• Big Table Publishing


Be Your Own Literary Hero

Chad Parenteau




Forsake even mirror.

Shave according

to reflection

of sexting roommate

in room behind you.

Dictate life's work

in packed theatres

during burlesque shows

to person next to you

watching for slipped pasties

and not taking dictation.

Save your manuscript

to be read in one sitting

at your funeral casket

in a long line of people

making sure you’re dead.

Have coroner

prop hands

to hold the book

before setting fire

to pages, which should also be blank.

Chad Parenteau is the author of Patron Emeritus, released in 2013 by FootHills Publishing. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Tell-Tale Inklings, Queen Mob's Tea House, What Rough Beast, The Skinny Poetry Journal, Ibbetson Street, Molecule and Résonance. He serves as Associate Editor of the online journal Oddball Magazine. He has hosted the long-running Stone Soup Poetry series in Boston since 2004. His second full-length collection, The Collapsed Bookshelf, is forthcoming.

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Over the Fence

Steve Klepetar

When I was fifteen, I dreamed of smashing a pitch

over the fence into the tennis court. I’d swing

and just know the ball was gone, and I’d watch

it sail as I drifted into my home run trot, nonchalant,

like I did it all the time. It would be a walk off blast,

maybe a three run shot when we were down two,

and they’d carry me off the field on their shoulders

chanting my name. So I was batting with a runner

on first, a fast guy who broke for second on the first

pitch, but I missed the steal sign, swung and lined

the ball to left field, took off running but when I got

there the first base coach was jumping up and down

so I rounded the bag and went back confused

and then he said It’s a home run, man! Over the fence!

and I started in on the most awkward home run trot

in baseball history. I never saw my shot slam

into the tennis court, and when I got to home plate,

the guy who scored ahead of me gave me an earful

about missing the sign. I had that base stolen, dude!

We won 15 – 0. They called the game after two innings.

There is no video tape of my home run, but the guys

playing tennis that day swore it almost killed someone.

Steve Klepetar lives in the Berkshires in Massachusetts. He is the author of fourteen poetry collections, including Family Reunion which is available from Big Table Publishing Company.

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Lisa’s Final Uber Gig

John Sheirer

Lisa thought Bill looked spry for eighty. She picked him up at his trailer, helped him into her big front seat, stashed his crutches in the back. Routine surgery, drop-off at eight, pick-up at noon. “Come in and sign some papers, kid,” Bill said. “Just formalities.” Okay, whatever. Turns out, those formalities made Lisa next-of-kin because Bill’s kids live in three other states, haven’t seen him for decades. Bottom line, now she’s stuck with a ratty trailer, rattier contents, a copay for not-so-routine surgery, and an undertaker’s bill. The worst part? Lisa can’t get the old-man-smell out of her car.

John Sheirer (pronounced “shy-er”) lives in Northampton, Massachusetts, with his wonderful wife Betsy and happy dog Libby. He has taught writing and communications for 27 years at Asnuntuck Community College in Enfield, Connecticut, where he also serves as editor and faculty advisor for Freshwater Literary Journal (submissions welcome). He writes a monthly column on current events for his hometown newspaper, the Daily Hampshire Gazette, and his books include memoir, fiction, poetry, essays, political satire, and photography. His most recent book is a flash fiction collection, Too Wild.

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At Allen Ginsberg’s Grave, B’Nai Israel Cemetery, Newark, NJ, just off the 1 and 9

Josh Medsker


I remember when it happened.

You and Bill Burroughs

back to back,

almost too much to take.

I remember talking to Vale in San Fran,

how you gave him money

to publish Search and Destroy.

I always admired your solidarity

with the rebel continuum

I can see you now, OM-ing full-lotus

in your blue buzz cut and

studded black leather jacket.


I take two windy pictures and run back to my car.

My fingers run across his name,

his father's name (which

he helped inscribe)

as a train zooms by.

Josh Medsker is a New Jersey poet, originally from Alaska. His debut collection, Cacophony, was published in 2019 by Alien Buddha Press. His writing has appeared in many publications, including: Boston Literary Magazine,Contemporary American Voices, The Brooklyn Rail, Haiku Journal, and Red Savina Review. For a complete list of Mr. Medsker's publications, please visit his website.

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You Should Get a Rescue Dog

Paul Beckman

The dog’s name was Buttons

He was a lovable mutt

Who knew where he came from?

Or what baggage he was carrying, if any?

The daughters took Buttons for a walk in the park.

Both they and Buttons had fun playing in the colored leaves

floating down from the trees.

Through tears they said Buttons snarled

at a dog walker and her dogs;

broke loose, and bit the dogwalker, then ran off barking.

At dinner time Buttons came dashing in through the doggie-door,

Blood covered his mouth as he walked over to

his empty bowl and snarled.

Paul Beckman is a retired air traffic controller. His latest flash collection, Kiss Kiss (Truth Serum Press) was a finalist for the 2019 Indie Book Awards. Some of his stories are in Spelk, Necessary Fiction, Litro, Pank, Playboy, Thrice Fiction, and The Lost Balloon.

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This Story

Digby Beaumont

This story gives stories a bad name. It sends out the wrong message. Gives off a bad odour. Truth is, it has no business appearing alongside other stories at all.

Don’t just take my word for it. The story itself agrees. “Nothing to read here,” it says as it grabs its wool coat from the hall-stand and hurries out the back door into the windblown alley.

So what lies ahead for a story like this? A move overseas maybe. A beach community. Thailand. One of those small islands off Phuket. Hole up in some ramshackle, bamboo hut. Venture outside under moonlight. Run up tabs for hard liquor and fried pork rinds in unlit corners of all-night dive bars.

Gaping tourists will point. And this story will put on a front. “I know what you’re thinking,” it will say. “But no, it’s not me. Really. That was some other story altogether.”

Digby Beaumont’s flash fiction and short stories have been published widely in print and online literary journals and anthologies. His fiction work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net Anthology.

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Adam Hughes

The dung beetle’s god is an asshole.

(Yesterday I played rugby and made love

although not at the same time,

and today I am sore and tired and old

and tomorrow will be the same.)

At night the dung beetles gather in their burrows

and pray for a raging shitstorm to fall.

(But the rugby will still have been played

and the love will still have been made

and nothing in all the world will ever

be able to change that. If tomorrow

I were to die while mowing the lawn

I would die a rugby player and a lover.)

Somewhere the dung beetle messiah

is promising a world without plumbing

and the prophets are calling everyone

to the compost piles, where no one is ever hungry.

(God is throwing to me and my hands

are full of tremble for fear of missing the ball.)

Adam Hughes is the author of four full-length poetry collections, most recently Allow the Stars to Catch Me When I Rise (Salmon Poetry, 2017) and Deep Cries Out to Deep (Aldrich Press, 2017). Born and raised in Central Ohio, he now resides in the foothills of Virginia’s Blue Ridge Mountains where he is pursuing an MFA at Randolph College. He can be found on twitter @adamhughespoet1.

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In the Irish Village We Talk and

Riff the Better Part of the Day

Tim Suermondt

Lost and it’s raining (albeit lightly), so to cure both I share a pub table with some of the older locals. We’re right outside with just enough overhead protection to keep us dry. I ask questions about Ireland and tell them I know all the lyrics to Molly Malone (not true) and they seem impressed. One of the men asks me “How’s America doing?” and I can only answer “She’s done better.” We go on like this, ignoring time until rays of sunlight come out from behind the houses and charge down the street like thieves looking to escape in the glens, leaving a brief aftermath of clearing around the fogginess, a quietness that leaves us oddly soothed. I say “I’m ready for the night” and they all nod in delightsome assent.

Tim Suermondt is the author of five full-length collections of poems, the latest is Josephine Baker Swimming Pool from MadHat Press, 2019. He has published in Poetry, Ploughshares, Prairie Schooner, The Georgia Review, Bellevue Literary Review, Stand Magazine, december magazine, and Plume, among many others. He lives in Cambridge (MA) with his wife, the poet Pui Ying Wong.

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The Artistic I

Ruth Housman

imagine yourself

at the prow of

your vessel

sturdy & strong

headed out to see

as proud is to


you cut through

the buttery water

warmed by sun

designing leaping



Ruth Housman is fascinated by the stories we tell. Her poetry and writings are found all over the Web and in anthologies. She has written several plays, and books of poetry. Her children’s book, a fantasy about dreams, The Birthday Present, will be published in time for her granddaughter’s eighth birthday.

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Janice D. Soderling

Maybe there was a woman who lived next door. And maybe she pretended to be afraid of mice and spiders and loud noises like cars backfiring.

And maybe one evening chopping onions or slicing an orange, she cut an itty bitty cut on her itty bitty finger.

And maybe her husband was away on a business trip. And so maybe she rushed over to your house holding her itty bitty finger with the itty bitty cut high in the air, wailing, I've cut my finger.

And maybe your husband who wouldn't notice if your arm was torn off at the shoulder (which it often was) led her to the sofa saying, Oh you poor kid sit down breathe deep breathe slow.

And maybe he said to you standing in the doorway watching, Don't just stand there get a glass of water, (no itty bitty please).

And maybe that woman goes Don't you have any brandy? with a little horselaugh before she starts hyperventilating again.

And maybe she goes Oh oh oh I can't stand the sight of blood. And maybe you almost say but don't, It must be hell when you menstruate.

And maybe your husband sitting beside her says, You poor kid let me see again and he takes her hand and turns it this way and that, kindly as a doctor might, and the evening sun falls on the two of them like in a movie, and you stand in the doorway watching.

Janice D. Soderling writes poetry and fiction. Her fourth chapbook, forthcoming in February 2020, is titled War: Make That City Desolate.

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Connie Post

Your history

is tied around your waist

like a rope

you fling yourself

over the water

but the tire swing

beckons you back

you find a foothold

you don’t find a foothold

it’s always the same

the gravity

the incessant gravity

pulling you

you land wherever

the rope comes loose

you curse the murky water

for hiding

the tadpoles with broken tails

the moss that smothers your thoughts

nobody on the far edge

of the lake sees you

you go under

you become the body of water

you once hated

you are alone

you are not alone