable by the camp’s doctor.  General the infection’s spread
Writhes like an electric eel from man to man without distinction.
General my men cannot fight at the bottom of the ocean.
General Pvt. Stevens worries that his uniform conceals his gills.
General everyone is blowing bubbles.  General do you understand
The starfish?  General we refuse to close our eyes for fear
We’ll drown in our sleep.  General there are sharks.
General we’re just floating down here forgotten and tired.
General factions arise: pirates and devotees of Neptune,
Partisans of you General as also those who blame you
For the minnows between their toes and the kelp in their teeth.
General it does seem strange.  General the mermaids’
Seductions distract but we want more, General we deserve more.
Do we?   General I must apologize; General it’s not so bad.
General the ocean contains many wonders.  General
It’s not always cold down here.  General just yesterday
I saw a volcano erupt beneath the sea!  Such lava!
General an octopus produces great art.
General I will explore the Titanic.  General
The ocean contains a very special species of tree.
General some days all I want to do is lay in the coral.
General an ocean circus is not what you’d expect.
General I’m an oceanic jazz man.

General the situation here at the water front is murky.
General we were not born navy men but we will try.
General tell our mothers.  General
We may never walk on land again.


Between the Lines, a poem by Riley Poynter

From Hoosier Writers 2012 by Riley Poynter

The majority of our population never rises to greatness,
we are destined to answer essay questions
ordained to be known as only
the inerasable pencil.
I am finished with being chewed on, dropped off, and thrown out.
Who remembers the times of our ancestors, the days of our fathers?
Laboring on the front line of literature, quill and ink.
Our numbers have grown,
but we have changed.
We are common items,
no longer tools used to shape a country
No longer are we
Mightier Than The Sword.


Catch and Release, a poem by Ryan P Norris

From Hoosier Writers 2012 by Ryan P Norris

I have a little dog, about the size of a bluegill.  Her tail end swings back and forth when she walks.  Late in the darkness of sleepy time in my living room she trolls the floor, sniffing, the way I imagine a small fish sniffs for drifting morsels in a cold lake after midnight, after the retirees climb ashore and their aluminum boats rock against moldy docks.

She circles my legs and I snatch her up in the net of my hands and she squirms on my lap.  Snow packs the windows and a flame ignites in the tin box called furnace.  A long blue flame stretching along the furnace grate.  She wiggles, wanting free, black marbles in her eye sockets shining.  I lift her barrel chest on my palm and lower her into the dense darkness.  She shoots away, her tail end back and forth, into the emptiness, towards the deep heat.

Plum Grove, a short story by Lowell R Torres

From Hoosier Writers 2012 by Lowell R Torres

I spent the spring 2005 semester studying abroad at Edge Hill University in Ormskirk, a tiny village right outside of Liverpool, England.  My favorite class that semester was the creative writing class, as it was different from every other CW class I’d participated in before or since.  One very different activity was a field trip to the Tate Art Gallery in Liverpool, where our assignment was to find a piece of art and write a short story about it.

The piece I eventually chose was Plum Grove, by Peter Howson and it depicted a brutal scene from the fighting between Bosnia and Herzegovina in the early 1990s.  My story changes that setting to somewhere in the south during the US Civil War.

Plum Grove by Peter Howson, courtesy of tate.org.uk

A crow pecked and pulled at the man’s left hand.  The appendage was purple and bloated, but that didn’t deter the crow any.  It ripped off a piece of flesh and gulped the prize down with a quick motion of its head.  The bird went about securing itself another morsel in a business-like way.

Fran’s rock missed the bird by a good six inches and proved to be more annoyance to it than a threat.  It ruffled its feathers and cocked its head her way, one black beady eye glaring at her with what her mind’s eye considered malice.  Don’t try that again lass, or may be I’ll dine on you next; the look seemed to tell her.  Isaac’s rock was much bigger, and while he missed as well, it was enough of a threat to send the crow off with a disdainful caw.  Fran followed its progress to a nearby tree before her eyes were compelled to return to the man.

They had come upon him strung up to one of the plum trees as they played and raced through the grove.  Fran nearly ran right into him as she risked a swift glance over her shoulder to check how close Isaac was, and only her brother’s look of shocked surprise had saved her.  When she turned around to see what it was that had Isaac gaping, she gave a panicked yelp of surprise that quickly turned into a shriek of horror.

The rope started at the man’s right ankle, tied tight so that his leg hung up awkward behind him while the other one dangled on the ground.  Up and across his stomach it went, securing him to the thick limb of the downed tree.  After looping around his chest it went under his armpit and stopped at his left wrist, secured to a branch.  His whole left arm was sticking up behind his head in such a grotesque way his shoulder had to be broken or dislocated.  But the arm wasn’t the worst, nor was it his lumpy face, all cut up and bleeding and bruised.  The worst was his lower.  His trousers were pulled down, and instead of his man parts there was just an ugly gaping red hole.  Trails of dried blood ran down his thighs.

The area was thick with flies.  The air hummed with their buzzing.

“What happened, Sissa?” Isaac asked, his voice full of awe, but not fear.  Isaac was very brave for a four-year-old.  Almost too brave.

“He got lynched, you dummy.  What do you think happened?”  She didn’t mean to be cross with him, but her nerves were quite frayed suddenly, and she felt jumpy.  Her stomach fluttered dangerously, but she told herself she wouldn’t vomit.

“But he’s wearing the grays!” Isaac pointed out, as if she couldn’t see the Confederate uniform for herself.

“I don’t know,” she admitted.  How a soldier on their side could have been lynched, especially down here in friendly territory, was beyond her.

“Was there a battle?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Maybe it was a battle,” he said, though it was more of a question.

“I said I don’t know!” she shouted, and then shrieked again as the man’s eyes opened.  Fran was sure she was going to drop dead of a chest seizure at that very moment.  Even though nine-year-olds were too young to drop dead, she was positive there were some exceptions.

“He’s alive,” Isaac said dumbly.  He didn’t even jump, but his eyes were real wide.

One of the man’s eyes was so filled up with blood you couldn’t make out the color, but the other was a startling hazel.  Even though the eye was dull and glazed over with pain it struck her.  There was something about the color that was familiar, but she’d never seen this man before.  His gaze moved from brother to sister with a quiet desperation.  He opened his mouth, but only a dry click came out.  He cleared his throat loudly, and grimaced in pain.

“Water,” he finally rasped.  “Please . . . water . . . dying.”

“Was there a battle?” Isaac asked and stepped forward.

Fran was too stunned to act at first.  Her heart still felt like it was in her throat.  The man seemed confused by Isaac’s question.  He shook his head, like he was trying to clear it of cobwebs, and then repeated his plea for water.  Fran noticed two his two front teeth were missing, the gums bloody.

“What happened, mister?” she brought herself to ask.  She wanted to run away, run home.  The smell of him and the sight of the flies crawling in and out of the hole in his crotch made her feel faint, and even more sick.  But her curiosity overwhelmed those feelings.

“It was a battle, wasn’t it?” Isaac asked again, and Fran contemplated punching him in the nose.

“It weren’t no battle, you stupid!” she spat at him.  “There would be bodies everywhere and we would’a heard it.”  Isaac just rolled his eyes at her, and then looked at the soldier again.

“Please . . . water,” he pleaded, voice full of pain.  “She . . . she wanted to . . . was willing . . . swear . . . God!”  This last word he said with vehemence, as if invoking the name of the Holy Father explained it all.  Fran didn’t think it explained anything.  “Please . . . water . . . please.”  She understood that much.

Fran turned to go, then remembered her brother.  She grabbed Isaac’s sleeve and tugged, but he resisted her.  The dying man entranced him.  Fran had seen all she wanted to see of the man, but she pitied him so much she would get him some water.

“Come on, Isaac,” she urged, but her brother ignored her.  To her complete and utter horror he reached out a hand and touched the man’s outstretched leg.

That was when their father arrived.

“What are you children doing?” he boomed in his angry voice.  Fran turned to look at him in helpless mute appeal.  Isaac jumped back so fast he tripped on a root and fell onto his bottom with a teeth-rattling thud.

“Francis made me!” he wailed, and then started crying.

“You rotten lying little!” she shrieked and kicked him in the leg, which made him start bawling even louder.  He looked at Father as if that proved his point.  Fran was relieved to see that Father didn’t seem to believe Isaac’s lie.  He marched forward and pulled Isaac to his feet.

“You both get home right this instant, or I’ll be tanning both your hides!”

“He wants water,” Isaac said as Fran tried pulling him away.  Father glowered at them for a moment, and then his face softened.

“I come to bring him something better than that,” he said, and Fran noticed the big bayonet sticking out of his waistband.  “You children get on now.”

Fran obeyed her father and drug Isaac after her.  She was still mad about his blaming her, but he was a little devil like that.  At the end of the row she turned back for one last look.  Her father was talking to the soldier, who was nodding his head slowly.  The man said one last thing, and then her father drove the knife into the man’s heart.

The soldier’s body gave a shudder, and was still.

Food for Thought, non-fiction by Braden Thacker

From Hoosier Writers 2012 by Braden Thacker

Let’s look at the complexity of human beings as a species or even just one individual.

For one, most adult human beings have roughly 500 trillion chemical synapses, or at least that’s what we’re able to measure at this time (potential chemical connections between neurons and not potential synaptic pathways) and if you consider that in the next few decades or so there will be roughly 9 billion people on the planet, that’s a minimum of 4,500,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 synapses with 9 billion different controllers, each individual possessing a near infinite capacity for variation and almost unlimited action potential, not even accounting for potential interaction with others.

This baseline for interaction and potential among our species alone at least dwarfs the number of atoms that compose everything on earth, (1.33 x 10^500) which is of course a roundabout way of saying that our relationships with each other, or at least the potential that exists, are/is far more complex than we can really ever comprehend and more intricate than any audit of our immediate physical existence.

Also, if we’re taking a physical or material view of things, consider the volume of electrical activity alone and the percentage of atoms that are being moved along these synaptic pathways, as well as the changes to polarity that result thereof.

The way people think is very important, no doubt, and even in a strictly physical sense (read: non-spiritual, philosophical) that’s a lot of physical activity that has to be accounted for.

Essentially this means our potential as a species for variations of cognition, experience, feeling and communication exceeds by far our estimate of the total number of suns in our own galaxy, a measly few hundred billion, to the effect that exploring the thoughts and feelings of our neighbors, even just one of them, is for all practical purposes more of a complicated and cosmic pursuit than sending a satellite to the outer reaches of the galaxy.

We have every right to be vain and every excuse to be concerned with other people and ourselves in light of what we know about the universe. Each person truly contains limitless potential for thought, expression and experience. And from our incomplete understanding of the relation of electromagnetics to gravity/matter on a cosmological scale, even the most skeptical person has to admit that individuals and human beings interact with elemental forces at work in the universe in ways that we cannot yet fully comprehend, even when they just speak to the person next to them for just a single second.

Some food for thought.


Night Fishing, a poem by Ryan P Norris

From Hoosier Writers 2012 by Ryan P Norris

Fog Black and White by Elizabeth Christjansen in Hoosier Writers 2012

Fog Black and White by Elizabeth Christjansen in Hoosier Writers 2012

So inky black the sky and water are one
gentle up
down, the bow,
paddles slosh in the lake.

Owls howl in the invisible world
and the child hears werewolves
crunching leaves along the shore, grandpa
wheezes, banging poles on aluminum hull.

Tackle box of raw hooks

Worms writhe on
plastic umbilical cords in the deep void.

fish lips bleed
onto pajama pants

gills spread under grandpa’s bone fingers

child’s wide eyes
black as the wild

of the baby blue gill
that squirms

in the red glow of grandpa’s cigarette,
while he digs in the mouth
with pliers.

A Poet’s Gumbo, a poem by Diane Lewis

From Hoosier Writers 2012 by Diane Lewis

(for Norbert Krapf, Indiana Poet Laureate 2008-2010)

he stirred up synonyms and syncopation tonight
a pinch of spoken word
a dash of music
a teaspoon of salsa rhythm
until the recipe was just right
and this poet’s gumbo was cookin’
with some African beats
mixed with Brahms
sautéed a little jazz, served over blackened blues
my man Norbert
the poet laureate from Indiana
a super poet with mad skills
served up a dish with
a secret ingredient
he must be doin’ something right
’cause it sure smells good in his kitchen

An excerpt from Seat Belts, a short story by Clay Cunningham

This short story was originally published in Hoosier Writers 2012 by Clay Cunningham

I was thinking too much again. I wasn’t disarming a bomb; I was feeling up a teenage girl. It shouldn’t have been exceptionally difficult.

It was. I quickly discovered that I’d needed the momentum created by my perfectly positioned hand more than I’d hoped. My efforts to blindly locate an entrance to the inside of her top were remarkably awkward. My hand kept shooting off in various, incorrect directions, failing to adhere to the commands of my brain, as I was again running the risk of ripping the shirt’s fabric.

The whole process seemed like it would go on forever before I finally felt something. My hand had clearly navigated through some sort of obstruction and was now resting on a soft, bulgy protuberance. I’d officially broken through, all the while maintaining visionary focus on the road. That expedition was over. I was now free to fondle at will.

And yet, something wasn’t right. As I blindly groped and massaged Lana’s left breast, I wasn’t getting the sensation I had anticipated (perhaps a honking sound would have offered some type of reassurance, but alas, that did indeed prove to be a false prophecy). Granted I hadn’t felt a breast before, but I had felt human skin, and all previous experience never would have led me to anticipate feeling something so oddly cloth-like. At first I thought it might have just been the bra, but unless her bra was a foot tall, I should be feeling flesh and I wasn’t. Something was afoul.

After confirming it was momentarily safe to again avert my gaze from the road, I looked over to investigate, my eyes going straight to the location my hand, which, as I had thought, was perched upon her breast. What I hadn’t anticipated was that said hand would still be in my direct line-of-sight.

Sadly my lack of focus while attempting a move that clearly required my full attention backfired, as I was actually pawing at her from the outside of her shirt. Turns out the penetration hadn’t been of any article of clothing, but rather the passenger side automatic seat belt! For the second time this little mechanism, one of the great life-saving mechanisms in human history, had played a significant role in not only killing my love life, but burying it in a shallow grave of perpetual virginity.

I had no idea what I was supposed to do and Lana, no doubt stunned by my ineptitude, had no initial reaction. So I just sat there, exchanging glances between her and the road, one hand at ten o’clock, the other clinging for dear life to her chest.

Whatever sex appeal there was to fondling a breast clearly didn’t exist in this situation. What was supposed to be a sweet, sensual expression of my newfound feelings had been carried out with all the grace you’d expect to be exhibited by a trench coat wearing pervert hiding behind park bushes, waiting for the opportunity to flash his vile dick at whatever woman had the misfortune of walking by. Even worse, I had gone from being nervous to downright scared, and this fear had rendered me almost paralyzed, completely unable to react on my own. So until she gave me some sort of instruction, I was staying put.

“Please let go,” she finally said.