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Sparks Vol. 5 No. 2



Fiction by Lisa Plettinck

Bacon and Big Wheels

Poetry by Holly Day

When You Take His Name

Poetry by Ben Ohmart

The Gun Under The Register

Call For Philip Marlowe

Error 1

Back Alley Plays Presents The Extremes

J Through K

The Pretending G.B.

Poetry by Michael Estabrook


Ulysses S. Grant never said -

Poetry by janet kuypers


Poetry by Brian Lewis

CHARLES & DI(The Divorce)


Future Scientists of America!


Sparks: A Magazine for Creative People

ISSN#: 1077-4149

Editors: Jim and Stacy Esch

Sparks Copyright ©1996 by Jim Esch and Stacy Tartar

All rights for each work contained herein revert back to the authors upon publication.

Web Published in the USA

Sparks is published four times a year. We welcome your submissions. Send all correspondence to the address below.


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Lisa Plettinck




I'm walking Max. Or should I say he's walking me. He stops near a patch of my neighbors ivy and walks in. A frenzy of sniffing follows. I look up at the sky. Nice day. Crispy cool, whippingly windy. The azure blue sky makes a nice backdrop for the volcanic puffs of white. This morning reminds me of something.

A day in my past. Can't quite recall, though. Too bad.

Max is still foraging through the ivy. I'm glad I have him on a long leash otherwise I'd be in the ivy with him. I smell something. Something warm, thick...strangely comforting. Bacon.


Haven't smelled it for so long.

Can't find it's source, seems to be coming from all directions.

I feel odd. Moving but not moving. Going back...back.

So vivid.


Laughter. Children's laughter. My laughter. Paul's laughter. Mark's laughter. We're riding. I can hear the thundering sound of our plastic wheels turning over concrete. We're racing our Big Wheels. Paul's yelling at me. Says I cheated and started before he said, "Go." Have to get around the weeping willow and back. Then I win. I like our front yard. Big as a park. Why'd we have to move?

I'm wearing my favorite jacket. Baby-blue. Quilted design. Mom bought it for me. I have my hood on because it's cold and windy. My hood has soft, white fur around the rim. It's a good day to be riding. I have a blue Big Wheels. Paul has a green one. Mark a yellow. Mark's too little to peddle fast. Paul and I should let him win the next race.

I tell Paul and Mark we should ride around in a big circle and try to make a permanent mark in the grass. Round and round and round. Deep marks are being made. Impressions. That's what they're called. I had to stand in front of the class and spell it. Everyone laughed at me.

I smell bacon. Bacon, bacon, bacon. I love bacon. Mom's cooking it. I know because I saw a package of it on the sink before I went outside. I'm going to take the biggest pieces because I'm the most hungry.

Still riding in circles. Getting tired though. I stop. Paul and Mark are riding around me. Paul tells me he's not going to call me Lisa anymore. He's going to call me Lice. Paul laughs because he thinks it's funny. Mark laughs because Mark likes to laugh. He's a happy boy. He's my favorite brother.

I look up at the sky. So blue. Big white clouds. I like the look of it. A lot. The wind is making a funny sound in my ears. The smell of bacon is strong now. I bet everyone in the whole wide world can smell it. Bet the Martians on Mars can, too. Something about this day. Special. Don't know why. I hear a voice. Sounds like a big person. Adult.

Lisa. Look at the sky.

I look at the sky.


More beautiful than pretty.

Close your eyes and take a deep breath?

I take bacon into my nose. My head.

Smells, good?

I'm hungry.

Feel the wind freezing the tip of your nose?

I wish they had jackets for noses.

Lisa. Remember these things.



Because why?



I'm tugged. Walking, again. Dreamily, though. The wind has chilled the places on my face where tears have made a wet path. I'm embarrassed. How long was I standing there like a sentimental zombie?

Odd. I don't quite feel like myself. Feel light. Out of place. Out of time.

I can still smell the bacon.

Very faint, though.

Where was it coming from?

Can't eat bacon anymore.


Bad news for the arteries.

But, oh...the smell.

It sends me.

Holly Day


When You Take His Name

I used to dream of freedom; escape
shake free these shiny pins and fly
but now I'm content
to sleep by your fire--
even butterflies get cold.

I've ripped my wings against these nails
screaming endless, useless nights
sparkling dead scales
around my feet
proclaim my shame. I am your wife.

I used to see fluorescents in my sleep
dreams of flowers and prism rainbows
but now I live
in contempt of dawn--
the dream is a lie, and so is my life.

Ben Ohmart


The Gun Under The Register

move. never look up. move. slow
the bread on the counter. the price
the jerky eyes, the nose that never held
arm bands around his head, ulcer man waiting
carving knife flicking low watts, sweaty hand reaching
survival of the quickest, bits of bottle in a stone head
blows. spits. move. try not to look up. move. hard
front tooth, weak, bloody, soft crying
the slope down. door jangle. gone, bread that would soon expire


Call For Philip Marlowe

the slashed tires below the school, thinking
he could hide it. caught him. what didn't they like?
he pretended to care? got the names right, gave out the right letters
inside the seats stank with piss, and the defroster could do nothing
with the cold night. too far to go. only to sleep. eat for some reason.
sleep. start with the raw material of a new day. a little something on the way...
defroster, about a couple miles before hell. the prayer of summer
mumbled through lesson plans


Error 1

well adjusted to be cruel, think they'll waste it for wine,
saving up for a woman?, beer they bag. but he was cold
couldn't show the ribs for proof, so they passed
up the chance to be Christian


Back Alley Plays Presents The Extremes

laytex up, pimples with affordable knives scraping up the crack in the hypo
blood of a type seldom seen, black jackets are shelter, the plague cleaning up
for the next mutation of unwanted babies, checks back-bashed for when they can't even sign
grocery ounces for the sale of a soul every forth year, the politics of wide asses
prostitues upgrading when the competition's something you catch
gangs high on people, streets are concrete. cop patrol over safety zone speed
shelters cut back when another joke is monologued, defeated priests and sour intimidation
for my generation to experience the help when only the pious pity, the worthless worth less
to a deviant nation under odds, thankless, draftless, beer and clever word games
world without end, without Friends, sinking for Venice with drive-by culture hits
the man on the street is truly unpolled, basic rights: the ability to suffer by thermostat,
drop a shit where it does the most good, scrawl blank checks in the crud w/o the checks,
sip the flat RC of a rat can found in the diary of a trash man, the experience of impossibility
the illusion NBC magicians won't touch, the pulp of a prize for correspondants' passion
the cost of a comb, the thrill of coughing to sleep, the magic of dying in shoes found


J Through K

bus stations don't care, because they get that type of person
airports have the alarms, the scanners, the counters selling realistic food the non-man is blown to bits from the carry on, the bus slides and slams
the road is blocked for miles, the air retains its superior statistics


The Pretending G.B.

imagine all your friends dying around you
soaking up the favors and the wills, strong arms from the workout
facing a new generation that doesn't care for you,
like the one salad never touched in a salad bar, you grow old
as you watch the scabs become blots become blindness become steady lines
sons dressed in tears, you become the priest with all, the waiting
i could never see you all die, my time make me bitter, the silent prayers say
"forget it", i stand and wonder where god got all the dust from

Michael Estabrook


Grandmother's unmarked grave
a barren battlefield.
not good
remaining for eternity
as a casualty buried
in an unmarked battlefield,
because you're a suicide.
Mother and her sisters
say "couldn't afford no headstone"
back then.
But what about now,
retired, living
off the fat of the land,
playing golf,
sunning themselves like
aging lizards on a rock.

Ulysses S. Grant never said -

Hey babe let's tango.
What! No cream cheese!
Paris is just so lovely in the springtime, don't you agree?
Would you like a stick of chewing gum?
Did anyone think to water the poinsettias?
Oogy, woogy, boogy, ha!
Damn I broke another nail.
My fucking horse crapped on my shoe.
Oh yes, man will fly someday.
Please pass the catsup.
Crockery, crockery, crockery's
just fine, if I weren't the President
I'd collect crockery
all the time.

janet kuypers


whenever i get a headache
it's right behind my eyebrows
and it's a dull, constant ache

so whenever i say i have a headache
eugene takes my hand
and uses acupressure:

he pushes his thumb
right in the middle of my palm.
the pain disappears almost

immediately. but eventually
i have to tell him to stop
pressing my hand, that my

hand now hurts. he lets go,
and the headache, almost
immediately, comes back.

Brian Lewis

CHARLES & DI (The Divorce)

"It was, said the Archbishop the stuff of which fairy tales are made.

The ultimate crime isn't treason it's homage.

A virgin dies
to serve an heir
with downcast eyes
and bleach blonde hair
he hands her thighs
and tucks her jewel.
The muff of regal sighs
is heard.  Hurrah.
Fuels thus her fires.
Stake her surprise
with pipe and drum.
England arise
I come, I come
My mingy prize!
(bum-plum, bum-plum)
the virgin cries,
(bum-plum, bum-plum)
no compromise,
I am undone.
His widget dies
and flaccid folds
The Prince's cock.
A straight striptease
a neck of bites
the aim to please
in laddered tights,
the ending wheeze
as Charlie comes
-bang, bang.
And all the sums add up to this
the frog princess has learnt to kiss.
Dynastics answer to the call
and form a scepted scrum
as on his rugged ball
the nation hangs.  He's come!
And in the maul
her dumplings ease
and with a catawaul
she states, "I aim to please the
Bucking gang."
A crock of gold, a stale of farts
the Prince is playing manly parts
He tucks a cuff and feels a ring
The Prince is playing I'll be king
And tattooed on his knuckle bones
True Love.
You hate our rhymes think us obscene
for taking England's King ands Queen
(at one removed) and talking smut..
Think on it's you who've shut
the door on reason.  You were taken in
not us Republicans.  Drawn to no win
situations by the glitz and gloss
of golden coaches you ignored loss
of exports, Toxteth's riots, bad
trade figures.  That meant nothing - sad
sad, sad - nothing that year.
They represent us; the rationale
that season.  In pubs, in trains you'd kall
on and on about genes and lineage
(mostly irreverant I grant ,) read page after page,
filled with gunge and geneaology,
mapping the land holdings and chronology
of Charles and Spencers - We serve - a high
street store where everything;
(dressed crab, veg, meat,)
comes  untouched by
human hands. You gulped down each lie.
You didn't see they're on the game
and sell themselves for cash. They're the same
not different to everyone else. To play though
they need a virgin, a sacred cow
for all this bull. (Agrarian metaphors.)  A field
no one has ploughed which will yield
perfect fruit, a gate no one's been through.
You accepted the asking price, didn't quibble.  You
let them blaze with train and fiery trail
that which the bishop said “Was but a fairy tale."
She bites upon two languid sighs -
A nest of thrush, a roll of grass -
the wisdom of the wherefore's whys,
her questioning if time will pass
and on the ceiling hairline cracks
- And he bears down,
fumbler and clown-
Two  smart  glass tears lap from her eyes-
she's questioning if time will pass-
a drifting swan speaks its surprise
the altar's set for a black mass.
Charles is the priest
-he wears his crown
and ermine gown-
in sailor's gear.
A headless nail,
A tattooed shroud,
A coffin with a screw come loose,
A milkmaid's pail,
a dreamy doud,
A sea-dog swinging on a noose;
Is what she sees.
Is what she sees,
as he bears down.
Camilla's riding to the hounds
upon Black Bess; Di rides a mule.
The rosy garden's out of bounds
the tabloid say "Not Fit To Rule"
A baby's due
- a cannon goes
bang bang.  Choose -
and now there's two.
She sits upon a bathroom stool
and vomits daily in the sink
the time has come to lose her cool
and Charles to hire a noted shrink
who gripes and chatters
- goes down
gobstruck, a clown -
on regal matters
The bedding is but candy floss.
Her wedding frock has got the curse.
It's so like rape who cares a toss
As bad times go from bad to worse.
She plays the Queen
-And he bears down
Fumbler and clown-
to some has-been.
She's been it all and seen it all
And like the Squires's Angeline
Her thingy's answered to the call,
When but a lass of sweet sixteen.
Her body shakes
-Can't kiss but coughs-
Now no one laughs -
And so she wakes.
The calling off the cockatrice
is heard abroad. And in the land
hard core is grown.  Wild rice
to soggy lumps is panned
and served with flesh
on paper plates.  The pip-less grape's
the marvel of the age.  Nesh
farmers grow bland rape.
And Maggie to a theme parks gone,
Victorian virtues stalk abroad,
Lloyd Names have kissed the Blarney Stone
and Salman's learnt the highway code,
which way to stand, and when to cross,
and evey prophet's at a loss.
A Tebbit thought the world was flat
and bikes were what we need,
and Brunel wore a stove pipe hat
and Little Nell could  read.
These are the virtues we must
learn all to cultivate
gird up your loins, pick off the rust,
and go black lead the grate.
He's jacked her Jill and robbed her hood,
the muffin man won't set her cake
the gold doughnuts "would and could"
are floating midway on the lake,
and in the distance Camelot
becomes a shopping mall.
She's sexed and shopped for many a year
but now she hates her body parts
and spits the food she comes to fear
and reads black books about black-arts
then as the Lady of Shallot
she a mirror sees
Theirs was the capering of clowns
so they had their ups and downs.
Life's like that; surely you've heard,
tenderness and pain, that, not absurd
ceremonies.  She crying on the stairs.
Are you surprised.  Frustration, tears.
Him turning his back on her holding
his cock for comfort.  The folding
of the blouse into the suitcase.  Out
into the cold, cold snow.  Come on.  Doubt
at last drowning in nausea.  The feel
that there never was never a real
party.  It just amounts to this.
You wheeze and crust your life away, kiss
but don't tell, then see Brittania in
waving a paper flag.  The ultimate sin
isn't treason, its homage.  Men walking,
missing, talking
backwards in whispers. The corded coats are rarities
now its wrap-around suits, yet the vanities
are imperial.
All you who bought the royal mugs,
baked sugared cakes and carried jugs
to middling tables, now think on.
The coach a con, St Pauls a con,
My darlings all - a con, a con.
You sat on pavements, snuggled up
and drank the cheery loving cup
and gave a short hee-haw.  A con
the frock, the Queen a con.
My dinky do's, think on, think on.
Inside the bag the cat's worth nowt
but only you can let it out
to roam abroad.  It is your cat
who's on the mat and has grown fat
Your cat, your cat,
My dinky do's.  Your royal cat.
I won't rejoice the Argentine
Nor will I buy a stock to share
Nor plaster on the brilliantine
Or shave to hearts my pubic hair.
I will not wave the Royal Royce
Or climb a hill for eidelweiss
I will not kiss the Royal bum,
yet I will speak Belgano's name,
And when in London not act dumb
or praise a waxen Hall of Fame.
I will not mock the lambkins bleat,
There is some shit I will not eat.
There is some shit I will not eat,
no more must you my goffers all.
Attend to dancing in the street,
obey injunctions to walk tall.
I'll butter up and show my pride,
yet there are asses I won't ride.
Think on, divorce is no bad thing,
a future queen and kingling
going seperate ways -
Don't Cry
For Me Argentina - so why
shy off the great big one.
Let them go quietly, go alone
Charles old, sold-up, suit cased;
in every way a person displaced
Di with a vanity bag.  Leave by
Victoria under a leaden sky.
The weather sets the tone
for what they do.
And where's King Colin, late of Greece,
and where's King Zog.  The midget king
of Italy to dinky land has gone.  Peace
with honour Benji thrusts his thing
in St John's Wood.  The Archduke Vlad
drives hired cars to Yankee doodles
who have bought a Royal Mews.  The Laird
of VIg in Camden Town walks ladies poodles.
Where are the snows of yesterday
the Pallas pomp, please where's it gone.
Let this become a one act play
with Diane making for the throne.
with Queenie, Queenie Caroline
There are Job Clubs that they can join.
Divorce deserves a party too
as seperates move on their way
for though the tango needed two
there had to be no more to say.
So bring the tables to the street,
there's buns to bake and cakes to eat.
He Cinderella thinks and sees
as she raps on of Mary Quant
and fawns upon the Queen Bee's
knees.  This Garamond will be the font
of elegance to invite all
to Pallas and the Divorce Ball.
"I have a note from Prince to say
today will be the Divorce Day.
He's asked both Sylvia and me
to come and jon the Divorce tea
and meet the Bucking Crew."
"But Sylvia's in a sorry state
her heels broke off, the giro's late.
It's with regret that we
cannot Responde S.V.P'
or meet the Bucking Crew."
The Druggies grope through Camden Town
and London Bridge is falling down
and in the gutters of the Strand
the roughings and the twiglets stand,
take soup beside a cardboard box
in doorways close on Body Sox.
I've had a note from Prince to say
that this day will be Divorce Day
"Since you're divorced you might incline
to sympathise with me and mine
and crack the butt which still brings cheer
and wish us luck in the coming year".
Lets have no more of this kiss-
and -tell japery.  This
has gone on long enough. Let them
merge into the background, hock
their palaces, move to Benidorm; lock
stock- and- barrel, move on.
You'll not notice they've gone
or once meant anything.  "One"
they said when they meant "I"
Well "One" is nothing in a crowd.
Let them join us and learn to loud
it from back of the goal,
donkey stone, shovel coal,
abandon the Army and Navy instead
queue at the cashout, Bed
and Breakfast in the Yorkshire Dales,
curse and swear, go off the rails
all over.  Take a boat on the Tunnel of Love.
Experience Blackpool.   See treasure trove
dug by plastic pirates and the whole
faulty structure of the Pleasure Dole
from down below.
Let this become the last act play
with Diane squatting on the throne
and listening to the answer phone.
"I am not in
But don't put down
I'm permanantly
out of town
just now."
"Where's Phil?"
"Gone to his mothers"
Who bothers.
"The Old Lady?"
"Gone to a bungalow."
In Slough.
"Andy, Anne?"
wandered off
You have to laugh.
"Where's  Lizzie gone?" Flitted
That's right.  Know where?
My mother bought a Royal Mug
(she put it on the mantlepiece)
and by it set a Delft cream jug
She said,"That's nice,
Both Royal blue.
And royal Blue is what Di has
a-coursing through her royal veins
They're not like us my mother says.
My mother loved her china ware
the girl in blue, the man in grey
a bit of          here and there
and fairy fey
I grew up with the royal Mug
and stories of a fairy land
where monarchs always can but try
to deal a fair and open hand
to me and you
A Royal Mug
True blue.
Upon the ceiling the cracks break wider
and down the backs comes a hooded rider;
an air blown woman on a broken nag
who carries a torch and a plastic bag.
She has little to share but plenty eat
"Rejoice we all must in every defeat;"
a cold bloody woman who has come to grips
and holds in patronage Apocalypse,
the horse of Famine, that thoroughbred War,
the headless hail and the puss covered claw.
The witch of Stainford who sucks on the south
a monetrist with a millionaires mouth
She gobbles and gobs till the children in fright
hide for tomorrow in the silence of night.
I saw a Ragkin in the Strand
who held a chip tray in his hand
He was a grovelling and his hair
was half disorder, half depair
when I refused.  I heard him say
"I am a king from Blaydon way"
a canny, a hero of my town
until the buggers pulled it down
and in what planners call decay
built shopping malls called Smart Display.
Go Whittington to London town
And with it a pussy in Dolcis boots.
Find Queenie, Queenie Caroline
And wash her hair in turpentine
For turpentine will make it shine
You's are a king for Caroline.
I saw a Scousling on Pier head
who rocked about and picked at bread
he muttered words you should not utter
and flashed his thing above the gutter.
Charles Phillip Arthur, Prince of Angst,
High Sheriff of the Lands Between,
First Governor of the Isles of Gangst
who serves as son our Lady Queen,
High Manner of Lancastrian land
and Chief Extraord in lack-a-day,
Great leader of the robber band
has thought of somewhat rich to say.
"I've not outrun the leo-pard
Yet I've beheld the cockatrice.
If you're a pot, then I'm a shard.
I've bitten heads from sugared mice
and slipped on lard,
And that's not nice.
For I have done a thousand things
which I regret and so would you
of the lineage of kings.
When trying Camerilla's shoe
I thought upon her diddly-do
just once or twice.
My guilt as Princekin is the sort
which never has had before
by laws of averages and Tort
I'm simply rotten to my core;
a plaintiff case, and quite unsought,
in Scottish law.
For Scottish law's Law Josephine,
unlike the common English type
lacks simple room to patch and pine
nor yet indulge outrageous hype
with dimble-dum and dmble-dine
and there's the flaw.
All lingham long day dreams record
my angst and my sincere regret.
My self abuse, my great discord
goes zipping round on internet
and now my           jelly's set
the royal tone.
There never was a guilt like mine.
I am undone you'll recognise,
so twisted that the Rule Divine
comes muckling ot contrary wise
With a slaon
I am alone."
Fat Fergie,
Lady Muck.
Margaret Rose,
Face Tuck.
Charles Phillip,
Pete Townsend,
Tough luck.
Prizzy Lizzy,
Great pluck.
Queen Mam,
T'old Duck.
Teddy Duckie,
Yuck, Yuck.
Andrew darling,
In schtuck.
Sarah Fergie,
Toe Suck.
Charles andDi,
Oh ______
God Bless
The Prince of Wales.
I have two plates for Mark and Anne
I purchsed them with loving care
by cheque upon the Gee-gee plan
two plates well up from Tupperware
with gold piping on each rim
a plate for her, a plate for him.
We get our china, plates and all
from Mr Edwards market stall
on Barnsley market.
Think of England, the silly old bitch
Think of England, without a stitch
Think of England diddle, diddle dum
Think of England with one shoe on.
From Belfast town see Orange men
come with their sashes to Big Ben
and from the Shanklin hear them shout
my brain's locked in please let it out
with twirling sticks they march around
and in Begora go to ground
across the Boyne
with not a hope
So god bless the Queen and rum-tum the pope.
Think of England, the dense crowds cry
Think of England, with a tear in your eye
"Where is the boy who looks after the sheep
He's in a train siding but he's not asleep."
From sly Sligo the I R A
creep along ditches and come down to play
they make the muriels, the run a gun
a kneecapped girl amounts to fun.
Think of Engalnd, State and Church
Thirty-nine articles left in the lurch
Oh where is the boy with the golden horn
he's safe in the palace, asleep in the corn.
And so mi old mate t'enemy within
he's black rimmed eyes and a wicked grin
and biceps tattooed Mole Not Dole
This love of his life is a coal black hole
who cares a toss
only exist as profit and loss.
Think of England, ruling the waves
Think of England, think black slaves,
Think of this land where none can be never
happy again for ever and ever.
Let this become the last act play
with Diane squatting on the throne
and listening to the answer phone
"I am not in
but don't put down
I'm permanently
out of town
just now."
Let this act be the last for him.
Milla Sloany
rode her pony
riding on a king.
"I don't care
if you dare
I'll let you touch
my thing."
Little Miss Muffet
sat on her tuffet
all of sixteen years
this lot leads to tears.
Charlie, Charlie
Rumple darly
gave a wife a kiss
Asked his dad
"Well my lad.
You've had a near miss."
Camilla Parker Bowles
Came in a Rolls
-Now fancy that-
The dirty cat.
In this land none can be never
happy again for ever and ever
You were the dense crowds in the Mall
Time to go to work.  You lucky bugger.
Call me when you've woken up.
Make a cup of tea,
two sugars and cake by Mr Kipps.
You went to parties, answered the call
Get up you lazy sod.  Bastard.What a ball
we've had, you and me.  All this.  It's leg-
over time.  You promised.  All this for egg
and frozen chips.
Where's the tenderness to grow from
If there's only illusion
Barbara Cartland in bed with a Pekinese  the sleaze
Slopping ginseng
Swelling out
And you with no histories.  History is theirs.
"Oh mirror mirror on the wall”
begins her urgent daily cry
she's so mixed up.

Future Scientists of America!

A teacher forwarded this list of comments from test papers, essays, etc.,submitted to science and health teachers by elementary, junior high, high school, and college students. As she noted, "It is truly astonishing what weird science our young scholars can create under the pressures of time and grades."


  • H2O is hot water, and CO2 is cold water.
  • To collect fumes of sulphur, hold a deacon over a flame in a test tube.
  • When you smell an odorless gas, it is probably carbon monoxide.
  • Water is composed of two gins, Oxygin and Hydrogin. Oxygin is pure gin. Hydrogin is gin and water.
  • Three kinds of blood vessels are arteries, vanes and caterpillars.
  • Blood flows down one leg and up the other.
  • Respiration is composed of two acts, first inspiration, and then expectoration.
  • The moon is a planet just like the earth, only it is even deader.
  • Artificial insemination is when the farmer does it to the cow instead of the bull.
  • Dew is formed on leaves when the sun shines down on them and makes them perspire.
  • A super saturated solution is one that holds more than it can hold.
  • Mushrooms always grow in damp places and so they look like umbrellas.
  • The pistol of a flower is its only protections against insects.
  • The skeleton is what is left after the insides have been taken out and the outsides have been taken off. The purpose of the skeleton is something to hitch meat to.
  • A permanent set of teeth consists of eight canines, eight cuspids, two molars, and eight cuspidors.
  • The tides are a fight between the Earth and moon. All water tends towards the moon, because there is no water in the moon, and nature abhors a vacuum. I forget where the sun joins in this fight.
  • A fossil is an extinct animal. The older it is, the more extinct it is.
  • Equator: A managerie lion running around the Earth through Africa.
  • Germinate: To become a naturalized German.
  • Liter: A nest of young puppies.
  • Magnet: Something you find crawling all over a dead cat.
  • Momentum: What you give a person when they are going away.
  • Planet: A body of Earth surrounded by sky.
  • Rhubarb: A kind of celery gone bloodshot.
  • Vacuum: A large, empty space where the pope lives.
  • Before giving a blood transfusion, find out if the blood is affirmative or negative.
  • To remove dust from the eye, pull the eye down over the nose.
  • For a nosebleed: Put the nose much lower then the body until the heart stops.
  • For dog bite: put the dog away for several days. If he has not recovered,then kill it.
  • For head cold: use an agonizer to spray the nose until it drops in your throat.
  • To keep milk from turning sour: Keep it in the cow.





Lisa Plettinck received her BA in English Literature and is currently a

graduate film student at Chapman University in Orange, California. In

between writing, she squanders the majority of her finances on books and

movie tickets.


Holly Day lives in Daytona Beach, Florida, with three cats, a man,

and a new baby (Wolfegang Lauffer Day, b. Dec. 20, 1995).


Ben Ohmart


Michael Estabrook has a brand new job, a midlife career change after

21 years in sales; now he's in marcom, Marketing Communications, that is.

He's working on his 13th chap, this one done in cahoots with the famous Fred Voss of

Long Beach CA, about their work experiences.


janet kuypers


Brian Lewis is a well known Yorkshire poet and painter. He specialises in writing

topical poems for up-front money and runs his own publishing house 'Pontefract Press'

17 Linden Terrace, Pontefract, WF8 4AE. The rhyming poem "Charles and Di" calls for a

British Republic but floats the idea on the divorce of a Prince Charles and Lady Diana.

It was written before the Di "Princess of Hearts" speech but printed on the day Queen

Elisabeth called for the couple to divorce.