Another year in the books, another round of "Auld Lang Syne" sung by the masses. I've always wondered what the real words were to that song, since I'm pretty sure the only times I've heard it sung correctly were when I was watching It's A Wonderful Life. Turns out, the literal translation of the title is Old Long Since, and while that is not quite grammatically correct, it somehow makes more sense to me then a lot of other things this time of year. In this new issue of 50 to 1 we look at some fantastic new work from KC Kovacs, Mark Boss, Andrew Stancek, Harry Pauff, Abigail Wyatt, Chuck Dillon and John C. Mannone.
Paul is going to have to start treating politics like a spectator sport if he's ever going to be able to take it seriously again.
Thanks A Lot by KC Kovacs
Oatmeal stuck to the inside of the bowl like dried cement, resistant even to the Brillo pad she expertly wielded. The metal scraped and squealed as she dragged it along the bottom curves. Her glance moved to the remaining pile of dishes. One more thing he was never good for.
KC Kovacs wanders the universe, trying to remain as anonymous as possible. You probably don't know her, even though you think you do.
Oatmeal stuck to the inside of the bowl like dried cement, resistant even to the Brillo pad she expertly wielded. The metal scraped and squealed as she dragged it along the bottom curves. Her glance moved to the remaining pile of dishes. One more thing he was never good for.
KC Kovacs wanders the universe, trying to remain as anonymous as possible. You probably don't know her, even though you think you do.
1st Line by Mark Boss
The smell woke her - something thick and coppery.
Mark Boss writes novels, which are available at most online booksellers. He blogs at: www.chimpwithpencil.com.
The smell woke her - something thick and coppery.
Mark Boss writes novels, which are available at most online booksellers. He blogs at: www.chimpwithpencil.com.
Juicy by Andrew Stancek
Eve stretched, plucked the radiant apple off the high branch and bit. Tart juice oozed down her chin, lingered, rolled down one breast. She bit again. She glanced at her sleeping companion and his snake. She shook him, thrust the apple into his hand. “Eat.” She realized they were naked.
Some of Andrew Stancek's recent fiction appeared in Pure Slush, A Twist of Noir, Right Hand Pointing, Prime Number Magazine, Istanbul Literary Review and others. THIS Literary Magazine nominated him for a Pushcart Prize.
Eve stretched, plucked the radiant apple off the high branch and bit. Tart juice oozed down her chin, lingered, rolled down one breast. She bit again. She glanced at her sleeping companion and his snake. She shook him, thrust the apple into his hand. “Eat.” She realized they were naked.
Some of Andrew Stancek's recent fiction appeared in Pure Slush, A Twist of Noir, Right Hand Pointing, Prime Number Magazine, Istanbul Literary Review and others. THIS Literary Magazine nominated him for a Pushcart Prize.
1st Line by Harry Pauff
The day I put a piece of bologna into the CD player and cranked the volume up was the day I knew I had to go to rehab.
Harry Pauff drives a green car, enjoys sushi and loves writing.
The day I put a piece of bologna into the CD player and cranked the volume up was the day I knew I had to go to rehab.
Harry Pauff drives a green car, enjoys sushi and loves writing.
The Home-Coming by Abigail Wyatt
The house is cold, biting, bitten, gnawed at by winter. Upstairs, a woman sobs as a new-born infant howls. At the foot of the stairs, between peeling walls, a grey-faced young man seems to hesitate. His eyes take in the first floor landing and then slide towards the still-open door.
Abigail Wyatt writes for her life near Redruth in Cornwall. She resents having to go to work and lives in fear that she will just run out of time.
The house is cold, biting, bitten, gnawed at by winter. Upstairs, a woman sobs as a new-born infant howls. At the foot of the stairs, between peeling walls, a grey-faced young man seems to hesitate. His eyes take in the first floor landing and then slide towards the still-open door.
Abigail Wyatt writes for her life near Redruth in Cornwall. She resents having to go to work and lives in fear that she will just run out of time.
1st Line by Chuck Dillon
No one makes it through a lifetime without doing something incredibly stupid, and as of last night, I was no exception.
Chuck Dillon is a question wrapped in an enigma wrapped in bacon.
No one makes it through a lifetime without doing something incredibly stupid, and as of last night, I was no exception.
Chuck Dillon is a question wrapped in an enigma wrapped in bacon.
Afghanistan on Christmas Day by John C. Mannone
Snow fell thick and the ground grafted its new skin. Clouds gathered over the scarred land: months of abuse, the black-and-blue hills, pounded. Even the tanks and their turrets were covered and silent. White landscape delved into gray sky. And there was peace on Earth, at least for one day.
John C. Mannone has been nominated three times for the Pushcart. His work appears in Conclave, The Medulla Review, Rose & Thorn Journal, Hinchas de PoesÃa, The Pedestal, Magnapoets, Glass, Lucid Rhythms, Prime Mincer and many others. He is the poetry editor for Silver Blade, an adjunct professor of physics in east Tennessee and serves as a NASA/JPL Solar System Ambassador. Visit The Art of Poetry.
Snow fell thick and the ground grafted its new skin. Clouds gathered over the scarred land: months of abuse, the black-and-blue hills, pounded. Even the tanks and their turrets were covered and silent. White landscape delved into gray sky. And there was peace on Earth, at least for one day.
John C. Mannone has been nominated three times for the Pushcart. His work appears in Conclave, The Medulla Review, Rose & Thorn Journal, Hinchas de PoesÃa, The Pedestal, Magnapoets, Glass, Lucid Rhythms, Prime Mincer and many others. He is the poetry editor for Silver Blade, an adjunct professor of physics in east Tennessee and serves as a NASA/JPL Solar System Ambassador. Visit The Art of Poetry.