Robert Cooperman

THE DEMON HOODIE

The opposite of a cloak of invisibility:
put me on and all anyone can see
is a thief, a rapist, a killer spitting rap's
unholy art of beat-downs, knives, and guns.
I was stitched by Satan's own tailors,
a business deal between My Lord
and certain politicians: afraid everyone
might be getting along too damn well.

So they came up with me: to strike terror
into the hearts of already frightened folks.
When otherwise harmless teenagers wear me,
all people see is a thug: angry, vicious,
a gladiator, a monster happy to use his fists—
if otherwise unarmed—on innocent citizens,
then robbing their wallets, purses, rings,
necklaces, bracelets, anything glittery.

Or if they're carrying nothing fence-able,
then just the joy of pounding a head
into the sidewalk, my cotton fibers
singing a silent litany of, "Kill, Kill, Kill!"

Still, you'd be surprised how hard it is
to get someone to attack for no reason;
but if they’re followed by an armed man,
and told to halt and demanded of, in a sneer,

"What the hell are you doing here, boy?"
then—and it’s beautiful to watch—my wearer
goes berserk with predictable outrage:
the carnage truly spectacular, and if my wearer
is shot and killed, purely in self-defense,
someone else will wear me or one of my brothers:
instantly transformed into your worst nightmare.


Deshant Paul reads "The Demon Hoodie":



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Cooperman confesses: "After George Zimmerman, predictably, walked for killing Trayvon Martin, I went into a rage, and "The Demon Hoodie" was the result. We're all, to greater or lesser extents, guilty of racial profile; even Jesse Jackson confessed he's frightened by groups of kids in hoodies on street corners. But what Zimmerman did was basically legalized murder, since he'd been warned off by the police. And we've come to equate hoodies and baggie jeans with a certain kind of antisocial behavior, whether that assumption is correct or not."

ROBERT COOPERMAN is the author of fourteen poetry collections, most recently Little Timothy in Heaven (March Street Press) and several chapbooks.

Matthew Wilson

A CLOSE CALL

Mom was ill. Dying.
So Alec headed toward the castle.
Many skulls said the sorcerer would
not sell his potions.

Alec thought this fair as he had no money.
He spat on his hands and climbed the ivy walls
toward the window at the tower's top,
sneezing on the smell of magic.

The old man woke and said the words
that turned Alec into a dog.
Fit punishment for a thief.
Laughing, the old sorcerer pulled a knife.

But now, Alec had his fangs.
The spell broke when he ripped out
the old sorcerer's throat,
and trying not to vomit, staggered home.


Deshant Paul reads "A Close Call":



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Matthew confesses: "Recently my mother caught a cold. An easy victory with modern medicine. I wondered what lengths men centuries ago went to find cures. Drama demanded something worse than a sniffle. My love of fantasy mixed its way in as I tried to find out."


MATTHEW WILSON, 29, is a U.K. resident who has been writing since small. Recently these stories have appeared in Beyond Centauri, Starline Poets Association and Carillon Magazine. He is currently editing his first novel.

Angel Zapata

HOUSEKEEPER

She thinks I’ve taken up smoking.
All around the house, she empties
ashtrays from exotic locales:
Hawaii, Tahiti, St. Croix.
The kitchen trash can has become
an island of volcanic ash.
She’s unaware, no cigarettes
ever taint these lips, scar these lungs.
The crushed butts are misdirection.
I watch her dust the worn mantel,
raise the gray shape of father’s urn.
She never suffered his abuse,
prayed he’d be stricken with cancer;
pushed the pillow over his face.
I wonder if she feels it change,
a steady loss of weight each week?
Dr. Rowe said I’d learn to let
dad go a little at a time.
My housekeeper knots the trash bag,
carries more of him out the door.


Deshant Paul reads "Housekeeper":



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Angel confesses: "I saw this photograph of a cremation urn. Looked just like a gold trophy. It reminded me of killers taking ‘trophies’ from crime scenes, keepsakes to relive the memory. I thought if a killer ever sought out professional therapy, how would he interpret ‘letting go of the past’?"

ANGEL ZAPATA grew up in New York City, but now lives in Georgia. He's married and has four sons. Some of his fiction and poetry can be found at Nailpolish Stories, Durable Goods, The Flash Fiction Offensive, Devilfish Review, Bewildering Stories, Right Hand Pointing, and Microw. Visit him at http://arageofangel.blogspot.com/.