Tag Archives: Winter 2016 (#8)

“Hearsay from the Locusts” – Poetry by Ian Kappos

Insects - Theodor Severin Kittelsen, circa 1900
Insects – Theodor Severin Kittelsen, circa 1900

“Hearsay from the Locusts” is one of 3 poems dripping with dark weirdness that Ian Kappos contributed to our Winter 2016 issue. Buy yourself a copy of FLAPPERHOUSE #8 to read the rest…

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GIVE ME TO THE INSECTS, let me oil their mandibles.
Sprockets and painless hive death, become
the machine, eat
the lice.
It’s something to feed
the roots you once trod on, gummy-eyed and
heart-wrenched at the
coming dog-year, thinking
“Float me on down your canopy,
strange and mutant sky,”
hive death
nectar-drunk, in utero,
no man is an island—archipelago.

{ X } Continue reading “Hearsay from the Locusts” – Poetry by Ian Kappos

“Mothers and Demons and the In-Between” – Fiction by Janelle Garcia

Night at the Fairground - Alexandre Benois, 1911
Night at the Fairground – Alexandre Benois, 1911

Our Winter 2016 issue is plagued by the perils of parenthood, and crawling with creepy monsters– both of which you can find in Janelle Garcia‘s haunting flash fiction “Mothers and Demons and the In-Between.”

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WE WANTED SO BADLY TO SPEAK WITH THE DEAD, to make contact, even if we didn’t yet know anyone who had died. Our grandmother’s older brother, Ramón, didn’t really count. He only spoke Spanish, after all. But we imagined her death, even if we never said so: our mother.

Our grandmother warned us about the demonios. They’d call to us, whispering our names when we were alone—desperate, pleading whispers. They’d snatch up our souls if we made the mistake of answering them, if we so much as turned our heads towards the source of those whispers. Demonios lurked in the shadows, crouching in the narrow corridor between wakefulness and sleep. Their yellow eyes glowed like beacons, luring us into their embrace, we innocent girls armed only with the name Jehovah.

Say it out loud, she told us.

We pictured demons splintering in the dark or dissolving into puffs of demon dust as we shouted Jehovah, our voices louder than thunder. But she never told us what to do when our tongues, our lips, our throats seized, incapable of even a whisper. What were we to do when our bodies sunk into the sticky tar of that place where our bedroom looked the same, and the clatter of dishes could still be heard from the kitchen, where our bodies remained, wrapped tight in our bedsheets, and yet the air was not the same? Our lungs were always the first to detect we were not of that world, that terrible world of not asleep and not awake.  In that place there was only the torpor of fate, an airless sinking. Our demons waited in silence, and there was nothing we could say.

But daylight was the treacherous one. Morning tempted us to forget our terror. With daylight, shadows were shooed away, unmasked. If a squat demon was a pile of laundry, then a sunlit whisper could be chased down with fingers outstretched.

Continue reading “Mothers and Demons and the In-Between” – Fiction by Janelle Garcia

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #5 in Pictures

A jillion juicy thank-yous to everyone who helped make Reading #5 such a joy: Bud, Joanna, Jon, Shawn, Franz, J.E., & Ron for reading your flappy lits; Alibi for your scintillating singing & lovely photography; Pacific Standard for your warm hospitality; and all you sweet sexy people who came out on a Winter Wednesday night to watch us. How ’bout we do this again on, say, March 23rd?

photos by Alibi Jones


Bud Smith reads his flash fiction “Tiger Blood,” originally published at Hobart


Joanna C. Valente reads “Chapel of Sacred Mirrors,” one of five powerful poems she contributed to FLAPPERHOUSE #8 Continue reading FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #5 in Pictures

FLAPPERHOUSE #8 Now on Sale!

Wendigos. Witches. Demons. Insects. P.J. Harvey. Purity. Parenthood. Patahistorians. Paraphernalia. Purgatory. Progress? Phosphorescent Skywriting: FLAPPERHOUSE #8.

PRINT copies available via
digital (PDF) copies NOW AVAILABLE


(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.)


“The Witch These Days” – Poetry by E.H. Brogan

The Witch - Alfred Kubin, 1900
The Witch – Alfred Kubin, 1900

Should you care for one more taste of our supernaturally great Winter 2016 issue before it flies on December 22, here’s “The Witch These Days,” one of four enchanting poems by E.H. Brogan in FLAPPERHOUSE #8. And if you haven’t pre-ordered a digital copy of the issue already, you can click here to have it apparate into your emailbox by the Solstice.

(To hear a recording of E.H. reading the poem, check out the Soundcloud file below the text.)

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MORE AND MORE THE WITCH finds herself just wanting some
alone, no more villagers who pound down her door and pretend
they are friendly so she might do them favors, simple favors,
one single favor or a myriad, sometimes as little as her presence at
a bar she doesn’t want to go out to tonight, the aura of her blessing,
hot factor of her green-edged hair, power implied by her implied power, by
her being there. She could say nothing – but no one lets her, out in public,
ever. All she really wants to get done strangers stomp all over, stand in the way
of scooping litter, block progress on her newest painting, even her shortest,
partial tasks: ordering parchment notes and copying fresh spells down in
attempts at calligraphy, or script, a mark THAT she cares, or that she takes
her time, at least, she tries, within her cracking record Book.
But no one seems to understand her level, how absent
company does not mean company is needed. It sounds awful
boring to all of them, loneliness, those that live in the village.
Without others what could one be doing? Running
from you all, she mutters as she finally picks up
the phone, you know, the landline which for over
twenty minutes now has rung and kept
on ringing. What do you need?

{ X }

image1E.H. BROGAN is a graduate of the University of Delaware with a B.A. in English. You can read her poetry at places like Cider Press Review, Bop Dead City, FLAPPERHOUSE, the Sandy River Review, and Red Paint Hill. Soon, you’ll be able to read her prose in PRIMITIVE magazine. Her house is built of unread books. Tweet @wheresmsbrogan for more. You can listen to any or all of her previously published poems on Soundcloud here

“Chapel of Sacred Mirrors” – Poetry by Joanna C. Valente

Cosmic Energy - Remedios Varo, circa 1956
Cosmic Energy – Remedios Varo, circa 1956

If you’re ravenous for a taste of FLAPPERHOUSE #8, check out “Chapel of Sacred Mirrors” below, one of five spellbinding poems by Joanna C. Valente in our forthcoming Winter 2016 issue.

To read the rest of Joanna’s contributions to our weird little zine, you could pre-order a digital (PDF) copy for $3US and it will fly into your emailbox by the Winter Solstice. And if you’ll be in the NYC area on January 6, you can come see Joanna read some of her work, along with many other very flappy writers, at FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #5 / Issue #8 Flight Party!

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WHEN YOU ARE FOUR YEARS OLD, you still fit in the crawl
spaces of your first house and feel the world as too big

and long for a lack of space, an end to absence
like the glue sticks that never stick the red heart

to the white letter paper from a forest
that doesn’t exist and no one worries about

where bears skin old women alive before
lighting candles pink as their necks

before the sounds they make being shoved
against a wall, choking—a  violin underwater

all alone like a body is a letter you rip
open—neither look pretty when you rip its seams

apart, find clumps like hair inside a medicine
bottle with random letters smudged off

by touch—can’t remember whose, doesn’t
matter because I’m drunk and there’s nothing

inside my body to hear except swans
eating the hearts of their mates after they make

love, mistaking veins for birthday candles
on top of cakes dreamt up by humans who still

love each other—if they realized their eventual

fate is to be dead forever, would they even
bother to begin with?

{ X }

joannavalente_bwJOANNA C. VALENTE is sometimes a mermaid and sometimes a human. She is the author of Sirs & Madams (Aldrich Press, 2014) and The Gods Are Dead (Deadly Chaps Press), and received her MFA at Sarah Lawrence College. Her collection Marys of the Sea is forthcoming from ELJ Publications in 2016. Some of her work appears in The Huffington Post, Columbia Journal, The Atlas Review, The Destroyer, among others. In 2011, she received the American Society of Poet’s Prize. She edits Yes, Poetry, and is the Managing Editor for Luna Luna Magazine.

FLAPPERHOUSE Reading #5 / Issue #8 Flight Party

Come experience a post-Solstice epiphany & join us as we celebrate the flight of our 8th issue with our 5th reading on 3 Kings’ day– that’s  WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 6 from 7 to 9 PM at Pacific Standard, 82 Fourth Avenue in Brooklyn.