“Self-Portrait as Pokémon #568 or Trubbish” – Poetry by Brandon Melendez

“Self-Portrait as Pokémon #568 or Trubbish” is Brandon Melendez‘s forlorn yet infectiously optimistic poem from our Spring 2018 issue.

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       BECAUSE WHO DOESN’T FEEL LIKE TRASH, sometimes? A bag of meat

bursting at the seams with old boots decomposed cat   expired trojans    & a potato.

At least I am full       with something. At least every Tuesday     someone will hold me  
      
all the way to the curb & I won’t be alone. All of us unwanted  anathema polyethylene

skin   we will gather            to empty ourselves           of what rots inside us. So grateful

to break open           in a way that does not bleed. Praise the fungi      & rotting bread.

The toothbrush undressed of its bristles.  Praise the mystery juice              how it leaks  
           
                        & curdles

                                                                & grows a new body.

Praise these bodies                                                           & the flies that deem us a home 

                                                                                  good enough

                        to raise a family in.

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BRANDON MELENDEZ is a Mexican-American poet from California. He is the author of home/land (Write Bloody 2019). He is a National Poetry Slam finalist and two-time Berkeley Grand Slam Champion. He was awarded Best Poem and Funniest Poem at collegiate national poetry competitions (CUPSI). His poems are in or forthcoming in Adroit Journal, Muzzle Magazine, the minnesota review, Ninth LetterSixth Finch, and elsewhere. He currently lives in Boston and is an MFA candidate at Emerson College.

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FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #22, In Pictures

A googolplex of gargantuan gratitudes to everyone who made our 22nd Reading one of the all-time greats: Keegan, Melissa, Mary Boo, Jess, Ron, and Shy for performing your flappy lits;  Alibi for your show-stopping singing and fab photography; Pacific Standard for the ever-gracious hospitality; and of course, all you gorgeous & enthusiastic individuals who came to be part of the audience.
Let’s do this again on June 27…

photos by Alibi Jones

Keegan Lester recounts an unforgettable road trip soundtracked by Fleetwood Mac

Melissa Mesku talks about The Game and how to lose it

Mary Boo Anderson shares some love poems from the NSA

Jess Rizkallah shares poems both silly & sad

Ron Kolm tells stories about his days as an encyclopedia salesman

Shy Watson recites poems from her latest book “Cheap Yellow”

Alibi Jones prepares to teach the audience how to do the Dada Polka

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #22

Join us as we dance the dance of the seven veils, and bring us the head of John the Baptist– it’s our 22nd reading! Wednesday, May 23, 7-9 PM at Brooklyn’s Pacific Standard.

Starring:

MARY BOO ANDERSON
ALIBI JONES
RON KOLM
KEEGAN LESTER
MELISSA MESKU
JESS RIZKALLAH
SHY WATSON

Admission is free; facebook event page is here.

“Dead in the Eye” – Fiction by Melissa Mesku

Pond with Ducks (Girl Amusing Herself) – Paul Gaugin, 1881

From our Spring 2018 issueMelissa Mesku‘s “Dead in the Eye” is a short coming-of-age story about ducks and cigarettes and the strangeness of adolescence. [And if you’ll be in the NYC area on Wednesday, May 23, you can catch Melissa read among our stellar lineup of writers & performers at FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #22.]

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THE BOYS CAME BACK FEVERISH, YELLING OVER EACH OTHER. Aunt Grandma climbed down from the trailer to hush them. It was just after twilight but their eyes were wild, glowing. Bright impossibilities spilled out of their mouths.

Among them:

1/ Some witches had turned a boy into a duck and then murdered him

2/ Raven-haired sorceresses had buried a dead duck which came back to life

3/ A pair of girl Satanists had burned a duck alive and then drank its blood

Aunt Grandma’s twin came out of her trailer next door. The boys saw they had a new audience and ran to her, shouting. They crowded around her like dogs. She was a bit drunk from what we could tell – rum, no doubt – and we listened to her “Mmm hmm” and “You don’t say” while all four boys ran at the mouth. More details emerged.

1/ The witches were sisters

2/ They weren’t witches, but vampires

3/ Regardless, they were lesbians

The way they told it, the whole mountainside was abuzz with rumors. Apparently, the only fact they agreed upon was that the offenders – two females – had disappeared at sundown in a cloud of smoke.

Violet and I sat in our tent with the lights out, our sides heaving. We clutched our hands over our mouths and stayed silent, stone silent. We had nothing but contempt for the boys and their ridiculous stories, but for once we were enthralled. The cacophony was theirs, but the mischief that had unleashed it was ours.

That night, in the dark, Violet and I swore that tomorrow, we’d return to the scene. “If what those boys want is a witch, a witch is what they’re going to get,” she said ominously.

It’s just as well we made that promise under the cover of night. I had trouble looking her in the eye those days. Or maybe she had trouble looking at me. In my naïveté, I assumed it was because if our eyes did meet, we would have cracked up and blown our cover.
Continue reading “Dead in the Eye” – Fiction by Melissa Mesku

“Offbeat Writing with a Sexy Twist”

We’re blushing pretty hard over The Review Review‘s recent 5-star review of our Spring 2018 issue, FLAPPERHOUSE #17. The review, aptly titled “Offbeat Writing with a Sexy Twist,” was written by Kim Jacobs-Beck, with whom we swear we have had no prior contact nor relationship of any kind. She says that our latest issue is:

“well-edited, with a coherent theme. Most pieces in this issue address the surreality of coming of age, of burgeoning sexuality, of gendered interactions, of the way former lovers can haunt, and other life transitions.”

Ms. Jacobs-Beck highlights a few pieces in particular: Katie Longofono’s “The Virus Shaves Her Legs,” Melissa Mesku’s “Dead in the Eye,” Michael Chin’s “Forever,” and Gabriela Garcia’s “Mark.” And in conclusion, she writes:

“FLAPPERHOUSE is an interesting journal, definitely off the track of academically-affiliated literary journals, and that is a strength. It would no doubt make a good home for work that is hard to place in more conventional journals…

“In addition to being a home for unusual literary works, FLAPPERHOUSE 17 was engaging and fun to read; I would recommend subscribing to it, either in print or PDF.”

Should you care to follow Ms. Jacobs-Beck’s wise recommendation, you can check out our various subscription packages here. And you can read her very flattering review in its entirety at The Review Review.

“Angels and Cowboys” – Fiction by Catfish McDaris

An Angel – Marc Chagall, 1960

A drifter makes a brief but unforgettable companionship in “Angels and Cowboys,” Catfish McDaris‘ flash fiction from our Spring 2018 issue.

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BEING NEW TO CALIFORNIA, PORTERHOUSE ADJUSTED TO THE SWAY of the Angelinas and palm trees. Surfboards, skateboards, smiles, and bikinis, what was not to like. Porterhouse’s pockets were flush, he’d been breaking horses in New Mexico. He learned how from the Apaches and his father, they took them into water and learned the horse’s language. When a wild animal is treated with respect, miracles often happen. Porterhouse got a room with a stove and a bathroom near the beach. The ocean was a new experience, he listened to the waves and tried to hear the fish singing. He stood on the beach and picked up a hand full of sand, smelling it slowly. It was like a desert, but full of salt water, full of many things to learn. Watching the golden buttery sunset, this seemed like a magnificent adventure. Porterhouse got thirsty and his stomach was growling. He stopped and bought two bottles of Archer Roose Carmenere Chilean wine and a corkscrew. At the market he bought green onions, flour tortillas, canned frijoles, and hamburger meat. From above he heard a whimper sob, he saw a few bloody feathers on the sidewalk. Half hidden in a tree was a winged lady. She was blonde and had a blue suit on and long white feathered wings. Except one wing was clearly injured.

“I need help, I’ve been hurt by a drone helicopter.”

“How can I help?” Porterhouse asked.

“I have money, please rent a hotel room near a park with lots of birds. Also, I need a large trench coat to conceal my wings and a first aid kit. Will you help, please?” She dropped a large stack of hundred-dollar bills.

“Are you an angel?” She nodded yes. “Stay there and I’ll be back.” Porterhouse grabbed his bag, tossed his grub, got a nice big London Fog trench coat, got a first aid kit, and found a fancy hotel with room service. “Are you ready, Angel?”

“Don’t drop me, cowboy.” She floated down into his arms and smiled through a grimace. He helped her into her new coat and removed the tag. They passed a nice forested park on the way to their hotel. Porterhouse let her take a shower, then he doctored her wounded wing. They ordered surf and turf and ice cream sundaes. He opened a bottle of wine, but they were both soon asleep. Porterhouse slept on a couch. Angela took the bed.

Everyday Porterhouse went into the park and gathered feathers of all sorts from the wooded area. He left them in the bathroom and wasn’t sure what Angela did with them. This went on for two weeks. One quiet morning Porterhouse woke up, on the dresser were two tall stacks of hundreds. A note with a lipstick print kiss goodbye and what looked like a duck call. The note read: if you ever need me, blow the angel whistle. Porterhouse packed his rucksack, leaving the whistle, and money. He figured he was the one who saddled his horse and he’d ride it alone.

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Catfish In Milwaukee Doing a Pee Wee/Urkel Poetry Monologue

CATFISH McDARIS’ most infamous chapbook is Prying with Jack Micheline and Charles Bukowski. He’s from Albuquerque and Milwaukee.

“Let’s not pretend everything is going to be OK” – Fiction by William Squirrell

Canary – Tsuguharu Foujita

Some ships come down in the middle of the night, and a whole mess of bad news follows in “Let’s not pretend everything is going to be OK,” William Squirrell‘s hauntingly apocalyptic short fiction from our Spring 2018 issue.

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THE SHIPS CAME DOWN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT. They were huge. Gigantic. They stretched the sky, it bulged. They smeared the stars between their forefinger and their thumb. Have you ever seen water in a balloon? Have you ever felt the tender weight expressing? Pushing against the skin? Milk from a breast. Push! Push! Breathe! Have you felt it in the palm of your hand? That weight? Pressing, pressing, pressing down, impatient to be borne.

They stretched the sky so thin you could almost see through it, see the shapes on the other side, drifting in the bubbles and the scum. Is that God? Is that the singing angels? Fellow travelers through the void? Or just the bodies in the lye?

We never saw them coming. Too late we heard the creaking door, the creaking floor, too late.

What’s the use of radar? What’s the use of a radio telescope in a crater the size of New York City if it doesn’t give fair warning? What’s the use of Hubble? Of Elon Musk? What’s the use of a fictional marriage? Mutual funds? What’s the use of hope? Of love? What’s the use of a lockdown when they’re already in the building?

Oh, Emilia! Emilia! And Winston and John and Lauren, little Lauren, Oh Emilia! And Winston and John. They stole them all. Sucked them up through their rubber skins, through their prophylactic skins. Did they eat them up? Did they eat the children? Did they take them somewhere safe? All the human children? What are we now that they are gone?

There is no one left but us grownups; us old ones; us already dead ones.

When the ships came down in the middle of the night, so massive and catastrophic like heart attacks, we all groaned. Pain in our left arms. Shortness of breath. Nausea. Palpitations. We were squeezed. Massaged. We all felt it. We moaned simultaneous.

“What would you do if you could get your kid back?” said the man at the bus stop who used to always talk about the Government. “No other kids, just yours. Would you kill that old lady over there? The one in the green coat. Would you crush her skull with a hammer? If I gave you a knife would you cut her throat? Would you let me kill your wife? Would she let me? If I could guarantee it: your kid.”

Continue reading “Let’s not pretend everything is going to be OK” – Fiction by William Squirrell