Farewell.

I am sorry to say, but Literary Tonic has decided to call it quits. Thanks to all who’ve submitted, read, and commented. It has been a real pleasure. If you have work currently in submission with us please feel free to submit it elsewhere. If your work has appeared here previously please email us at toniceditor@yahoo.com if you want your work taken down, otherwise it will remain posted indefinitely.

Thank you,

LT

Poetry by Howie Good

Autumn Sonata

When the tree, in high dudgeon, suddenly
pushes through the polished wood floor,

and the congregation of small scared birds
disbands in confusion,

when the deaf despise the hearing,
and the night janitor at the Museum of Mad Ideas

wipes with special care
the shatterproof glass under which

Hitler’s voice rages,
time’s up,

and I shed my coat on the ground
and lie down beside her,

believing,
as we curl gratefully into each other,

what is real is whatever is
faded, or broken, or falling.

Prose by Drew Kalbach

the girl in my vent: mustache

The girl in my vent has a long curling beard. She keeps bird eggs
tucked back toward her chin that she occasionally removes and cooks
for breakfast. Her beard gets caught beneath her knees when she crawls
around inside my vent. She talks on the phone to her mother about
proper beard hygiene. Twice a week she slips out of my vent and into
my bathroom to shampoo her beard. Sometimes she allows the bird eggs
in her beard to hatch. She trains the birds to deliver secret messages
to other people living in other vents around the world.

The girl in my vent shaved her beard into a handlebar mustache last
Tuesday. She said it made her feel sexier. She sits in my vent and
strokes her mustache gently and observes the aluminum walls beginning
to rust and she throws bird eggs into my room and laughs when I ask
her to stop. The girl in my vent’s mustache is the most beautiful
thing I have ever seen.

the girl in my vent: murmuring

The girl in my vent sits next to my wall and murmurs something about
Jewish terrorist cells in Eastern Europe. She says she has plans to
escape to Jerusalem, to hide in some poor family’s basement until all
fifty-six terrorists are caught. The girl in my vent dyes her hair
and wears colored contacts for three weeks. She murmurs late at night
about purring cats and the dog she had when she was a child that was
hit by a car six times before it died on the sidewalk in front of her
then-boyfriend’s house.

The girl in my vent murmurs that she misses her parents. She says she
wants to fly her mother in from Denver so she can live with her in my
vent. She says she isn’t sure she deserves another human being but her
mother is a rat and rats create rats so there is not much of a
problem. The girl in my vent watches daytime television all day at a
very loud volume and cries softly to herself. The girl in my vent is
afraid of earthquakes and extremely tall buildings. The girl in my
vent says that if one day we found ourselves alone in a desert without
food or water or any prospects of finding food or water then we could
get married and live happily until our bodies begin to decompose and
we mingle with the wildlife. The girl in my vent murmurs into my ear
that one day we will be cacti sucking invisible moisture from
invisible wells thousands of feet beneath the ground.

Poetry by Dasha Desir

Don’t Worry

I wasn’t afraid, nor was it you
that I was running from.

under your shield
under your gun

You are hiding from me.

And don’t worry;
I’ve fancied myself
your Wife enough times
–in a daydream–

that I already know what
you felt
and why.

I have already laid the details out,
like grid points, coordinates,
logo rhythms,

Then buried the ocean,
and re-dug it,
enough to know
what the Hell
it is now….
what you are.

Prose by Becca Sheehan

Mark Me
A girl dials the phone. Breathes before telling him “I love you.” Blinks while wiping her eyes and spits after licking her lips. Smiles at her tattered body.

Before this a girl straightens her dress while stepping out of half moving car. Reaches into purse to slip on torn panties and places bare feet methodically onto cement.

Before this a girl bites her lip in backseat, fending off those of the thing above her. Bleeds on the leather interior, too numb to scream.

Before this two hands engaged in battle. The only ones brave enough to actually mark her. Cracks hers on the window. Bruises skin on angry knuckles. Words are nothing now.

Before this a boy smiles, says “you’re so beautiful with words.” Uses hand to touch her flesh. Cultivates a wolf inside himself.

Before this a girl puts on mascara and lipstick. Sits in bedroom thinking how she can tell him she doesn’t love him.

Poetry by John Grey

Morning Commute

Short blast then long blast.

The ferry’s leaving one side for the other.

Houses behind, towers ahead

and, in between, people reading newspapers…

death, disasters.

Typical morning river,

brown, shivering like jelly.

Homes shrink pale

while even the gray of the skyscrapers glistens.

In the ferry’s game,

it’s a victory for business,

a loss for the kitchen, the bedroom.

And the referee is headlines.

Bribery. Fraud. A killing in a bar.

Long blast then short blast.

Wake up the shore-man with the rope.

No suburbs by this.

Just the monolith jungle

and a ferry tying up to their shadows.

Newspapers are stashed under arms

or tossed in trash barrels.

Death folds into the birth notices.

Disasters sit silent, coffee-stained.

Poetry by Jody Hicks

Erasing Religion

I remember the night you dipped your bible
into kerosene
and lit it with your cigarette,
burning your religion
as your Jesus filled the sky with smoke
and your disciples fell as ashes to your feet.

You never felt as free before,
or never as alone.

You want to travel back now,
but the path is nothing but broken bridges
and raging rivers of holy water.
I know you could never swim.

So hold your breath and go under.
You have no devil to help you drown,
nor a God to save you.

Poetry by Peycho Kanev

perfect night

the ants swing violins in the
dirt and the spider is silent and
calm;
all the belly dancers swim in the
deep blue see
and the fish cry under the water and
all the poets write poems about
death
but they never come even close

here is only this dim light from the
lamp
here is this bottle of marvelous red
blood
here is the beginning of the end and
the life again
and the dark
again

the whole ocean is preposterous
and dull;

the flowers dance in the dark;

the death is the biggest
allegory.

Poetry by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal

A Lemon So Bitter

I tasted a lemon so bitter

my teeth fell out

and my gums bled.

/

The lemon juice was red

and dripped from

my mouth to my chin.

/

It dripped down to my throat

and into my clothes.

In the mirror

/

I saw myself soaked in blood.

The bitter lemon
I held in my hand had red seeds.

Poetry by R Jay Slais

Shattered Silence

The two girls sat still as a death
knowing any movement is always in sync.
The one inside the mirror

and the second one who will not look
into her flat eyes of glass
as not to see beyond the gaze

of the one she wants to hide away.
Stay reflective, how others view
the façade of beatwing,

her beauty of flight, until the landing
when barbed legs grasped flesh,
a thousand beestings of pain,

the poison once entered
has traced the path of blood
to settle into the heart;

now she craves these hurt worthy jabs.
She is not what others see,
a nest builder, papering thoughts away;

the taste of honey has been snatched
through the use of smoke,
the calming fog of gather and take.

Broken by that one stare
directly into the eyes, s hattered
the pieces have fallen into a puzzled mix,

one that will take seven seasons
to put back together, yet that that is seen
will never quite be the same.