HOOT ONLINE, ISSUE 88, SEPTEMBER 2020 – MICRO FICTION, POETRY, MEMOIR, BOOK REVIEWS

American Bio #2
by Abby Minor; artwork by author

       Nice now to be Norway
     pines blowing
    with great silken sounds outside
   my window. One of my windows,
  for I have many, for I “have” a lot
  more than most. “Wear a sapphire
   or emerald stones” one medieval
    medical guide says for
  contraceptive advice. Of course
we can’t all afford great jewels.
IT’S PROBABLY CLICHÉ BUT MY FIRST CINEMATIC CRUSH WAS SCARLETT JOHANSSON’S PINK WIG FROM LOST IN TRANSLATION
by Shawn Berman 

I remember being 13, watching ScarJo belt out lyrics from The Pretenders, that beautiful pink wig of hers swaying back-n-forth under the dancing neon lights of a run-down karaoke bar.

Years later, I wonder how that wig is doing. If there’s a way for me to take it out to dinner, Italian—something fancy in Manhattan, preferably on the Upper East Side.

I know it’s silly but I can’t help but dream of a life where me and that wig runaway together to some stupid suburb, sipping frozen margs on a little wraparound porch, screaming at kids to get off our lawn, as we watch the sun set, stealing cheek kisses from one another. Life would be so simple. So perfect. And we would live happily ever after. Ahh.

 

Blood Upon the Fenders
by: Emory Russo

He marched to the names of his siblings, living and dead, unable to keep the military chants straight after the first week. Joel, Henry, Alma, Robert. Joel, Henry, Alma, Robert. They trained him to drive service vehicles, and at night he dreamt of car accidents, hot leather and screeching metal, Alma singing nursery rhymes and Robert’s shoe kicking rhythmically into his knee. In France, he ran down a woman who was firing a pistol into a Yiddish bookstore, then was sick into the passenger seat. The radio only played swing.

 

LITTLE IS REQUIRED OF ME
by Bill Ayers

No one expected me to mow
so late in the year, in November,
but now that I have, after sleeping in,
then rising to find you in the back yard, raking,
I can’t help but feel proud.

Plus, I am happy I got to see the yellow mums
that aren’t visible from the windows.
Not only that, but where we put grass seed down
a month ago and gave up on and forgot about
there are so many pale green threads.

 

–

 

Abby Minor lives in the ridges and valleys of central Pennsylvania, where she works on poems, essays, and projects for reproductive justice. Her most recent chapbook is *Real Words for Inside* (Gap Riot Press, 2018).

Shawn Berman plays a mean air guitar and runs The Daily Drunk. Some of his recent work can be found in Hobart, Rejection Letters, and (mac) ro (mic). He tweets rad GIFs @sbb_writer

Emory Russo is a trans man, cat lover, and closet idealist currently living in Tampa, Florida, though he grew up in Maryland. He can be found on Twitter @emoryarusso.

Bill Ayres’ book of poems, What Passes for Wisdom, comes out in October from Finishing Line Press.

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