Dog Eat Crow Magazine has changed, my friends. We've switched formats, locations, and looks. We'd like to thank all of the wonderful contributors who have graced us with their words and poetry over the last couple of years. Your words are beautiful. We love them.
But all things change, and DECM is no different. You can now find us here, where we will be publishing exclusively the work of young writers (14 to 20 years old), and helping make the first year of the Best Young Writers contest a smashing success. So, if you're a young writer and you want to see your work in print, come on over. We'd love to have you.
Wednesday, December 12, 2012
Friday, November 9, 2012
Rez Dog
By Janet Shell Anderson
The
deep winter moon lifts over the Pine Ridge Reservation just after
sundown. The west wind sings to itself as it scours the rez badlands,
cliffs, escarpments, chutes, as it bends over Quiverhill, Ghost Canyon,
Bear in the Lodge Creek. Coyotes twist their barbed-wire cries over the
night.
One
man, hunched against the wind, ignores the moon, the coyotes, walks
west along the old dump road, a gravel track near the badlands
escarpment. Joshua Fast Elk, angry, grieving, dark head bent, dark eyes
fixed on the ground, doesn’t see the moon, hear the wind, care about it.
His younger brother, Melford, his only family, has just died. Nineteen.
Pneumonia. No one saved him. Melford was worth saving.
Josh
knew Mel was sick, but Josh thought it was just a cold, went to work
thirty miles away in Kadoka and didn’t get back to their village,
Wambli, until late. Josh didn’t know Mel left the house, passed out in
the old Gethsemane Cemetery in town where he’d gone alone, sad because
his girl, Kate Quiver, broke off with him.
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Initiation
By Adetokunbo Abiola
I do not wake this December afternoon because the waves of the Atlantic Ocean breaks on the Kuramo beach with a roar. After a few days of living in the abandoned shack, I am used to the sound of the ocean. What wakes me up is Muyi’s shout: “Come later in the day! Come later in the day! I’ll give you money.” I am not used to Muyi, my elder brother, speaking this way. If he said, “I’ll break your head, you motherfucker!” It would have been more in character. However, his conciliatory tone makes me curious, and I roll over on the sand and stare.
Dancing Jasper shouts at him: “Moni owo mi da? Where is my money?” People say Dancing Jasper works for Alaye Papa, the ‘Area father’ of this part of Kuramo Beach . Sweet Mama, who owns the bar where Muyi and I work, calls him Omo Alaye Papa. One of the ‘Area Boy’ at the beach told Muyi and me the previous evening:
“Settlement is your certificate for Kuramo. Once you settle Dancing Jasper you and your brother can work here.”
Tuesday, April 19, 2011
How To Treat A Genie
By G. David Schwartz
There are several ways to determine how to treat a genie. Most say it is to do so like a salesman. That is, with rudeness and sub-specialty.
First, you must learn to recognize who and what is a genie, which is not as simple as it seems. They are not scepters you can recognize by their movement, deduce by their absence. No they are rely there.
You may bump into them and not even notice you did so. They are not quite human. But still they try on shoes. Don't you think genies need shoes?
You are allowed to hit the genie. On the head, or kick the genie in the knees. The trick is, of course, you need to locate the genie. Still, the genie has no human emotions, nor any non-human emotions. Druids do feel pain. They do not need politeness. Nor do they need napkins. They are extremely rude non-people.
There are several ways to determine how to treat a genie. Most say it is to do so like a salesman. That is, with rudeness and sub-specialty.
First, you must learn to recognize who and what is a genie, which is not as simple as it seems. They are not scepters you can recognize by their movement, deduce by their absence. No they are rely there.
You may bump into them and not even notice you did so. They are not quite human. But still they try on shoes. Don't you think genies need shoes?
You are allowed to hit the genie. On the head, or kick the genie in the knees. The trick is, of course, you need to locate the genie. Still, the genie has no human emotions, nor any non-human emotions. Druids do feel pain. They do not need politeness. Nor do they need napkins. They are extremely rude non-people.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
The Show
By Ron Koppelberger
Mawson August tapped the rust colored ashtray with a sleight subtle rhythm. Inhaling he savored the gentle caress of vanilla-flavored clove. Chaldea Clove, “Discreet yet neat!” it said on the box. The bottle of Heineken sat lonely and nearly full next to a half-eaten plate of green beans.
The teddy bear on the television screen looked soft and fuzzy, friendly; Mawson got cozy in his easy chair and clicked the remote control to his new flat screen liquid digital. He belched a growling tiger and patted his stomach.
Inhaling deeply he relaxed and exhaled a mushrooming plume of smoke. He turned out the table lamp next to him. Silhouettes in dancing storms and evanescent shadow played across his face in peripheral morphus exchange with the light from the glowing television. Mawson sighed and checked the cable guide, Click, Click, Click. Channel 138, a movie “The Lady and the Purchased Passion,” 187, “free will” it read, 209, “Kick yer Butt in Hell” it read. He opened his eyes wider in the darkness and the glow of flittering chatterbox vision. “ Kick yer butt in hell,” he read again. For a moment he was indecisive in his choice, “Why not.” he whispered. The tranquil pause between seconds and minutes ticked by as he waited for the satellite relay to capture the picture.
The screen flashed a simple one word announcement, “Evangeline,” then there was gray static, again the screen flashed “Evangeline!” He waited, bonded wandering eyes expectant, “Evangeline!” The rapt face of a brilliant twilight sunset, compliant to the approaching indigo shade, shaped in the fashion of a man, eyes scarlet and the rest in shadow except for a row of pearly white teeth, “Evangeline!” superimposed across the man’s silhouette. A low hum refrained in a soft pillowy echo, “Evangeline,” it whispered. Mawson looked at his watch it had stopped at 12:37 A.M., “Evangeline the man whispered a bit louder. “The spoils of war,” he spoke aloud in sibilant rhythm with the crickets that had begun chirping. His mouth opened a tiny bit and he reached up to the pearly whites and pulled out a piece of folded notebook paper. His dark hand held the paper, outstretched almost as if offering the secret note to Mawson. He unfolded the piece of paper.
“Evangeline!” it said in maroon script. The man took a wooden match from the shadows before him, striking the match against his check a tiny inferno of brilliance charmed the well of gray-black shadow. Holding the match to the paper he set the scrap on fire. It burned and his face gnarled to a look of absolute hatred. “EVAGILINE!” he screamed shaking the space between Mawson and the screen. Understood, implicit in chaste degrees of illumination a giant red and amber sun filled the screen, the unassuming figure of an angel in flight fluttered across the screen and a shower of rose petals filled the air in gentle undulating harmony. A silent rhapsody in cadence with the sound of a beating heart filled the room. Mawson saw an unborn fetus and the conclusion of the moment. The screen filled with light<“Salvation.” it read. There was an intangible unspoken purity in the angel as the gentle hiss of static woke him from his quiet reverie and his secret discussion.
The dream, he possessed the betrothal of a gracious existence, the dream, he shivered for a moment and the twilight wild whispered “Evangeline.” in his ear. The better of a revolution rolled before him, wheat and saffron, near the edges and in the distance, fire great heaps of flame.
Ron Koppelberger has written 97 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels. He has been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!!, Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. He also recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry in The Storyteller for his poem "Secret Sash."
Mawson August tapped the rust colored ashtray with a sleight subtle rhythm. Inhaling he savored the gentle caress of vanilla-flavored clove. Chaldea Clove, “Discreet yet neat!” it said on the box. The bottle of Heineken sat lonely and nearly full next to a half-eaten plate of green beans.
The teddy bear on the television screen looked soft and fuzzy, friendly; Mawson got cozy in his easy chair and clicked the remote control to his new flat screen liquid digital. He belched a growling tiger and patted his stomach.
Inhaling deeply he relaxed and exhaled a mushrooming plume of smoke. He turned out the table lamp next to him. Silhouettes in dancing storms and evanescent shadow played across his face in peripheral morphus exchange with the light from the glowing television. Mawson sighed and checked the cable guide, Click, Click, Click. Channel 138, a movie “The Lady and the Purchased Passion,” 187, “free will” it read, 209, “Kick yer Butt in Hell” it read. He opened his eyes wider in the darkness and the glow of flittering chatterbox vision. “ Kick yer butt in hell,” he read again. For a moment he was indecisive in his choice, “Why not.” he whispered. The tranquil pause between seconds and minutes ticked by as he waited for the satellite relay to capture the picture.
The screen flashed a simple one word announcement, “Evangeline,” then there was gray static, again the screen flashed “Evangeline!” He waited, bonded wandering eyes expectant, “Evangeline!” The rapt face of a brilliant twilight sunset, compliant to the approaching indigo shade, shaped in the fashion of a man, eyes scarlet and the rest in shadow except for a row of pearly white teeth, “Evangeline!” superimposed across the man’s silhouette. A low hum refrained in a soft pillowy echo, “Evangeline,” it whispered. Mawson looked at his watch it had stopped at 12:37 A.M., “Evangeline the man whispered a bit louder. “The spoils of war,” he spoke aloud in sibilant rhythm with the crickets that had begun chirping. His mouth opened a tiny bit and he reached up to the pearly whites and pulled out a piece of folded notebook paper. His dark hand held the paper, outstretched almost as if offering the secret note to Mawson. He unfolded the piece of paper.
“Evangeline!” it said in maroon script. The man took a wooden match from the shadows before him, striking the match against his check a tiny inferno of brilliance charmed the well of gray-black shadow. Holding the match to the paper he set the scrap on fire. It burned and his face gnarled to a look of absolute hatred. “EVAGILINE!” he screamed shaking the space between Mawson and the screen. Understood, implicit in chaste degrees of illumination a giant red and amber sun filled the screen, the unassuming figure of an angel in flight fluttered across the screen and a shower of rose petals filled the air in gentle undulating harmony. A silent rhapsody in cadence with the sound of a beating heart filled the room. Mawson saw an unborn fetus and the conclusion of the moment. The screen filled with light<“Salvation.” it read. There was an intangible unspoken purity in the angel as the gentle hiss of static woke him from his quiet reverie and his secret discussion.
The dream, he possessed the betrothal of a gracious existence, the dream, he shivered for a moment and the twilight wild whispered “Evangeline.” in his ear. The better of a revolution rolled before him, wheat and saffron, near the edges and in the distance, fire great heaps of flame.
Ron Koppelberger has written 97 books of poetry over the past several years and 17 novels. He has been published in The Storyteller, Ceremony, Write On!!!, Freshly Baked Fiction and Necrology Shorts. He also recently won the People’s Choice Award for poetry in The Storyteller for his poem "Secret Sash."
Tuesday, February 1, 2011
If I Should Fall In Love
By Randy Lowens
“A thousand times,” she whispered into the darkness of the stubble on his chin. “A thousand times.”
By conservative estimate, they'd got it on twice a week throughout ten years of marriage. So the math was easy. With roughly fifty weeks in a year, that was a hundred couplings per annum. Over the course of ten years, they'd done it more than a thousand times.
A body would think that sex with the same lover would grow stale over so long a period, that after, say, five hundred instances of intercourse it would become boring. At least routine. A body would expect a girl to long for adventure, for some exotic spices added to her fare. To close her eyes and dwell on ethnic diversity. To imagine being young and ravaged by a gang of shirtless construction workers.
But no. Well, yes, she had those fantasies. But also, each time she had carnal knowledge of her husband, each time they mated like a pair of graceful, frantic deer in rut, when their sleek and sweaty limbs entwined and their hearts thumped like steam engines pounding down some treacherous, gyrating pair of rails, she transcended herself. She left the planet and lay floating, suspended in air, deathless yet not alive, existing in the eternal embrace of winking noon day stars.
They had once fought so often, with such spite and venom, that they sought counseling. At the close of the session, the pastor warned that no relationship could survive on animal passion alone. Without a spiritual connection, divorce became an option. The old preacher had admired her nylon-clad legs that flirted from beneath a plaid skirt as he spoke of God, and she knew he was a fool.
“If I ever get bored, I'll leave you, Baby,” she sighed into the breeze from the box fan resting on the windowsill. “Or, if I should fall in love, I'll stay and just have an affair.”
Randy Lowens resides in the central Kentucky city of Richmond. He has been published in A-Minor, Wrong Tree Review, Fried Chicken and Coffee, and elsewhere.
“A thousand times,” she whispered into the darkness of the stubble on his chin. “A thousand times.”
By conservative estimate, they'd got it on twice a week throughout ten years of marriage. So the math was easy. With roughly fifty weeks in a year, that was a hundred couplings per annum. Over the course of ten years, they'd done it more than a thousand times.
A body would think that sex with the same lover would grow stale over so long a period, that after, say, five hundred instances of intercourse it would become boring. At least routine. A body would expect a girl to long for adventure, for some exotic spices added to her fare. To close her eyes and dwell on ethnic diversity. To imagine being young and ravaged by a gang of shirtless construction workers.
But no. Well, yes, she had those fantasies. But also, each time she had carnal knowledge of her husband, each time they mated like a pair of graceful, frantic deer in rut, when their sleek and sweaty limbs entwined and their hearts thumped like steam engines pounding down some treacherous, gyrating pair of rails, she transcended herself. She left the planet and lay floating, suspended in air, deathless yet not alive, existing in the eternal embrace of winking noon day stars.
They had once fought so often, with such spite and venom, that they sought counseling. At the close of the session, the pastor warned that no relationship could survive on animal passion alone. Without a spiritual connection, divorce became an option. The old preacher had admired her nylon-clad legs that flirted from beneath a plaid skirt as he spoke of God, and she knew he was a fool.
“If I ever get bored, I'll leave you, Baby,” she sighed into the breeze from the box fan resting on the windowsill. “Or, if I should fall in love, I'll stay and just have an affair.”
Randy Lowens resides in the central Kentucky city of Richmond. He has been published in A-Minor, Wrong Tree Review, Fried Chicken and Coffee, and elsewhere.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
The Dog You Hated Died Today, Thought You'd Want To Know
By Jordan Matthew Walsh
Hey Steve,
Do you remember the night when you woke me up to tell me that Dad was at
the hospital? You were like six or so and I was four and a half I think.
You woke up in the middle of the night because we’d watched that shitty
movie Arachnophobia (why did mom and dad let us watch that?), and you
dreamt you were covered in spiders. You hated spiders so much (hahaha),
and I did too because I looked up to you so much and you couldn’t do much
wrong in my eyes then. And because of the spiders you went downstairs to
sleep on Mom’s side of the bed, but the bed was empty. You never told me
this, but I guess you must’ve called Mom’s cell phone and she told you
what happened. Then, the part I do know is that you ran up the stairs in
your socks (you slept in socks when we were little do you remember that?)
to tell me what happened and you slipped on the hardwood landing and put a
whole in the plaster wall with your knee.
I woke up scared because I heard the crash and heard you cry out, and I
found you in a heap on the stairs crying so much you couldn’t breathe.
You were crying and bleeding from your knee and I asked you what was
wrong, like a dumbass. But you told me that Dad had a heart attack in the
middle of the night and fell on the floor of the kitchen and probably
would’ve died because he passed out but that Bear woke him up by licking
his face and kept him awake and alive until Mom found him and now they’re
at the hospital and maybe we should be worried but maybe not. You were
scared. You made me scared.
I sat there with you for a while until you were alright enough to go find
Bear and thank him and pet his knotty golden hair until he was as happy as
he deserved to be for saving Dad’s life. But we were still really worried
and didn’t sleep until Mom and Dad came home the next day.
Do you remember that?
I hope you do.
I was thinking about that because Bear died today. I guess I should’ve
told you that in the first place. Sorry bout that. Dad was really upset
and that made me think of that night. I just kept thinking about it all
day, and I’m kind of depressed about it. And Bear dying too.
I guess Mom tried to call you earlier, but you didn’t answer her again and
I thought I’d email you so that you knew that Bear died. I know you hated
him, but I thought you’d want to know.
Do you remember that time that he got into the fireplace because we didn’t
put up the gate and he was covered in soot and he got into your room and
everything in there got covered in soot too. You were so pissed (hahaha).
It was pretty funny how angry you were. I think you wanted to kick him
or something. Maybe that’s why you hated him so much. I guess that must
have been pretty annoying in a way.
Well anyways, Dad went out today after Bear died and took him to the vet
and left him there and went right to the animal shelter to buy another dog
on the same fucking trip (I mean really?). I thought that was kind of
weird. Don’t you think so?
But this dog’s an English Sheep Dog or something like that, which I don’t
like as much as Golden Retrievers, but maybe you’ll like this new dog,
Benny, better than Bear. I wanted to name him Lance like the one guy from
Contra (remember when you beat that on the NES at Grandma’s house in like
15 minutes that was crazy), but Dad really likes B names I guess (hahaha).
Also, Mom was kind of pissed about the new dog. I guess Dad didn’t ask
her before he got it, so they started fighting.
We’ve all been fighting a lot lately. I think you were the one who kind
of kept us from killing each other, but now that you’re at school
everybody’s kind of crazy here. Especially today with Bear.
Dad found him, which is probably for the best since Dad loved that dog so
fucking much and walked him like every day. I guess Bear was outside in
the yard under the trampoline kind of half barking because he couldn’t get
up, and Dad found him just in time to see him die. He cried a lot I think
because his faced looked kind of puffy when I found them outside. Bear’s
tongue was still out. That was weird.
When Mom came home, she was really upset (I thought it was about Bear at
first), but then she started a fight with Dad. She said Dad loved Bear
more than her and he wouldn’t have cried if she died (she’s been really
bitchy lately), and Dad got upset and left us here with Benny. Mom still
hasn’t even looked at Benny yet I don’t think.
Sorry to be such a bummer, but I’m just really depressed about things. I
know its stupid but I keep thinking that Dad’s gonna die because Bear’s
dead. Pretty fucking stupid right? I just keep thinking that. I just
needed to tell someone.
Oh yeah. I forgot about the good news. I got my acceptance letter from
Point Park today, so I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other next year.
Don’t get too excited (ha).
But anyways, we all really miss you man. I really miss you.
I hope school is going well.
Love,
Jimmy
P.S. Maybe call me sometime when you’re free. Maybe we can hang out soon
and play Magic the Gathering or Contra or something like that. Or really
whatever.
Jordan Matthew Walsh lives in Pittsburgh and is not depressed by that
at all. He writes fiction and poetry and plays, or, at least, he tries to
do these things. He also tries to act sometimes, and pretends every once
in a while to play the guitar, but only Cat Stevens covers.
Hey Steve,
Do you remember the night when you woke me up to tell me that Dad was at
the hospital? You were like six or so and I was four and a half I think.
You woke up in the middle of the night because we’d watched that shitty
movie Arachnophobia (why did mom and dad let us watch that?), and you
dreamt you were covered in spiders. You hated spiders so much (hahaha),
and I did too because I looked up to you so much and you couldn’t do much
wrong in my eyes then. And because of the spiders you went downstairs to
sleep on Mom’s side of the bed, but the bed was empty. You never told me
this, but I guess you must’ve called Mom’s cell phone and she told you
what happened. Then, the part I do know is that you ran up the stairs in
your socks (you slept in socks when we were little do you remember that?)
to tell me what happened and you slipped on the hardwood landing and put a
whole in the plaster wall with your knee.
I woke up scared because I heard the crash and heard you cry out, and I
found you in a heap on the stairs crying so much you couldn’t breathe.
You were crying and bleeding from your knee and I asked you what was
wrong, like a dumbass. But you told me that Dad had a heart attack in the
middle of the night and fell on the floor of the kitchen and probably
would’ve died because he passed out but that Bear woke him up by licking
his face and kept him awake and alive until Mom found him and now they’re
at the hospital and maybe we should be worried but maybe not. You were
scared. You made me scared.
I sat there with you for a while until you were alright enough to go find
Bear and thank him and pet his knotty golden hair until he was as happy as
he deserved to be for saving Dad’s life. But we were still really worried
and didn’t sleep until Mom and Dad came home the next day.
Do you remember that?
I hope you do.
I was thinking about that because Bear died today. I guess I should’ve
told you that in the first place. Sorry bout that. Dad was really upset
and that made me think of that night. I just kept thinking about it all
day, and I’m kind of depressed about it. And Bear dying too.
I guess Mom tried to call you earlier, but you didn’t answer her again and
I thought I’d email you so that you knew that Bear died. I know you hated
him, but I thought you’d want to know.
Do you remember that time that he got into the fireplace because we didn’t
put up the gate and he was covered in soot and he got into your room and
everything in there got covered in soot too. You were so pissed (hahaha).
It was pretty funny how angry you were. I think you wanted to kick him
or something. Maybe that’s why you hated him so much. I guess that must
have been pretty annoying in a way.
Well anyways, Dad went out today after Bear died and took him to the vet
and left him there and went right to the animal shelter to buy another dog
on the same fucking trip (I mean really?). I thought that was kind of
weird. Don’t you think so?
But this dog’s an English Sheep Dog or something like that, which I don’t
like as much as Golden Retrievers, but maybe you’ll like this new dog,
Benny, better than Bear. I wanted to name him Lance like the one guy from
Contra (remember when you beat that on the NES at Grandma’s house in like
15 minutes that was crazy), but Dad really likes B names I guess (hahaha).
Also, Mom was kind of pissed about the new dog. I guess Dad didn’t ask
her before he got it, so they started fighting.
We’ve all been fighting a lot lately. I think you were the one who kind
of kept us from killing each other, but now that you’re at school
everybody’s kind of crazy here. Especially today with Bear.
Dad found him, which is probably for the best since Dad loved that dog so
fucking much and walked him like every day. I guess Bear was outside in
the yard under the trampoline kind of half barking because he couldn’t get
up, and Dad found him just in time to see him die. He cried a lot I think
because his faced looked kind of puffy when I found them outside. Bear’s
tongue was still out. That was weird.
When Mom came home, she was really upset (I thought it was about Bear at
first), but then she started a fight with Dad. She said Dad loved Bear
more than her and he wouldn’t have cried if she died (she’s been really
bitchy lately), and Dad got upset and left us here with Benny. Mom still
hasn’t even looked at Benny yet I don’t think.
Sorry to be such a bummer, but I’m just really depressed about things. I
know its stupid but I keep thinking that Dad’s gonna die because Bear’s
dead. Pretty fucking stupid right? I just keep thinking that. I just
needed to tell someone.
Oh yeah. I forgot about the good news. I got my acceptance letter from
Point Park today, so I guess we’ll be seeing more of each other next year.
Don’t get too excited (ha).
But anyways, we all really miss you man. I really miss you.
I hope school is going well.
Love,
Jimmy
P.S. Maybe call me sometime when you’re free. Maybe we can hang out soon
and play Magic the Gathering or Contra or something like that. Or really
whatever.
Jordan Matthew Walsh lives in Pittsburgh and is not depressed by that
at all. He writes fiction and poetry and plays, or, at least, he tries to
do these things. He also tries to act sometimes, and pretends every once
in a while to play the guitar, but only Cat Stevens covers.
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