Edition: Valentines

Happy, or unhappy Valentines day everybody. Today we've got some heartfelt words from some new people. Enjoy!


Remember to tell your friends and submit all your creative thoughts and secret desires!
westegg[dot]publishing[at]gmail[dot]com




I could forget

Antonio Urquidez

If you were a blond-haired, blue-eyed girl,
a taller, older glass of water.

refreshing and irresistible but not hard to forget.

if my hand didn’t rest on your hip quite as well as it did,
a different style or a different little yellow house down the street from mine.

my aunt called this morning for my dad.
told me she found my uncle Gino in a jail in Bakersfield
tell your father to check his email she said.

I’ve been smoking more cigarettes since you’ve gone.
we all yearn for a taste of fire.




Outside
Ezra James Woollan

leave for the night, don’t come back till you’ve seen it.
walk down the middle of your street, make sure its empty.
look at the streetlights. the yellow orange glow on the hood of a truck on bricks.
listen to the sound of your footsteps totally alone. don’t wear your slippers.

this is hell.

take this chance, and remember i will not be here when you get back.

Some time ago...
Tobias Newell

the worst day of my life?
i could tell you about when i broke my middle finger, or when my birthday just became another day.

or just the walk from my car to your house. the night after we talked for the last time.
snow crushing reluctantly under my boots, quiet crunches telling me to give up and go home.

i got in and out of my car at least three times.
the walk up to the front desk was the worst. my stomach had that feeling
churning or turning, i’m not sure. you’ve got to clench your teeth though when you feel it

i took the stairs up to your floor
to hold off the truth
just a little longer

i knocked only once, softly. then i called,
you picked up, but i didn’t hear your voice, just the sounds of crowds and laughing. you were in a club or a bar. i hung up.

Last Year

T.R. Johnson

Last year started shaky, 

Similar to the one before. 

It was up and down, 

Left and right, 

Neither here nor there. 

But along the line 

I learned some things 

About you and me and her, 

She left me twice 

And I’m sure 

She’ll leave again 

once more. 

But then again, 

You picked me up 

Or so I thought, 

When she walked out that door. 

And now I’m drunk 

Passed out again 

Drooling on the floor. 

This year started shaky, 

Similar to the one before. 

Life is up and down, 

Left and right, 

Neither here nor there.

Mr. Urquidez went to Colorado State University, he recently went through a break up. He is living in Los Angeles, writing screenplays and poetry.

Mr. Woollan went to the University of Ohio, studying History. He now teaches in Dayton City School district.

Mr. Newell is currently unemployed, information on his book, "Waiting for Maria" is available only by emailing tnewell@mindspring.com

Mr. Johnson No bio is available for Mr. Johnson, he remains shrouded in mystery, his words speaking for him.

Edition Five.

Today we're doing a couple of things differently. Publishing just one story this Edition, which may or may not become part of a series of stories that may or may not be connected.


Now the next announcement is one concerning the next Edition: Valentines Day Poetry! So if you or any of your friends have some excellent (or terrible) poetry you'd like to share, send it in! 
We've already got a few submissions, and we're eager for more: westegg [dot] publishing [at] gmail [dot] com


Now, on to our story!


Note: Neither one of our editors endorse love as a feeling or an idea with any basis in reality, but we encourage love if it inspires creative endeavors.
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Running to the City
Sarah Fogle

          He’d been telling his mom for weeks that he needed to leave. She cradled a bowl of steaming sweet potatoes, walking toward the rough wooden table with tremulous steps, and he just said it, right then and there: “Mom, I’ve gotta go somewhere, I’ve gotta go real soon.” And his mom just let the bowl slip from her hands onto the table, slip right out of those bone fingers, and the blue glass cracked and the pulpy orange seeped through real slug-like. He wanted to yell at her so badly, he wanted to leave her to scoop up the mess and just run out to the field and scream into the tall grass. He could hear them now, the cicadas thrumming outside at dusk like dumb drone bees around a hive, humming like they were speaking to his bones.

          But he’d never run out before; he wasn’t like his father. He pushed himself away from the table, trembling hands gripping the table edge as if making to leave deep marks, and he looked up into those blueberry eyes of hers and saw the beginnings of a wild rain.

          “Oh momma, don’t cry. Now, you know I—“ and he cut himself off as his hands slipped under the cracked bowl and carried a heaping mound to the open trash can. He turned around to see his mother plucking at the glass shards like a cat trying to swat at fish in a pond, her hands too frozen to grab up the pieces as she shuffled them around like bingo chips into a pile he could sweep off the table. The sweet potato smell was everywhere, the rich earthy warmth mingling with the sweet marshmallow buttery air. Everything was indistinguishable now, a swirl of pulp with bits of blue glass. He tried not to cut himself, but it usually happened somewhere, somehow to someone or other, and it may as well have been him better than anyone else. Maris ran down the stairs in her cutest pink dress, her six-year old smile like sunlight through musty barn walls, and she froze on the second-to-last step and started to wrinkle the edges of her dress, and her face crumpled up like a paper bag, the stork bite in the middle of her forehead flaring cherry red as she saw her momma’s tears.

          He tried to clean his hands off best he could before running to his little sister and pulling her up to his chest where she breathed ragged, and he let her hot tears soak up while he petted her dark brown waves of hair.

          “Jason, you can’t leave, no way, no how.” His mother sputtered, her hands halfway through the pulpy mess, staring with eyes he knew she couldn’t see through for all the tears. He walked over, cradling Maris in his arms as she shuddered like a butterfly cocoon in the breeze, and waited for his mother to slough the pulp off onto her apron and reach out for the little girl.

          Stepping back, Jason looked at them all, glimpsing his own reflection in the kitchen door, the three of them a bright mess, marked somewhere by the orange pulp, the palm of his hand stinging smartly and his mother’s fingers covered in tiny cuts. His momma let out something like a cut-off laugh, a burst of giggle she choked down real quick. Maris buried her little head into her momma’s thick sweater, her dark hair spilling out over arms swimming in creamy cable knit sleeves. He watched his momma run her fingers through her daughter’s hair, and he uncrossed his arms real slow and made for the kitchen door with steps like whispers. And just as he was halfway out the door and his momma’s eyes jumped up and stared right at him, he say he’d be right back, and then he went.