Exterminating Angel Press

Creative Solutions for Practical Idealists.

EAP: The Magazine Archive

Heather.

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by Marissa Bell Toffoli.

Heather: a day about to rain.
Slumber: field of heather.
Heather: softness of your hair.
Rare heather honey.
Scent of ethereal remembrances.
I could use a bit of luck.
Heather has heart, heat.
Can hear that and tear, or tear;
tethered in the ether there.
Heather: the color of not knowing.

 

ARGENTIERA.

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by Joseph Harms. There’re spells (grossladened, michiganned) where August’s offingset pasts Argentiera’s hulls: brickovens unfill of bones, return to ceils unholed and lotic lit medusaed iron by shingle rock and bone ecliptic anchored (ocean silvers regardant, rearviewmirrored)…Infinity Pool fills with spume (bejeweled of course) as at the prow with sirens Let stands aweawed, Thammuzimposture gone […]

First Green Word.

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by Karin Wares. I remember, at the age of three, playing with my sister’s doll with the long blonde hair that pulled out of a hole on the top of her head and wound back inside of her with a turn of the knob protruding from the middle of her back. Her anatomical oddities didn’t […]

A Glass of Cabernet.

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by Darren Payne. If you go down to the Windwhistle of a Friday evening, you’ll see him there, always at the same table to the right of the fireplace, with his back to the big picture of King George V that hangs on the wall. He’s always alone. You might find once in a while […]

#267.

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by Chris Farago. Fall exists as a fantasy in the notebooks of lovers who don’t know better. It’s red and brown and crunching all over in those pages, with no regard to the stem death taking place daily in their midst. All that lovely dying will be undone by the spring, righteous in its ineptitude, […]

Coached.

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by Ron Singer.   “If you ever diss my kid again, I’m gonna’ fuck you up —bad!” I was shocked. I mean, this from the mouth of a fifty-something wearing an expensive suit and Gucci loafers, no socks or tie. Not only. Hank, his son, was our best player and, if anything, Coach’s Pet. The […]

What Three is Like.

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by Marissa Bell Toffoli. –For Raphael   A braid unwinds, turns into a hand. I cannot reach the sky.   All your ideas fall apart. I was in the dark. I was thinking   what a beautiful day it was that you’re going to find the dawn for me.   When the doors were all […]

Huellas de Nuestro Tiempo/Traces of Our Time.

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HUELLAS DE NUESTRO TIEMPO   Y también, esta ropa y este cuerpo se desvanecerán con el tiempo. Sólo quedará de mí el delicado tejido de lo que tú recuerdes TRACES OF OUR TIME   And so, this clothing and this body will fade away over time. All that will remain of me will be the […]

What Bugs Want.

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by Holly Day.   the beetle stops running and looks at me through the jelly-glass walls of its prison. I don’t know how much air is in there but I’m sure it’s enough for a tiny bug. It stands up on its hind legs waggles back and forth, trying to find some foothold on the […]

Rice Rising.

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by Robert Ready.   On the last night of her New York life, Mary Rice came to a corner of the avenue and the street and took in the big vegetable and fruit stand. During the summer months, the stands stayed open all night. Their three or four spindle-strung light bulbs hung out for a […]