Monthly Archives: May 2013

in Issue 7


How to Get to Heaven from Ohio, Eileen Klug
Two Small Town Girls, Kerry Trautman
To the Boy Who Sat Behind Me in Physics, Elizabeth Schmidt
Pillbox, Ursula M. Kremer
Trumpet, Deborah Rocheleau

Cover Art

Fox, Skull and Grapes, Chad Wells


Shoebox, Stacey Lane


Half Lit, Dayton J. Shafer


Haunted Again, Herbert Woodward Martin
Sew Dayton, Tara Pettit
Stuck, Gina Giardina
Shagging Flies, Bill Vernon


Carrot and Lotus, Kathi Kizirnis
Fire Girl, Andy Bergeron
Winter Hymn, Ron Rollins
The Sound that Will Interrupt, Paige Huskey
All of a Sudden, but Not, Eric Blanchard
Contrails, Nancy J. Little
White Fins, Mary Jo White
Morning News, Kathy Austin
A Walk Down Memory Lane, Henry Potts-Rubin
Corpus Callosotomy, Brandon Edward North
What’s the Difference Between a Cuckold and a Widower?, Jake Sheff
Shade, Ed Davis

Visual Art

Forrest’s Flower, Meredith Rowe
Hell, Heather Lea Reid
Race Ready, Alison Bour

And thank you to
the Sponsors of Issue 7!

Fox, Skulls and Grapes (Cover Art)


Fox, Skulls and Grapes
Chad Wells
pen and ink/watercolor on paper

about the author
I take a holistic approach to the arts. Never satisfied to settle into a style, niche or particular medium, all of the my life experiences, influences and visionary explorations weave their way through my entire catalog – from my vocation as an award winning Tattoo artist to my illustration and design work for a broad clientele of rock bands, clothing companies and assorted other projects to my own musical work and as a writer for other musical acts – I look to inject the energy and urgency of my youth spent in the punk and underground metal scene and my Surrealistic, Shamanic and Psychedelic point of view into everything I touch. Whether pencil, pen and ink, acrylics, photography, digital art or manipulations of sound – I am interested in accessing multiple layers of reality and non-reality. I want the first experience someone has with my work to strike them in an emotional way and for the viewer to be able to journey into deeper symbols, archetypes and conceptualizations as they spend more time with the work.

How to Get to Heaven from Ohio

Antioch Writers’ Workshop Poetry Contest
Best in Show

How to Get to Heaven from Ohio
Eileen Klug


1. Put your feet up on the dashboard after removing shoes and socks.
Your feet will be warmed by the sun and you will want to

2. Smoke all of the cigarettes, back to back, blue smoke ascending
to the blue sky. This is your offering and the oblation,
this is you tasting your soul. This is you, needing
your own sacrifice, demi-goddess that you are.
This will come in the form of your

3. Stop at Grandpa’s Cheesebarn. Taste samples, revolving around the store
like stars around a cheese moon, stuffing your face
and giggling in a suspiciously mousey way, but

4. Don’t feel guilty. Don’t ever feel guilty for needing
the open road and rainstorms, for singing at the top of your lungs.
This is your heaven and highway and it is time to

5. Make peace with your life. Offer yourself to yourself and lick
the postage stamps that will send you home. Be a skeleton
made entirely of backbone and wishbone.
Be made of mostly heart-muscle and everything else. In the car, pray
to things that will cause problems: hamburgers, sunsets,
Marlboros, old age, youth, highways, the sensation of love
on cold skin, tea. This will make you

6. Shiver for your life—shiver as though everything depends on it.
Never mind the air conditioning—you will shiver your way in to heaven,
way above the roof of the car you were born into.
You will vibrate like a rocket launching into space, leaving
warmth and a handful of coins in the pockets
of your leather jacket—now the shell where you, heaven, and hell
once were. But

7. Don’t cry. You’re not gone. You are from the earth
and of it and always crashing
back to there, exactly where you could be
and exactly how you should be now,
and exactly as you once or always were. I promise, you will

8. Be again.

about the author
Ellie Klug is a junior at the University of Dayton. Originally from Cincinnati, she now lives in Dayton studying psychology and women and gender studies alongside her “Dayton family” and dog, Arrow. Ellie loves performing spoken word poetry, and most recently did so at Celebration of the Arts, held in Dayton’s Schuster Center.

Two Small Town Girls

Antioch Writers’ Workshop Poetry Contest
Second Place, Adult

Two Small Town Girls
Kerry Trautman

They walked along the storefronts—several boarded shut, or emptied to dingy linoleum,
labeled “for sale,” since a two-years-ago flood. They peered in the antique store and the bridal boutique with a single hopeful shopper fingering the satins, and they wished to slip
into those voluminous, shimmery gowns, or lie on the lavender velvet sofa in the thrift store window, or lap the garlicky sauce wafting its warmth from the door of the diner as a man
shambled out, full, unsmiling. They ticked their quick feet down the rigid sidewalk, a dry
unsettled wind whipping leafy debris against brick walls, sandstone, cinderblock—the trash
of the weeks twitching as it landed in cold corners, or stuck between curbs and parked tires,
or hurled upward toward the frayed canvas awnings, toward upper apartment windows,
toward the networks of suspended iron stairs no one ever has used for escape.

about the author
My poetry and short fiction have appeared in various print and online journals, including The Toledo Review, Alimentum, The Coe Review, The Redwood Coast Review, and Think Journal, as well as anthologies, including Tuesday Night at Sam and Andy’s Uptown Café (Westron Press, 2001,) Mourning Sickness (Omniarts, 2008,) and Roll (Telling Our Stories Press, 2012.)

To the Boy Who Sat Behind Me in Physics

Antioch Writers’ Workshop Poetry Contest
Second Place, Adult

To the Boy Who Sat Behind Me in Physics
Elizabeth Schmidt

I didn’t calculate the trajectory of your shoulders
as you walked (though they were fine enough
and wide) or look for you before the bell rang
as one searches the night sky for the North Star.

I never thought your eyes were anything more
than brown (but a nice dark brown),
didn’t dream at night of falling somehow
on the ground with you, two bodies in motion

attracted by a force they couldn’t control.
(In short, there was no chemistry.) From my side
of the equation, we were both students of uncertainty
living in a common spacetime we couldn’t name.

Perhaps you felt the same? Not noticing
my hair or jeans, not formulating theories
about the laws of my universe or how to
get me into your backseat at the speed of light.

(Or not.) The day you took a quantum leap
and passed a note that said I was beautiful
was what Mr. Bowman would have called
a transfer of matter and energy.

We never kissed. We went to prom
and later on took Calculus and Advanced Chem.
After high school our orbits crossed
occasionally and then they didn’t (as they do).

But I remember you, your boyhood crush,
and still value the evidence, the thing itself:
a torn piece of notebook paper +
your handwriting = my time machine.

about the author
Elizabeth Cantonwine Schmidt lives and writes in Kettering, Ohio. Her poetry has been published in Flights, and featured on WYSO’s poetry program, Conrad’s Corner. She is married with four children, and works as a Librarian at Wright Memorial Public Library.


Antioch Writers’ Workshop Poetry Contest
First Place, Youth

Ursula M. Kremer

An empty grey
box sits
small and alone
on a cliff overlooking
the blue sea.
but for the few
kids who have left
their names and thoughts
on its walls embedded
or painted as if forever.
to be moved but
never to be loved.
but for a hole
in the flat roof.
So close to the edge
it should teeter
and fall but
sturdy it remains.

about the author
Ursula Kremer, a freshman residing in Yellow Springs, has been writing since the first grade and hopes to continue it as a career. She would like to thank Ms. Nickell, for encouraging her to submit an entry, Ms. Blake, her Power of the Pen coach, and her family.


Antioch Writers’ Workshop Poetry Contest
Second Place, Youth

Deborah Rocheleau

The instrument begins as a sheet of metal
which the sculptor bends around a mold, then with a hammer
pounds into a dented tube
getting thinner and flatter
‘til the crinkles are pressed
and the smoothing can begin.

So how come some things can’t be muscled into shape
but most flow organically from the mind
a teardrop
a poem
a prayer
yet other things we pound and wrestle and flatten and smooth
until they sing?

about the author
Deborah Rocheleau is a writer of short stories and poetry, and a PSEO student at Sinclair Community College. Her work has been published by the Tin House Open Bar and A Clean, Well-Lighted Place. She is currently writing a contemporary young adult novel. She blogs at