The online literary journal of Greenfield Community College

Across the Room From Sally Bellerose

Across the Room From Sally Bellerose

    On a warm, slightly overcast Tuesday morning at the end of November, I go to the Haymarket Café in Northampton to meet with local writer Sally Bellerose. She’s the author of the acclaimed 2011 novel The Girl’s Club and numerous short stories, mostly involving themes of gender, class,...
The Crispiest Apple

The Crispiest Apple

  My mother is an escort and an adult-actress, not a prostitute, call girl, hooker, whore, porn star, or streetwalker. Yes, she has a website and no, you can’t have the address. An escort doesn’t trade money for sex. She makes her living exercising the cliché “time is money.” One...
Thanatos on the Rocks

Thanatos on the Rocks

  The refuse of my disease isn’t orange pill bottles or syringes. You won’t find used needles or vials on the floor or in my pockets. You won’t find anything, but if you could, you’d see only fat bottles—emptied. The big bottles wait for me at the store. They hold...
Aching Sawtooth & Other Haiku

Aching Sawtooth & Other Haiku

  headless nails declawed hammer aching sawtooth * new health card break a leg outbreak of smiles * passionaectomy poisonberry soup gallstone fence * sculpted abs rottenstone belly chiseler’s mark * first gasp last legs back to back * overhead I underfoot * no prayer all morning kneeling bus
Saturday Night Book Club

Saturday Night Book Club

  “I need a good book.” Mary Jane Russell stared at the graying part at the top of her mother’s head, a dull line between the tightly permed blonde curls on the rest of her head. They were in Betty Russell’s dining room having their Friday night tuna, egg noodles, and cheese...
Blame It On Bad Luck

Blame It On Bad Luck

  “How long are you back for?” It was a question I would be asked a million and one times. “Are you home for good?” was only asked about half a million. “No,” I would tell them. “I’m only home for about two weeks. I go back at the end...
My Grandmother's Wings

My Grandmother’s Wings

  My grandmother had a Bakelite Philco radio, model 48-250, brown with gold numerals on the dial. Its five tubes received the AM band and operated on 115 volts. I remember little about her, just that she wore black dresses with small white polka dots, pulled her white hair into...
Will Anyone Harbor a Broken Poetess?

Will Anyone Harbor a Broken Poetess?

    Book-skimming is a bit like brushing fingertips across the face of the ocean. You caress a page and probe no deeper. Turn to the art tomes when words go from chime-clear to brassy. By the window of the bookhaven perches the kind of woman you don’t ask for...
Fighters

Fighters

The click, click of old Irish gold and wedding ring passed from nurse to hand, after a tug over a knuckle cracked and rooted in the past like an old ground stump.   Across the dance floor, at the Heidelberg bar, after a stranger’s slap to the ass of his...
Let's Twine!

Let’s Twine!

Twine?  You mean a piece of rope? To wrap around something? Not quite. Twine is a way to make interactive, non-linear stories on the web.  And Plum’s started one! Here’s how it works: 1. Click the link to our Plum Twine: http://philome.la/HeyPlum/plum-twine 2. Read the excerpt and click on any...
Latest submissions
The Cold Miles

The Cold Miles

  He is reaching around her – claw foot tub, oceanography. I could say islands, but instead – weigh stations, always this or that, always weather. She is wondering what it might be like to take a class at the University, what might have been the ending to the movie she fell asleep to the...
Short Stacks

Short Stacks

  [OLD MAN, SON I and SON II are gathered in a kitchen, which is sparsely decorated and drab. In the middle of the room is a small kitchen table with three chairs, and in the corner, a grey refrigerator and a white stove. There is one window over the sink with a drab curtain...
Geographical Tongue

Geographical Tongue

  When I was young, my friend said, I have a geographical tongue – and opened wide to let me examine a map cracked deep into pink sponge, roads laid out in the whale-belly of her mouth. At the same time, my fingers would go numb, turn white. I rubbed them like I was referring...
They Are Breaking the House

They Are Breaking the House

shredding the barn, lining up tiny red blue green toy soldiers for sale. The grasses have dried to flame , the stairs are dust and customers roam all the rooms picking up, putting down books and cups, silks and soft eider pillows. Even the mountain beyond the wide back porch is up for sale next...
Suspension

Suspension

    Stormy night: a pallid ant clings to slick fibers of a wind-flayed string. Too dumb to hope, too keen to despair, it pauses mid-string to interrogate the air with antennae restless with autonomy that try to amplify the ant’s economy of movement with electric filigree of panic, rage, anything to shear the monotony...
Bound in Entrapment, A Look At "True Love" by Sharon Olds

Bound in Entrapment, A Look At “True Love” by Sharon Olds

For a full understanding of the following review, read the poem “True Love” by Sharon Olds In the poem “True Love” by Sharon Olds, two lovers are repeatedly shown as being tied to one another. The poem takes place in the moments after the couple finished making love, and at first glance the poem seems...
The Seam

The Seam

  Wind, a branch broken glass, but still cloud on the horizon where a line of people walk bent thick & thin, walk from what they left, but there is no where- they-are-going-to. One foot presses down, hurts or slips, weighs more than can be lifted. Their feet! Cloaks damp, gloves torn. Their feet! Slowly,...
Hunter's Round

Hunter’s Round

  No more than the bird with piercing voice do you stake my heart, the dumb drum that feels its own concentric pain, no more Then the bird with piercing voice stakes a wider, colder claim than yours, to which I’m bound but no more than the bird With piercing voice I stake your name...
Apologie

Apologie

  I am sorry, mi amore Platanus; all the trees hanging over the river on the corner, sweet locust and sycamore marching up the steep stream bed to escape the rising tide. I didn’t save you when propane tanks, popping up like otters, played in the river’s current. I didn’t rescue your cousin, Acer, either...
Magnetic Poetry

Magnetic Poetry

O'Pear

O’Pear

The children ignore you submissively waiting in place in the sunny kitchen. They skip past you, an ornament in a bowl. The father, on the other hand, from the instant he lays eyes on you, leers hungrily at your buxom figure and blushing skin. He would like to unpeel you with his mouth beginning at...