Catharsis

By Ratty St. John

For the first time in months, I ordered us lattes.

Tall, double-shot, with a crown of whipped cream and two cinnamon sticks plunged deep in the foam. When drowning in a fetid lake, I reasoned with myself, what was the use in shaving? Clean-cut or indulgent with stray bits of fat and scruff, I was still toeing a vicious tide for which my body needed bulk. Sooner rather than later, my pockets would empty. In anticipation of the kill, I rolled up my worn sweater sleeves.

Meanwhile, three doors down, Maryjane dealt with the sandwiches: double-decker BLT’s with guacamole and Dijon. She slipped them in her massive purse, that nappy one for knitting gear, and paid for them in quarters. I carefully scooted the lattes to one side of the counter. “Anything else?” asked the girl, cupping the grinds, black as ants, in one hand like some primeval exterminator. I smiled and tried to casually nod.

The Orange

By Lia Lewine

I dreamed of an orange.
A pocket-sized dream.
A dream nonetheless.
One day my dream came true.

I wished I could go back to the dream again.

Lia Lewine writes things. It’s a compulsory habit her thoughts employ her with. When she isn’t writing, Lia enjoys hanging out with her friends, running to the beach, and watching her favorite TV shows on Netflix.

Uncle Sam’s Perennial Lessons in Food Critiquing

By Aisha Bhoori

“There is an inherent talent required to do the job and do it well. Never forget that critiquing is founded on the principle of economics; we want to maximize the amount of content restaurant goers by utilizing the least amount of resources. You must constantly ask yourself: What am I doing to fulfill my God-given responsibility of apprentice food sergeant?”

Uncle Sam halted his indoctrination. He ran his hands through his goatee, tobacco stained from springs spent umpiring little league games, and placed a weathered palm on the hood of his burgundy Chevy.  

He turned towards me, and I saw that his eyes, which glowed with the ferocity of a testosterone-infused teen, belied his age and suggested that he was an invincible man, that he was the lucky bastard who had found and gladly hoarded de Leon’s much evaded fountain of youth, that he was the Shepherd himself, returned to guide his flock whose sense of taste had gone awry.

Uncle Sam fumbled in his red and white striped pocket, and his fingers emerged, entwined around a set of car keys. He opened the passenger door of the beaten car and handed me a crumpled list, stained with the weariness of age: Ravenous Restaurants to Ravage.

Deep Waters

By Holly Law

I am Djeigo, the hideous skeleton-boy. You may have heard of me. You may have seen me in the streets. You may have spread the rumours, and they’re true.

You can see my ribs, yes, every one of them. The channels between are deep enough for you to run your fingers through. It’s true, it’s true, there is a flicker in my skin. Between two ribs, a little on the left, at regular intervals. Flicker, flicker, it goes. That’s my heart beating.

Lower down, where the ribs drop away, I cave right in. The hollowest of stomachs, paper thin. My hip bones jut and rub, as if they make to break right through. Pale skin, legs of string. Scooped out cheeks and eye sockets, to catch the rain when it falls.

Big Changes at Best Young Writers

The team over at Best Young Writers has just announced a few awesome changes to the Best Young Writers contest. The biggest is that there is no longer a submission fee for submitting to the contest, so get your best work together and send it on. You might be the winner of a $500 cash prize! For more information about the changes, feel free to check out the BYW website here.

Battle in Blackbird’s Field

By Lizza Rodriguez

1389:
The art of battle meets a canvas of men
that speak only in war-drums.
They hover over ground like train-tracks
as  there is no reason for a soldier
to empty his voice when there are cannons
being harvested under plantain leaves.

Come as you can be. There is water
hiking backwards into canteens
and women tucking children beneath
gravel gingham when the vulture songs
turn to powdered explosives.

1448:
Somewhere, a thousand-wine sky hums
the leech trap of morning, yells its
fire-ant anthem into a clan of bunkers
and begs a drowsy soldier for forgiveness.
The trees burn; a sea of mass sap
genocide seals those unruly guts.

There are red flags and sparrows
hung like branches on a campsite;
whispering to themselves in the quiet.
The woodland of bowing necks is seen
beheading plant stems on their own white flags.

1999:
All ends in single digit formation.
The women drink bathwater to keep
themselves clean, sunlight bends through
iron like an unwelcome warrior
but does nothing to soothe the mouths
left window-wide open.

Rain falls like lemon zest here,
all sour and drunken yellow,
a tarp of evening;
the only sound loud enough
to cure war.

Lizza Rodriguez is a high school senior who dreams of inspiring an audience through poetry.

Early Bird Special Ending Soon at Best Young Writers

Our friends over at Best Young Writers have just announced that, in order to thank all of the lovely writers who have already supported the contest and who will in the very near future, the submission fee will remain only $4 for any submissions received before December 31st, 2012. After that the fee will go back to $5 for the duration of the submission period. So, get your stories in now!

You can submit your stories here, or if you wish to go the old school route, you can mail your story with a check made payable to Best Young Writers to:

Best Young Writers
PO Box 1398
Tucker, GA 30085

You can learn more about the contest by visiting their website here.

Mechanical Hillside

By Madison Brittingham

Dialogue in Plain Contemplation-

Excuse me Sir,

Are you to blame for the quivering
heart I’ve found in my glove compartment
atop my registration?  What did you
say about Sunday afternoon?  Oh you
said that holly bush leaves truly represent
the character of green.  There should be
dark chocolate on every waxed oak table.

I’ve listened to every word you’ve said
and still cannot fathom your metallic evolution.
Dead birds will chirp in a couple of years
because they were captured by illegitimate gloves?
That’s horse hoof tongue un-nailed with plastic.
I haven’t forgotten who your father was,
but doesn’t he control the feathers of a
far-reaching operation? Oh.

This illusion game is straining my arm.
I can feel what you say but haven’t a clue
what orcas do in winter.  Try to figure
the roundabouts of astrology?  Don’t
think I don’t remember, its still pulsing
leaking music onto my registration.
Who’s is it at least?  Some static orphans
Christmas parcel transgendered and lost
in the mail?

Deathmatch 6 is here!

Our pals over at Broken Pencil are sharpening their knives again for another round of Indie Writers’ Deathmatch. This is the sixth time Broken Pencil has hosted this awesome contest, and this year promises to be the best one yet. If you aren’t familiar with Deathmatch, the rules are simple: 8 writers are chosen to compete, two by two, and the readers decide which one makes it to the end. This year has a wrinkle, though: After each round the writers get a chance to revise their work.

So, if you have something under 3000 words and you want to see if you have what it takes, send your work over there. It ain’t for the faint of heart, but it sure is fun.

Visit Broken Pencil’s website for more info.

And So It Begins…

Welcome, everybody, to the new and improved Dog Eat Crow Magazine. We would like to start by thanking all of the writers who contributed and helped make Dog Eat Crow Magazine such a success while it was over at Blogger, and we want to assure you all that your stories will remain posted there so that you can continue to let your fans enjoy those wonderful stories for years to come.

But today marks the beginning of a new chapter in the DECM saga, one that we are very excited to announce and get started and everything. Starting today, DECM has been relaunched on WordPress with the sole mission of publishing all of the great fiction this world’s young writers (ages 14-20) can throw at us.