Tag Archives: Fall 2017 (#15)

“So, the Portal to Another Dimension is Not in the Hudson” – Poetry by Chris Antzoulis

Evening on the Hudson – Leon Dabo, 1909

Behold the shimmering dread & terrible beauty of “So, the Portal to Another Dimension is Not in the Hudson,” one of three terrific poems by Chris Antzoulis in our Fall 2017 issue. (And be sure to check out the recording of Chris reading his poem below~)

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                I look to the water.
Today it’s the Hudson.
I was hoping for fog
and all I got was the sun
                                                rolling diamonds
down river like roulette balls.
And I could see my reflection, a specter
                atop the glitz and shimmer.

He walked
toward me as he started
his own arm,     took a chunk right out
from behind the elbow—
the part that heats up
                                                when someone asks
                you to hold them tighter.

He kept taking bites
                until his arm was gone.

Now, in front of me
                with his head swiveled in a way
that only a dead thing could

I watched, red-eyed in terrible
as he sunk his teeth into his shoulder,
                                wondered if I was supposed
to be watching.

The sun whipped the smell
                                                of breathing
off the gems of the Hudson
                                as I lunged into its riches.

{ X } Continue reading “So, the Portal to Another Dimension is Not in the Hudson” – Poetry by Chris Antzoulis

“No More I Love You’s” – Poetry by Juan Parra

Happy Election Day, America! Let’s celebrate with “No More I Love You’s,” Juan Parra‘s politically surreal poem from our Fall 2017 issue.

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When Trump pulled me over.

America my love, I thought I knew you.
But you’re living so wild now:
Bowing like Franco. Dancing like Mussolini.
Smiling like Pinochet. Clapping like Stalin.
I thought you loved me.
Once upon a time you would wink at me
And I would whisper: “Becquer and Lorca,” in your ear.

“I’m gonna need you to step out of the car,” Trump said while his upper lip twitched.“No more I love you’s is right,” he said, as he aggressively turned off the stereo.
“I’m gonna need you to balance yourself on your thumbs for the next ten minutes.
That better not be a wig you’re wearing, your tongue better not be having love affairs with
Other dialects.”

Thirty seconds later:

My thumbs cracked under the pressure of my fat limbs,
Forcing me to give up Moliere, hiding under my tongue. To point towards
Tchaikovsky crying of terror in my ear. Conned into admitting my love for
Bashevis and everything Yiddish.
My poor wig prayed and endured under the stomps of an enraged Tyrant.

“You’re not real. From the vomit your tongue stinks of, you probably don’t love my People,” Trump raged, while he hauled me from my ears and crammed me in his policeman’s hat.

Now, straightforwardly, no more swans. Or dances on rose petals. Or sentimental education. No more Poets and love affairs. No more Romance before sunrise; let’s talk of ethnicity Diplomas, of bans & tariffs, of odious men in white robes talking Nazism & looking Ominous on centric Boulevards. America my love you are so wild: There are no I love you’s for Me, In your heart.

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JUAN  PARRA is a Cuban-American poet. His work has featured in the Indiana Review, Basalt, The Lake, Pear Drop, Driftwood Press, 4ink7, FLAPPERHOUSE, and REAL.

“Scent” – Fiction by Cooper Wilhelm

Soir d’orage, Strange Perfume by Mem – Rene Magritte, 1946

A young man’s bargain with a mysterious shopkeeper has some revolting repercussions in “Scent,” Cooper Wilhelm‘s magically disturbing story from our super-spooky Fall 2017 issue.

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THE PORTION OF THE INTERROGATION THAT FOLLOWS was entered into the public record as part of a murder trial that commenced in the Eastern District Court of New York on August 14th, 2015. The suspect [name withheld] is described as male, Caucasian, DOB 12/5/1986, Height 5’ 11”, weight 190 lbs. The interview was conducted by Detective [name withheld] of the New York Police Department 94th precinct, 100 Meserole Avenue, Brooklyn, NY, 11222.]

INTERVIEWER: When did you first meet [name redacted]?

SUSPECT: In the shop. I was walking past two weeks ago and I could smell the incense. My girlfriend had been ragging me for weeks about how my room smells bad. Like a men’s—like a boy’s locker room. So I figured I’d get some.

INTERVIEWER: And you talked to him then?

SUSPECT: Not at first. I was looking around, picking up different kinds of incense and smelling them. But they had all this hooky-dooky stuff, too.

INTERVIEWER: “Hooky-dooky stuff”?

SUSPECT: Yeah, like crystals, star maps, and like, these little white sticks he said would clean bad spirits out of stuff or something if you burned them. It was all like stuff I’d hear people in my Warcraft guild say they needed for a raid, but in real life. And not cheap.

INTERVIEWER: So that’s when the two of you started talking?

SUSPECT: Yeah. I’m buying the incense and I ask, you know, like making conversation, is this your shop? how long you been selling stuff like this?

And he’s like oh we’ve been doing this for a couple years. We used to be a perfume shop, but we couldn’t make ends meet. And then I tried this money incense and I thought I should start selling it and I branched into other magic whatever since then.

And he starts talking about the crystals and about talking to ghosts and spirits and gods and it’s creeping me out. And the credit card machine won’t work and I start really wanting to leave, like I’m getting the willies from this guy, and he’s sweating a little as he talks to me, and his eyes were, um, they were. . . .


SUSPECT: They were too big. Maybe it was because he was so tall. A lot of people are taller than me, but he was a lot taller. Like 6’ 8”– 6’ 9”. So he felt threatening. He loomed.

INTERVIEWER: Did he threaten you then?

SUSPECT: No, not then, no. He just told me he would give me a free sample of this cologne. And he pulls down this big plastic bottle, like the kind bulk cheap paint would come in in art class. He squeezes out this dark oil, like purple but almost black. And he tells me all cologne and perfume is oil, it’s just that the stuff people buy is watered down usually. This is the pure stuff. And he puts some on my finger for me to smell.

INTERVIEWER: What did it smell like?

SUSPECT: Weird. I mean, I don’t know how cologne is supposed to smell. I mostly just use Axe. But this smelled weird. Like ammonia and rust.

I really just wanted to get out of there because he keeps staring at me. Even when he puts some cologne in a little vial and hands it to me he never stops looking at me.

INTERVIEWER: Did you leave then or stay longer to chat?

SUSPECT: That’s it. I go home and I make dinner. And that would’ve been the end of it. But when I’m pulling stuff out of the fridge, I see this thing on my finger. It was gooey, like three soft little yellow eggs or little balls or something, that were sticking to my finger with this yellow goop. Like what wasps use to stick their hives to the undersides of roofs.

I washed my hands. I figured it’d gotten on me on the subway, but now I think maybe it was on those little sticks I picked up at the store. Continue reading “Scent” – Fiction by Cooper Wilhelm

“Phantoms” – Poetry by Ashley Mares

Some Roses and Their Phantoms – Dorothea Tanning, 1952

“Phantoms” is one of two exquisitely haunting poems by Ashley Mares in our Fall 2017 issue.

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“Once or twice I have felt that odd whir of wings in the head, which comes when I am ill so often… I believe these illnesses are in my case-how shall I express it?-partly mystical. Something happens in my mind. It refuses to go on registering impressions. It shuts itself up. It becomes a chrysalis. I lie quite torpid, often with acute physical pain. Then suddenly something springs…ideas rush in me; often though this is before I can control my mind or pen.”

                                                                                -Virginia Woolf



              glass and mixed up    bottles.                        The torn

fabric and        bunched up lace.        Have you ever

              known what it was     to be opened   on the

bedroom floor?            It’s the same   every night:

              the voices                    from behind the walls.

The ghosts rising        from the floorboards—this room

              with all its windows.   How much of me

do you have to take    before you give me

              something I can feel?

Everything in me        is a flame:        burning

              softening: cling to me  forever.

Because there’s no such thing                       as space. After

              the flood, the women sprawled out

against the ground,    remembering               what it was

              to feel              dirt between their fingers.

How do I          return home?              Sweet thing,

              cling to me      forever: feel how soft   my skin is.

There is nothing here             that can’t be

              burned,           broken,            opened

by hands         and exposed:   everything in me

              is held,                        tied together    with rope, spun

twine and        broken            wine bottles.

              I am in the mood        to burst

at the seams. The slashed thighs     the blood

              all over the walls         the moaning:

Take me with you—through the         rose-filled arches.

              Tell me—what does it take     for me to give myself

fully to you?    There are worse things:

              like a woman   exposing          her neck—

the flesh pulsing:        perpetually,                 madly.

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Continue reading “Phantoms” – Poetry by Ashley Mares

“Drought” – Flash Prose by Kim Coleman Foote

Spirit of the drought – Arthur Streeton, 1895

Our Fall 2017 issue, FLAPPERHOUSE #15, won’t fly until Friday, 9/22, but today we’re offering a taste of all the menacing weirdness we have in store with “Drought,” an eerily surreal & fable-like work of flash prose by Kim Coleman Foote.

(Print copies of FLAPPERHOUSE #15 are available on Amazon for $6US, and digital PDF copies are currently available for via PayPal for just $3US!)

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for Cynthia Graae

THIS YEAR, BEFORE NIGHT RUSHES IN, WE AWAIT THE RIGHT MOMENT. When sky turns cyan and a breeze chants in the air, against our ears. When sky turns grey, erasing sun rays and hinting at rain, which hasn’t appeared in months.

Everyone in the area tenses upon their chairs, hoping to be agents in a new rite, begging Mother Nature to grant us those liquid grains from her atmosphere. We cant and cry, hoping she’ll hear us, when a gay gent strolls amongst us, stroking the cat on his shoulder. He lifts his thin legs like a crane then breaks into a canter. Some gather their young in fright. He tears off his hat, exposing a halo of hair, rants about how in this age, it is our hate that keeps Her from cooperating.

When an old hag jumps from her seat, we grit our teeth. She rages at the man, spittle staining her chin like tinea, her breath stinking of gin. She claims that the gates of the moon shall open to anyone who hasn’t tired of life’s mysteries.

The man grins the whole time. The cat has changed to a hare eating hay (some say it never was a pet but a rat disguised in rags).

Aside: don’t attempt to tag this as fiction; reality, in actuality, is fraught with much more strangeness.

Continue reading “Drought” – Flash Prose by Kim Coleman Foote

What a Wonderful Time to SUBSCRIBE!

Do you have any idea how great of a time it is to subscribe to FLAPPERHOUSE right now? Next week our Fall 2017 issue flies, and boy, is it a monster…the kind of monster that will scare the pants off you at first, but then once you get closer & get to know it you’ll realize that deep down this monster simply needs to be loved, just like everybody else. And while our Winter 2018 issue won’t fly for over 3 months, it’s already got some brain-tingling mind games & other scintillating surreality hidden in its attic, waiting to be unwrapped for the holiday season…

So if one were to subscribe to FLAPPERHOUSE at this time, one would be treating oneself to a cornucopia of marvelous literary weirdness for the rest of 2017, as well as helping ensure that we can continue our pursuit of flappiness well into 2018…

PRINT & DIGITAL Subscriptions*
1-year’s worth of print & digital (PDF) copies of our quarterly issues – just $40 USD
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a LIFETIME of print & digital (PDF) copies of our quarterly issues – just $200 USD!
*please note that these prices are available for US shipping addresses only. if you live outside the US & would be interested in a print subscription, email FLAPPERHOUSE at gmail dot com & we’ll see if we can figure out a comparable price for you~

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LIFETIME of digital (PDF) issues for just $50 US! 


Digital Copies of FLAPPERHOUSE #15 Now Available!

Inescapable Body Horror, Drunken Gods, Chatty Animals, Killer Candymen, Tyrannical Trumps, Jeff Goldblum’s Sick Abs: FLAPPERHOUSE #15
SEPTEMBER 22, 2017
DIGITAL (PDF) copies now available via PayPal for 

PLEASE NOTE: Unfortunately we are currently unable to email PDFs immediately upon order. Delivery of your PDF may take anywhere from several seconds to several hours, but rest assured, we will complete your purchase as soon as humanly possible.

We apologize profusely for any inconvenience or delayed gratification.

(PRINT edition now available for $6US)


“John Wick Pumps Gas,” “Superhero,” and
“So, The Portal To Another Dimension Is Not In The Hudson” – Chris Antzoulis
“The Ribcage Creates the Sound of Settling,” “The Ribcage Explains (Again) Why It Never Votes,” “The Ribcage Dreams of Dancing On a Grave (Or Two),” “The Ribcage Tries to Make a Sextape,” and “The Ribcage Tries to Find a Cure For Catching Feelings” – 
J. Bradley

“My language is so dead & undead” – Kristen Brida
“Drenched Mold” and “Which Alter Ego Will Drown You?” –
Juliet Cook & Michael Bernstein
“Drought” – Kim Coleman Foote
“Existential Ketchup” – James Croal Jackson
“Transformulation” – Serena Johe
“Shinrin-yoku” – Amanda Krupman
“Phantoms” and “Vanity” – Ashley Mares
“Hades in Single Malt” and “Ares Inebriated” – Bernadette McComish
“No More I Love You’s” and “Douchko” – Juan Parra
“Big Game Hunter” – Matt Patrick
“A Bullet for Mr. Sweet” – E.L. Siegelstein
“Ecotone” – Chelsea Laine Wells
“Scent” – Cooper Wilhelm