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Edited  by:    Sarah  Frances  Moran   Co-­‐‑edited  by:    Mike  Jewett     COPYRIGHT  ©  2015  YCR  Publishing     Published  by  YCR  Publishing  Waco,  Texas     All  rights  reserved.    No  part  of  this  publication  may  be  reproduced  or  transmitted  in  any   form  or  by  any  means  without  written  permission  of  the  author.     Each  work  is  copyright  ©  2015  the  respective  writers  and  artists.       Cover  art:    Yellow  Chair  Superman   Copyright  ©  Yellow  Chair  Review

Editor’s Note:     Welcome  to  YCR’s  Superheroes  issue!         Inside   you’ll   find   an   assortment   of   superheroes:     Superman,   Wonderwoman,   Green   Lantern,  A  Housewife,  A  Dad  and  so  on.    Superheroes  were  a  huge  part  of  my  growing  up   and   truth   be   told   I’m   still   a   huge   fan.     What   is   more   intriguing   though   than   the   world   of   Gotham  City  is  our  world,  which  is  filled  with  a  wide  variety  of  superheroes  that  we  pass   by  every  day.    Those  every  day  superheroes  are  who  this  issue  is  for.         Superheroes  don’t  have  to  wear  tights  or  see  through  walls;  sometimes  Superheroes  simply   offer  love.    Who  would  argue  with  that  superpower?     We  hope  you   enjoy  the  included  works.    We   hope  you  find  a   superhero  you  can   relate   to   inside.    We  hope  that  your  inner  superhero  is  awakened  while  you  ingest  these  words.             For   information   on   submissions   please   visit   our   website   at   and  to  keep  up-­‐‑to-­‐‑date  on  the  latest  YCR  news  follow  us  on  Facebook.     As  always  thank  you  for  your  support  of  YCR,     Sarah  Frances  Moran,     Founder/Editor    

Yellow Chair  Review     3  

CONTENTS   On  The  Cover:        

Yellow Chair  Superman  -­‐‑  YCR  


Buzz Me  –  Adrian  Ernesto  Cepeda  


form arms  and  body  –  Mike  Jewett  


Voltron –  Francesca  Davis  


The Flight  of  the  Housewife  –  Tiffany  McDaniel  


Fake Boyfriend  For  Hire  –  Jason  S.  Parker  


Superwoman –  Jocelyn  Mosman  


When Super  Heroes  Take  Off  Their  Masks  –  Jocelyn  Mosman  


Red –  Sonja  Johanson  


Before They  Became  Shadows-­‐‑  W.  Jack  Savaage  


Badman-­‐‑ Catfish  McDaris  


Weedman-­‐‑ Catfish  McDaris  


Hercules-­‐‑ Catfish  McDaris  


Green Lantern  Has  a  Friend  in  Jesus  –  Kevin  Fisher-­‐‑Paulson  


The Power  of  the  Super  Hero  is  in  Where  You  Look  –  Kathryn  Hillig  


Clark Has  a  Plan-­‐‑  Lanette  Cadle  


Death of  a  Super  Hero  –  Lanette  Cadle  


I Am  Titanium  –  Gillian  Kalson  


Plastic Man’s  Hymn  to  the  Aesthetic  Beauty  –  Michael  Karl  


Batman Jesus  –  Chad  Parenteau  


The Hobbyist  –  Nick  Romeo  


The Spawn  of  Fett  –  Nick  Romeo  


League of  Extraordinary  Women  –  Chris  Billings  


Figure Eight  –  Laurie  Kolp  


I’m No  Wonder  Woman  –  Laurie  Kolp  


Wonder Woman’s  Website  –  Deborah  Bacharach  


Wonder Woman  –  Francesca  Davis  


sagres –  Ian  Watts  


Who Knew  That  Man  Could  Stop  Bullets?  –  Ryan  Anthony  Summers  


Real Life  Super  Heroes  –  Rie  Sheridan  Rose  


Gotta Save  ‘Em  All  –  Adam  Sprague  


My Genetic  Scientist  Ex-­‐‑Nun  Grandmother  –  Audrey  T.  Carroll  


Captain America  –  Natasha  Reeves  


We All  Love  the  Underdog  –  Wayne  Russell  

50 51    



The Guy  With  the  Coffee  –  Sean  Wofford   When  Superman  Changes  In  The  Phone  Booth  –  Dylan  Debelis


Once Again  I’m  the  Hero  –  Donald  Illich  


The Joker  –  Anushree  Nande  


Grind Time  Fantasy  Mirage  –  David  S.  Pointer  


The Win-­‐‑  Luis  Neer  


The Secret  of  the  Red  Wedding  –  Hilary  King  


Chair Stealer  and  Tickle  Finger  –  Brad  Murgen  


A Graphic  Novel  in  Six  Chapters  –  Adam  Kotlarczyk  


Gambit –  Remie  James  


The Sniper  –  Jay  Sizemore  


Captain Beatty  As  George  Bush  –  Jay  Sizemore  


Chronic –  Laura  Ring      


Better Man  –  Charles  Darnell  

Please visit for contributor bios and information.

Yellow Chair  Review     5  

Buzz Me:    [Ode  to  Chau]   By  Adrian  Ernesto  Cepeda  

_________________   Anointed  most  requested   he  is  an  unmasked  Marvel     without  a  cape.  Power  gripped     with  his  lab  coated  fingers—     not  a  hit  man  yet,  he  snips     like  The  Professional   but  with  the  same  silent  dedication;   he  stares  intently     with  blades  in  his  eyes.     He’s  quick  with  scissors—   cutting  like  Wolverine   but  with  the  grace  of  Scissorhands.   Our  boy  wonder  is  graphic,  novel  like     but  he  demands  sharp  razor  responses   for  my  haircut  symphony.     I  listen  for  his  music,  like   a  conductor  with  his  sounds,   beautiful  rhythms  blurry  at  first   but  I  know  as  I  feel  the  fade     in  the  back,  jazzy  grooves     on  my  temple  saxophone  dryer     blows  on  repeat—   as  Chau  spins  me  around   to  face  the  heat,   my  personal  Coltrane     always  cuts  A  Love  Supreme     in  this  basement  dwelling,     locker  room  size  barber  shop.     Chau  drowns  out  trapper  keeper     scat  grinning  humor  with  his  electrical  magic     as  my  hair  falls—     misogynistic  comb-­‐‑over  mayhem  fuels     our  laughter  chorus—   this  is  last  bastion  for  lost  Angelino     Joe’s  bonding  in  gray  areas     receding  our  comb  over  promises—     trimmed  just  above  the  ear—       conversations  bent  leaning    

towards politics  and  X-­‐‑rated  mocking   knockers  for  sport.     No  verbal  victories,   My  barber  concentrates  on  his  passion,   the  hair  before  him.     Like  Picasso  he  speaks  with  shears     the  haircut  is  his  brush.   Only  the  mirror  reflects  Chau’s  answers.     He  knows,  I  don’t  sit  for  the  testosterone  talks;   I  nod  like  a  catcher   waiting  for  the  heat,  buzz  me—   last  week  felt  like  a  losing  streak   I  need  a  victory,  I  say.  Already,     like  my  superhero,  he  knows,  the  sign;   No  miracles  man,  I’m  feeling  invisible—   just  resurrect  me,  this  time.  

Yellow Chair  Review     7  

form arms  and  body   by  Mike  Jewett  

_________________ drowning  myself  in  dos  equis   cinco  de  mayo   xx  crackles  in   my  head   my  veins   my  spine   the  spine   of  a  broken  book   the  chihuahua  leaps   onto  my  lap,   lays  right  on   my  stained   briefs,  licks   itself,  my   briefs,   settles  in.   it  drools  all  over   me  but  fuck  it,   i  say   i'ʹm  batman,   i  say   along   with  batman,   blaring  on  the  tv   drowning  out  the  noise,   my  internal  voice,   the  colors;   those  fucking  colors   though;  reminds   me  of  voltron'ʹs   lions  

form feet  and  legs   form   arms  and  body   and  i'ʹll  form   the  head   and  i'ʹll  form   the  head   the  same  head   filled  with  spite   filled  with  colors   and  crackling   with  dos  equis

Yellow Chair  Review     9  

Voltron Photoshop   By  Francesca  Davis  

The Flight  of  the  Housewife   By  Tiffany  McDaniel  

_________________   She  left     the  dishtowels   On  the  clothesline.       They  are  still  there,     years  later   Their  gingham  no     longer  bright   Their  cotton  no     longer  clean   The  woman  no     longer  there   Still  they  beat     like  her  cape.  

Yellow Chair  Review     11  

Fake Boyfriend  For  Hire   By:  Jason  S.  Parker  


• • • • •

Special Offer  Ends  Sunday,  July  18th:   Buy  2  Dates,  Get  1  Free!     Do  you  want  to  impress  your  parents  by  bringing  your  new  Harvard  grad  boyfriend  to  dinner?     Do  you  want  to  make  your  ex  jealous  by  dating  a  surgeon?   Do  you  want  to  show  your  new  millionaire  boyfriend  off  to  your  friends?   Do  you  want  to  take  your  new  charming  fiancée  to  the  family  reunion?  (Includes  Fiancée  Fee  –  see   below  for  details)   Do  you  want  to  bring  the  lead  singer  of  a  popular  UK  rock  band  to  your  best  friend’s  wedding?  

Look  no  further!  My  name  is  Barry  McClain.  Over  the  past  seven  years,  I’ve  gone  on  over  a  thousand  paid   dates.  I’ve  impressed  hundreds  of  parents.  I’ve  made  hundreds  of  exes  jealous.  I’ve  been  the  talk  of  dozens  of   weddings.              Whatever  you  need  me  to  be,  I  can  be.  Let  me  say  that  again:     I  Can  Be  Whatever  You  Need  Me  To  Be!              My  real  name  may  be  Barry  McClain,  but  my  nickname  is  The  Changeling.  Sounds  mysterious,  doesn’t  it?  I   like  to  think  of  myself  as  a  superhero,  albeit  a  highly  paid  superhero,  a  master  of  many  disguises,  saving  you   from  embarrassment.              Here’s  what  my  superpowers  can  do  for  you  .  .  .            Want  a  rock-­‐‑climbing  fake  boyfriend  who’s  adventurous?  Done!  I’ll  tell  your  friends  about  all  the  boulders   I’ve  scaled,  all  the  times  I’ve  hung  from  a  rock  by  one  hand,  all  the  times  I  came  “this  close”  to  death.            Want   a   fake   doctor   boyfriend   who’s   wicked   smart?   Done!   I’ll   tell   your   parents   about   the   diseases   I’ve   helped  cure,  about  all  the  children  I  helped  save  in  Africa,  about  my  Nobel  Prize  in  medicine.              I  can  be  anything  you  want.  I’ll  even  do  something  I  haven’t  done  in  my  seven  years  of  fake  boyfriending  .  .   .     I’ll  Waive  The  Research  Fee!              What   Research   Fee?   Glad   you   asked!   I   normally   charge   a   Research   Fee   depending   on   the   difficulty   of   boyfriend  you  want.                Let  me  explain  .  .  .  If  you  want  me  to  be  an  ex  Yale  polo  player,  then  I  might  charge  a  $50  Research  Fee  so   that  I  can  learn  all  about  polo  and  really  sell  the  part  to  Uncle  Jack  and  Aunt  Bessie  at  your  backyard  barbecue.   If  you  want  me  to  be  a  lawyer,  then  I  might  charge  a  $300  Research  Fee  so  that  I  can  read  a  hulking  law  book   and  memorize  the  jargon.            Why  am  I  waiving  the  Research  Fee?  Because  I’ve  played  the  part  of  so  many  fake  boyfriends  over  the  past   seven  years  that  I’ve  probably,  dozens  of  times,  played  the  type  of  boyfriend  you’ll  ask  me  to  be.    

Take A  Look  At  What  Past  Clients  Are  Saying     “Barry  helped  me  get  my  ex  husband  back.  My  hubby  had  walked  out  on  me  and  our  three-­‐‑year-­‐‑old,  Kimberly.  He  had  left   us  for  his  secretary  at  the  firm.  When  he  saw  me  and  Barry  at  Chili’s,  he  kept  looking  over  at  our  table  and  finally  he   walked  over  and  talked  to  us.  Guess  who  showed  up  at  my  doorstep  the  next  day,  begging  me  to  take  him  back?  Bless  you,   Barry.  Not  only  have  you  saved  my  marriage.  You  put  my  daughter’s  father  back  in  her  life.  Priceless.  Hire  Barry  as  your   fake  boyfriend.  You  won’t  regret  it.”       Martha  Colmbridge   Norcross,  Georgia     “My  rich  parents  were  coming  into  town.  They  had  hated  my  past  few  boyfriends  I  brought  out  to  dinner.  Said  they  were   obnoxious.  Losers.  My  bitch  mother  said  that  if  I  don’t  find  a  good  fiancée,  then  daddy  would  cut  me  off.  Can  you  believe   that?  How  fair  is  that?  Anyway,  I  called  up  Barry’s  service.  I  was  skeptical  at  first.  But  Barry  really  came  through.  He   came  to  dinner  as  a  cardiologist.  My  daddy  asked  him  all  kinds  of  heart  questions  all  night.  Barry  knew  all  the  answers.  It   was  amazing.  They  still  ask  about  Barry  all  the  time.  Most  importantly,  daddy’s  money  is  still  flowing  into  my  bank   account.  Barry  is  a  pro.  I  highly  recommend  his  unique  services.”     Sabrina  Davis   Athens,  Georgia     “I  wasn’t  sure  Barry  could  help  me.  I’m  gay,  you  see.  When  I  read  his  ad  in  the  AJC,  I  didn’t  see  anything  saying  he   wouldn’t  pose  as  a  gay  boyfriend.  I  called  up  Barry.  He  said  sure  he’s  been  a  gay  boyfriend  many  times.  He  said  he’d  hold   my  hand  in  public,  but  he  wouldn’t  kiss.  I  said  that’s  fine.  Barry  was  my  Calvin  Klein  model  fake  boyfriend  at  my  sister’s   wedding.  We  danced  all  night.  He  was  so  funny  in  every  conversation.  It  was  a  success.  Hire  Barry  if  you  get  a  chance.”     Todd  Jenkins   Woodstock,  Georgia     You  Are  Standing  At  A  Crossroads              You  have  two  choices  .  .  .            Road  #1:  You  can  take  a  lame  date  to  your  next  night  out  and  risk  the  possibility  of  being  super   embarrassed.  Road  #2:  You  can  hire  me  to  woo  your  friends  and  your  family.  What’s  it  going  to  be?            I’ll  admit,  my  services  aren’t  cheap.  It’s  $1,000  for  a  date  (Optional:  $100  Fiancée  Fee).  That  price  can  be   shocking  for  some.  But  think  about  it  .  .  .              Can  you  really  put  a  price  on  impressing  your  parents?  What’s  that  worth  to  you?  What’s  it  worth  to  you  to   have  your  parents  bragging  about  you  to  the  rest  of  your  family  about  how  you’re  dating  a  plastic  surgeon?   What’s  it  worth  to  you  to  get  your  ex  husband  back  like  Martha  did  in  her  testimonial?  Can  you  really  put  a   price  tag  on  that?  If  I  were  to  charge  you  what  my  services  are  truly  worth,  then  I’d  add  a  couple  zeroes  to  the   end.     Hurry!  Special  Offer  Ends  Sunday,  July  18th!                        When  you  buy  2  dates,  you  get  1  free!  What’s  more?  The  Research  Fee  will  be  waived!  Don’t  miss  out  on   impressing  your  friends  and  family!  Call  now!      

Yellow Chair  Review     13  

Superwoman By:  Jocelyn  Mosman  

_________________   Tonight,  when  I  look  at  myself  in  the  mirror,     I  see  Superwoman.       I  see  the  woman     That  prays  as  much  as  she  slaves  away   At  her  work,     Waiting  for  the  moment  when  genius   Collides  with  patience.       Tonight,  when  I  look  at  myself  in  the  mirror,     I  see  Superwoman.       But  some  days,  I  don’t.     Those  days  I  notice  the  stress  lines   Writing  poetry  onto  her  countenance,   A  message  of  wisdom  and  of  pain,     The  kind  of  pain  that  rain  does  not  ever   Wash  away  by  day.   The  kind  that  stays  and  stays  through   Long  nights  and  long  days  until     Full  novels  are  written  on  the  white  pages   Of  her  flesh.       Tonight,  when  I  look  at  myself  in  the  mirror,   I  see  Superwoman.       I  see  a  woman,  who  knows  she’s  on  thin  ice,   And  enjoys  stomping  on  it,     Just  to  feel  the  world  open  beneath  her.       She  knows  that  when  her  archenemy  returns,   His  fists  will  be  as  thick  as  the  beer  on  his  breath.   And  she  swears  that  she  can  feel  it  burn   Beneath  her  feet  as  she  walks  on  the  hot  coals   Of  his  rules,  each  more  cruel  than  the  last.       Tonight,  when  I  look  at  myself  in  the  mirror,   I  see  Superwoman.      

But when  I  don’t,  I  see  my  future.   I  see  every  gray  strand  of  hair     Twisted  into  knots  only  boy  scouts  could  untie,     Wrapped  with  the  thorns  of  every  lie   He  ever  whispered  and  every  sigh     She  ever  allowed  to  escape  her  fragile  lips.       If  they  were  a  package,  they  would  be  labeled   “Handle  With  Care,”     But  there  wasn’t  much  care  when  he  dared   To  let  his  hands  talk  more  than  his  lips.       Tonight,  when  I  look  at  myself  in  the  mirror,     I  see  Superwoman.       I  see  the  multicolor  bruises  fade  into  the  pigments   Of  her  pink  flesh,  fresh     With  the  tears  of  another  lost  dream.       Superwoman  dreams.       Tonight,  when  she  leaves  him  for  a  new  tomorrow,     Drinking  down  his  sorrows  with  another  glass,     She  looks  into  the  mirror,  and  she  sees  a  woman.   Beautiful  and  proud,     Unable  to  be  too  quiet  or  too  loud.       Tonight,  when  I  look  at  myself  in  the  mirror,   I  see  Superwoman.       Some  nights,  she  is  not  so  strong.     She  wonders  if  he  is  the  soul  mate  that  he  claims   To  be,  or  if  he  is  just  a  man  that  she  gives  pity,     Every  time  he  walks  through  that  door.       But  some  days,  she  knows  that  she  is  on  the  right  path,     That  she  is  on  the  path  towards  freedom,     And  that  his  hateful  wrath  won’t  stop   Her  from  being  free.       She  still  racks  the  aisles  of  fond  memories   Until  she  finds  that  the  only  ones  that  matter   Are  those  that  scream  their  stories     From  her  scars,  and  the  stars  never  shined   So  bright  as  they  do  tonight.       Tonight,  when  I  look  at  myself  in  the  mirror,     I  see  Superwoman.      

Yellow Chair  Review     15  

When Superheroes  Take  Off  Their  Masks   By:    Jocelyn  Mosman  

_________________   It’s  been  seven  months,     And  I  still  think  about  you.     I  still  change  Facebook  accounts   So  I  can  see  if  you  are  still  smiling   In  your  profile  picture,     Or  if  your  new  girlfriend   Makes  you  happier     Than  I  did  when  I  was   The  girl  occupying  your  left   Side  of  the  photo.     It’s  been  seven  months,     And  I  can  still  smell  your     Cologne  from  2,000  miles  away,     Remember  that  your  love  for     Batman  was  so  darn  annoying   Because  I  was  a  Spiderman  sort  of  woman.     I  remember  when  it  didn’t  matter   Which  superhero  was  better     Because  you  were  the  only  super   Heroic  man  I  needed  in  my  life.     And  I  feel  lucky  to  have  seen  that  side   Of  you,     The  Tommy  D  side  of  your     Nerdy  Doctor  Who-­‐‑loving  addictions.     The  Assassin’s  Creed  tattoo     On  your  arm  and  your  white  lab  coat   Of  a  costume  were  only  part,     But  I  know  you  had  super  powers   Far  greater  than  Optometrist.     I  witnessed  in  my  year  and  a  half     Of  being  in  your  life     The  promise  you  had  in  your  heart.     It’s  been  seven  months,     And  I  can’t  seem  to  get  you  out  of  my  head,     And  I  can’t  seem  to  forget  the  words  you  said     To  me  when  I  was  lonely,     The  good  morning  texts,     The  stolen  kisses,     The  fighting  with  the  missus,     But  I  knew  you  better.    

I knew  that  your  battle  wasn’t  between   Me  and  you.     I  was  not  your  Kryptonite  or  your  Joker.     You  were  not  Batman,     But  you  were  a  juggler.     In  18  months,  I  discovered  that     You  balanced  your  family,     Your  school,  your  work,  your  girlfriend   Like  spinning  plates,     Keeping  everything  in  check,     And  wondering  where  your  paycheck  went   Every  time  you  had  to  pay  bills.     It’s  been  seven  months,     And  I  hope  that  you’re  one  plate  lighter,     One  part  less  preoccupied  with  being  busy   And  one  part  more  interested  in  living.     You  were  a  soldier  fighting  PTSD  with     Your  liver,     Because  alcohol  and  late  night  fights     Where  we  talked  about  your  anger   Only  made  you  ask  me  if     Your  grandfather  would  be  proud   Of  the  man  you’d  become.     It’s  been  seven  months,     And  we  have  not  spoken  in  four.     But  I  still  check  on  you     In  my  quiet  little  way  because     Loving  a  superhero  isn’t  easy     To  give  up.     So,  I  don’t  let  you  go.     I  don’t  care  how  caught  up   In  the  web  of  lies  and  of     Imperfect  goodbyes  I  get,     Because  it’s  been  seven  months,     And  I  kissed  you  on  the  cheek     When  I  left  you,     Another  lie  piercing  through  me   As  I  hugged  you.     It  was  your  birthday  the  other  day,     And  at  12:04  because  Facebook  wouldn’t  let  me   Message  you  at  midnight,     I  wished  you  a  happy  24th  birthday.     And  I  know,  it’s  been  seven  months,     And  we  have  not  spoken  in  four,     But  I  know  you  read  that  message.    

Yellow Chair  Review     17  

I cannot  believe  that  it’s  been  2  years  since  we  met,     But  your  birthday  gave  me  a  chance     And  I  took  the  opportunity     To  wear  the  Spiderman  shirt  you  gave  me,     Read  over  our  old  messages  like     Photographs  of  two  people  entirely  foreign   To  me  now,     And  pretend  to  understand     How  I  still  think  of  you  when  we  were  marked   With  fights  and  cuss  words  and  low  blows,     But  I  do  still  think  of  you.     It’s  been  seven  months,  and  I’m  ready     To  be  the  girl  who  walks  away  from     The  adrenaline  junkie  superhero,     From  the  Risk  champion,     Sci-­‐‑Fi  loving  Geek.     I  know  you  aren’t  perfect,     But  even  after  seven  months,     I  haven’t  forgotten  that  my  War  Doctor   Is  just  a  man  who  is  finding  love   2,000  miles  away     With  a  woman  who  will  always  be   Better  for  him  than  me.     It’s  been  seven  months,     And  I’m  sorry,     Not  for  loving  you,     Not  for  letting  you  go,     But  for  never  telling  you     To  put  down  the  spinning  plates,     Take  off  the  mask,     And  just  be  Tommy  for  a  while.     Because  after  seven  months,     I  know,     You  are  enough.    

Red By  Sonja  Johanson  

_________________   You  made  me  a  bad-­‐‑ass,  witch-­‐‑   goddess,  sword-­‐‑shaker,  showed   me  I  could  win  every  battle.     True  story.     You  set  me  on  righteous  fire,   taught  me  to  lie,  steal,  kill,  if   that’s  what  it  takes.  I  rescue     children,  dice  with  pirates,     beat  the  wife-­‐‑beaters,  drink     too  much,  wake  up  alone.       I’m  the  good  guy,  but  I  never     come  down     on  the  side  of  angels.  

Yellow Chair  Review     19  

Before They  Became  Shadows   Acrylic   By:    W.  Jack  Savage  

Badman   by  Catfish  McDaris  

_________________   The  Chinese  ribs  and  duck  spring  rolls   sucked,  they  left  me  wondering  what   animal  got  murdered  in  the  alley     The  waitress  brought  the  check  when   she  served,  every  5  minutes  she  scowled       and  said  is  everything  satisfactory,  I  was   ready  to  shove  a  chopstick  in  her  eye     The  paper  Chinese  Zodiac  placemat     held  my  attention,  I  was  born  in  the   year  of  the  snake,  it  said  I  was  rich     In  wisdom  and  charm,  romantic,  deep   thinking,  I  would  be  content  as  a  teacher,   philosopher,  writer,  and  fortune  teller     Notable  snakes  were  Darwin,  Edgar  Allen   Poe,  Abraham  Lincoln,  while  leaving  the   café  I  dropped  a  nickel  on  my  plate  and     bowed  like  Confucius  meeting  Buddha.  

Yellow Chair  Review     21  

Weedman By  Catfish  McDaris  

_________________   Set  fire  to  your  nightmares,  Quick  sang,     this  one’s  called  Ode  to  Marywanna  or   Death  is  a  Fickle  Bitch  from  Tucumcari     When  in  doubt  trust  your  heart  and  don’t   pet  the  jackalope,  she’s  a  big  bad  wolf,  a   Comanche  on  the  path  of  a  moonquake     A  bullet  proof  poet  with  a  speed  of  light   mouth,  Quick  was  a  hammerhead  shark,   if  he  quit  moving  he’d  die  swiftly.  

Hercules By  Catfish  McDaris  

_________________   My  lady  wanted  a  child,  I  wasn’t   ready,  she  seduced  me,  then  asked     what  should  we  name  our  baby       We’ll  name  him  Hercules,  I  asked     if  she  knew  about  Hercules,  she  said   no,  Hercules  did  lots  of  cool  stuff,  he     strangled  a  snake  sent  to  kill  him     while  still  a  baby,  he  was  a  bad  ass       His  Adventures  were:   Killing  a  fire-­‐‑breathing  Cacus   Holding  up  the  world  for  Atlas   Wrestling  with  Achelous   Fighting  the  giant  Antaeus     Retrieving  Alcestis  from  the  underworld   Freeing  Prometheus     His  Twelve  Labors  were:   Slaying  the  Nemean  Lion   Slaying  the  nine-­‐‑headed  Lernaen  Hydra   Capturing  the  Golden  Hind  of  Artemis   Capturing  the  Erymanthian  Boar   Cleaning  the  Augean  Stables  in  a  single  day   Slaying  the  Stymphalian  Birds   Capturing  the  Cretan  Bull   Stealing  the  Mares  of  Diomedes   Obtaining  the  girdle  of  Hippolyta,  Queen  of  the  Amazons   Obtaining  the  cattle  of  the  monster  Geryon   Stealing  the  apples  of  the  Hesperides   Capturing  and  bringing  back  Cerberus.     My  lady  smiled  like  she  knew   the  secret  to  Mona  Lisa’s  smile.    

Yellow Chair  Review     23  

Green Lantern  Has  a  Friend  in  Jesus   By  Kevin  Fisher-­‐‑Paulson  

_________________   Today  is  Fat   Tuesday,  which  the  French  call  Mardi  Gras,  and  the  New  Orlinians  call  “Money  in  the   Bank.”  It’s  the  last  day  before  Lent,  the  40  days  in  the  Catholic  calendar  that  you’re  supposed  to  fast,  abstain   and  wear   hair   shirts.   When   I   was   little,  my   mother,   Nurse   Vivian,   called   it   Pancake   Tuesday.   Nurse   Vivian   was  the  last  person  on  the  planet  I  know  who  actually  could  make  pancakes  from  scratch,  with  no  help  at  all   from   Aunt   Jemima.   And   every   year   as   she   dished   up   the   pancakes,   hot   from   the   cast   iron   frying   pan   and   smothered  in  butter  and  Karo  syrup,  she  asked  what  each  of  us  was  giving  up  for  Lent.       Pop  always  answered,  "ʺSkydiving  and  cotton  candy."ʺ       For  forty  years,  I  have  given  up  something  fattening,  in  the  hopes  that  not  only  can  I  build  up  a  little   spiritual  good  karma,  but  save  myself  a  few  laps  on  the  treadmill.  This  year  it  will  probably  be  red  meat,  since   this  will  also  impress  my  doctor  with  regards  to  my  cholesterol.  Between  them,  my  two  older  brothers  have   more  than  seven  stents.  We  are  a  competitive  family.  Do  I  really  not  see  myself  as  angling  for  eight?       So  last   Sunday   was  the   last  Sunday  before   Lent,   which  doesn'ʹt   mean  much  to   the   Catholics   reading   this,   and   even   less   to   the   Jews,   Pagans   and   agnostics.   The   only   real   difference   is   that   it   is   an   "ʺordinary"ʺ   Sunday,  which  means  it  is  the  last  time  for  six  weeks  that  the  priest  wears  green  vestments.       To   get  the  impact   of   this,  you   need  to   know  that  my   sons   Zane   and   Aidan   and   my  husband  (Papa)   and  I  have  watched  four  seasons  worth  of  Justice  League  on  DVD.  Aidan  always  sticks  his  fist  out  in  the  air,   pretending   to   be   Superman  flying.  Zane  always  runs  around   the  house,   pretending   to  be   Flash   (the   African   American  version  of  course,  which  makes  him  the  Flashblack.)  He  tells  me  to  be  Batman  and  he  tells  Papa  to   be  Hawkgirl.  Wonder  Woman  and  Green  Lantern  are  shared  by  all.       Going   to   church   with   Zane   and   Aidan   is   like   sticking   your   head   in   a   tornado   and   hoping   to   get   something   spiritual   out   of   it.   While   trying   to   keep   Zane   from   turning   on   the   fire   alarm   and   Aidan   from   swimming   in   the   baptismal   font,   you   don'ʹt   focus   much   on   the   music   or   the   praying.   Papa   and   I   split   our   forces.   Papa   takes   Aidan   into   the   confessional   (no,   not   the   old   kind,   but   the   modern   kinds   with   plants   and   candles)  and  plays  with  him,  while  I  chase  Zane  up  and  down  the  steps  of  the  choir  loft.     Not  all  of  the  parishioners   get   our  family,   as  we  are  the  first   married  white  gay  couple  to   walk   into   this  particular  Catholic  Church  with  our  black  son  and  our  multiple  race  son.   I  have  learned  not  to  argue  with  Zane  in  church.  If  Zane  says,  "ʺJesus  must  be  very  tired  hanging  from   that   cross"ʺ   or   "ʺWhy   are   all   those   men   wearing   dresses?"ʺ   I   don'ʹt   reason   with   him,   since   he   usually   just   yells   things  like,  "ʺDaddy,  you'ʹre  being  mean  about  Mary!"ʺ    and  who  wants  to  sit  in  a  church  with  everyone  thinking   that  you  are  mean  about  Mary?       So  the  gospel  reading  was  about  the  beatitudes,  and  the  priest  talked  about  when  he  was  a  little  kid  in   Ohio.  He  discovered  standing  on  his  head,  and  when  he  stood  on  his  head,  the  clouds  look  like  carpet,  and  the   trees   look   like   broccoli   hanging   onto   the   sky.   “And   so,”  he   concluded,   “Sometime   in   your   spiritual   journey   you  have  to  turn  yourself  upside  down,  change  your  perspective  on  everything  in  order  to  see  the  real  truth.”   Well,  what  Zane  heard  was  "ʺTurn  your  self  upside  down!"ʺ  and  so  he  started  doing  handstands  down  the  aisle.   Some   of   the   stuffier   parishioners   gasped.   Having   paid   less   attention   than   Zane,   I   asked,   "ʺZane,   why   are   standing  on  your  head?"ʺ            

Zane replied,  "ʺDaddy!!    Green  Lantern  told  me  to  do  it!"ʺ  and  he  pointed  at  the  priest  in  the  bright  green   vestments,  who  with  his  ring  and  all,  just  might  have  been  a  member  of  the  intergalactic  space  corps.  I   scurried  to  the  back  of  the  church,  and  Zane  followed  and  the  mass  progressed.  I  put  my  coat  on  during  the   Agnus  Dei,  Zane  yelled  out,  "ʺDaddy!!!    Aren'ʹt  you  going  to  go  get  some  of  the  magic  food  that  Green  Lantern   made?"ʺ       It  would  be  hard  to  sneak  out  the  back  door  with  all  eyes  on  me,  so  I  got  in  line  for  the  communion,   and  just  as  I  got  to  the  front,  Zane  said,  "ʺGreen  Lantern,  can  you  give  my  Daddy  extra  because  he  was  quiet  all   through  the  mass?"ʺ       The  priest  nodded,  and  then  leaned  down  and  whispered  to  Zane,  "ʺThank  you  for  paying  attention  to   my  sermon."ʺ           So  there  you  have  it,  the  lessons  of  the  day:  Turn  yourself  upside  down  once  in  a  while.    And   what  am  I  giving  up  for  Lent?  Expectations.  

Yellow Chair  Review     25  

The Power  of  the  Super  Hero  is  in  Where  You  Look   By  Kathryn  Hillig  

_________________   I'ʹm  tired  of  the  idea   Of  waging  war  on  cancer.   While  surely  admirable,   It  is  neither  super  nor  heroic.     What  if     On  one  glorious  day   Are  you  listening?   Some  researcher  discovers  that   The  cause  of  cancer     Was  one  easily  remedied  elimination   Or  one  easily  added  addition.   What  if  cancer  was  all  in  the  math-­‐‑-­‐‑   Elementary  that  is.     What  if   It  was  something  we  evolved  into  not  doing   Like  what  if  cancer  was  caused  by   Multitasking     Or  failure  to  walk  barefoot  in  the  grass     Or  eat  dirt  before  the  age  of  6     What  if  some  chemical  balancing  gene  occurs   Only  if  we  would  pray  a  hallelujah  prayer  in  the  morning  before  7:00     Or  stare  deeply  into  the  smiling  eyes  of  a  child...   Or  not  go  to  sleep   Until  we  had  pondered  the  starry  sky.   What  if  the  cure  for  cancer  was  living  a  life  in  wonder.     What  if  we  decided  to  be  thankful  for  this  life  everyday  so  we  didn'ʹt  need  cancer   to  learn  the  lesson   That  we  ARE  the  shimmer   On  the  sides  of  new  blown  bubbles,   That  our  real  job  is  channeling  creation;   That  there  is  a  God  in  times  of  peace  as  well  as  war.  

What if  the  prevention  was  to   Show  up  for  each  other  everyday   Reach  for  each  other'ʹs  hand   Just  because  there  is  Love     That  needs  expression.   As  does  joy   As  does  pain   As  does  sorrow   As  does  elation   And  that'ʹs  what  keeps  us  cancer  free.     What  if  the  cure  for  cancer   Was  something  simple   That  great  minds  just  overlooked   As  they  peered  for  hours     Into  their  tiny  microscopes.   What  if?   Can  you  feel  the  power  of  it?   There  is  one  simple  answer.   Can  you  feel  the  super  power  of  it...   Looking  somewhere  else  for  "ʺThe  Cure?"ʺ  

Yellow Chair  Review     27  

Clark Has  a  Plan   By  Lanette  Cadle  

_________________   He’s  such  a  stiff  and  it’s  not  just  the  glasses   or  the  1950s  suit  that  he  wears  absolutely  everywhere.   Last  night  Lois  wrote  him  off  for  good  and  he  doesn’t  know   how  to  deal  with  that  level  of  success.  It’s  what  he  wanted,   yet  a  guy  can’t  go  around  saving  the  world  all  the  time.   Some  days  the  world  saves  you,  like  the  bumblebee.   If  he  hadn’t  been  busy  in  high  school  contemplating  how     that  bee  does  it—remains  stationary  in  flight  while     not  being  aerodynamic  at  all,  he  would  have  missed   seeing  Lex  Luthor  lace  his  sack  lunch  with  sawdust.   That  boy  was  such  a  kidder  even  then.  It  evened  out     eventually.  Clark  used  super  sleight-­‐‑of-­‐‑hand  and  when   Lex’s  lunch  hit  the  dirt,  offered  him  his.  They  both     went  hungry,  but  there  are  worse  things  than  that,   like  growing  up  to  be  a  supervillain  or  a  hero   with  a  plan,  always  a  plan  for  every  broken  heart.  

Death of  a  Super  Hero   By  Lanette  Cadle  

_________________   She  didn’t  die  so  much  as  ceased     to  matter.  Her  costume     dwindled  to  a  few  rags  and  spangles   and  she  didn’t  leap  tall  buildings     with  the  same  joie  de  vivre  as  she  did   before  the  muttering,  the  who  does  she       think  she  is,  Superman?  Batman?  She  needs   to  get  a  life,  something  she  thought  she  had     but  was  mistaken.  She  takes  the  bus     to  crime  scenes  now,  arriving  late,  her  hair     sparking  flame  until  she  is  asked  to     take  notes  for  the  coroner  or  fetch  coffee,     and  when  noticed  at  all  it’s  always     Who’s  the  gal  with  the  mazumbas?  Boy,       would  I  like  to  bang  on  her  maracas.       Super-­‐‑hearing  can  be  a  curse.  Lately,       she  uses  her  x-­‐‑ray  vision  to  avoid  crowds.   Her  superfriends  retired  their  tights     to  be  teachers,  housewives,  and  nurses,   not  that  there’s  anything  wrong  with  that,  but     it  must  be  hard  to  do  all  the  dishes  by  hand   and  not  rock  the  cradle  from  across  this  room.     So  she  heats  coffee  with  her  heat  ray     and  invisibly  slips  paper  clues  into  pockets.  

Yellow Chair  Review     29  

I Am  Titanium   By  Gillian  Kalson  

_________________ Before   The   night   before   my   surgery   I   dreamed   I   was   a   superhero.   That’s   all   I   remember,   unfortunately,   that,   and   ziplining  across  cityscapes  wearing  a  cape.  Two  days  later  the  physical  therapist  asks  if  she  can  drape  a  second   hospital  gown  across  my  back,  “like  a  cape,  for  modesty’s  sake,”  during  our  morning  walk  through  the  unit.   “Sure!”  I  tell  her  about  my  dream  and  she  laughs.     Tracy,  my  roommate,  said  “you’re  walking  like  a  queen  today”.  She  could  be  right,  although  my  poise  is  due   not  to  any  royal  title,  but  to  the  new  sensation  of  having  a  titanium  corset  binding  me  at  the  back  of  my  waist.   At  first,  I  fought  the  titanium  screws  holding  L3,  4  &  5  vertebras  together  when  I  stood   up  for  the  first   time   after   surgery.   I   was   scared   the   screws   would   fall   apart.   Today,   I   have   surrendered   to   the   screws   and   as   a   result,   have   gained   a   queendom.   These   titanium   screws,   if   not   my   loyal   subjects,   are   now   my   ministers   supporting  me  and  directing  me  along  the  path  to  recovery.       I  kept  the  morphine  button  one  day  longer  than  I  needed   to  in  the  hospital.  I  realized  after  surgery   that  my   pain   increased  whenever   I  tried  to   stand  up   and  hang  on   to  the  muscle   memory  surrounding  those   missing   injured   discs.   But,   their   memory   doesn’t   serve   me   anymore.   Once   I   learned   to   trust   the   titanium   screws   aligning   my   spine   and   relax   into   both   sides   of   my   newly   fused   vertebrae,   I   was   able   to   start   the   healing   process  and  welcome  new  muscle  memory  into  that  tender  area.     L3-­‐‑L4  &  L4-­‐‑L5   These  pesky  discs  have  got  to  go   They  have  buffered  blows  like  shocks  on  an  automobile   Meeting  the  gravelly  and  potholed  paths  of  my  past  head  and  spine  on     My  lumbar  limits  me  now   Where  once  it  served  as  a  source  of  envy,  “how  low  can  you  go?”   It  now  screams  as  I  stand  and  I  can  no  longer  ignore  it     I  hate  snakes   Yet  that  is  who  we  are   Left  with  our  spines  alone   They  serve  as  a  constant  reminder     That  even  we  exquisite  mammals  crawled  on  our  bellies  once       this  serpentine  support  system  slithering  into  every  new  niche  we  encounter     “Ms.  Kalson,  we’re  going  to  be  monitoring  you  like  a  hawk  in  there.  You  have  nothing  to  worry  about,”  one  of   the   anesthesiologist’s   assures   me   with   a   smile   before   we   enter   the   operating   room.   Somehow   she   has   just   managed  to  make  me  feel  better  and  I  sigh  with  relief.  I  liked  her,  she  was  friendly  and  smart,  but  appeared  a   tad  bit  nervous.  This  could  be  a  lingering  effect  of  the  obvious  enthusiasm  she  feels  for  her  job.      

A sudden  recollection  flashed  across  my  mind  as  we  headed  into  the  bright  florescent  lights.  The  last  thing  my   primary  care  doctor  said  to  me  as  he  was  leaving  the  exam  room  last  week  after  my  pre-­‐‑op  was,  “see  you  on   the  other  side!”  This  has  got  to  be  the  worst  thing  you  can  say  to  a  person  about  to  go  under  local  anesthesia   for  a  four-­‐‑hour  surgery.  Will  I  get  to  see  the  “other  side”  this  morning?  What  an  adventure.       The  Other  Side   The  morning  after  the  surgery,  I  woke  up  with  the  stigmata,  and  a  catheter.  I  had  at  least  four  IVs  in  various   places  in  my  body;  one  was  in  my  right  foot,  two  were  in  my  left  arm.  The  morphine  drip  kept  beeping  when  I   bent  my  arm  because  I  was  cutting  off  the  flow.       I  felt  as  if  there  is  a  metal  crane  underneath  me,  pushing  up  into  my  spine,  lying  in  the  hospital  bed.    I  guess   this  was  the  best  position  for  my  body  to  start  healing  in  order  to,  “make  it  straight,  damn  it!!”  I  channeled  my   grandfather.  He   also   had   several   spinal   fusions   back   in   the   nineteen-­‐‑forties   and   fifties.   I   imagine   him   in  the   hospital  yelling  at  the  doctors  and  nurses  and  being  the  general  terror  that  I  remember.  I  tried  adjusting  my   body   just   a   little   bit   the   first   day   and   almost   shrieked   from   the   pain   emanating   from   the   six   inch   incision   skating  vertically  down  the  my  lower  back.  I’ve  got  my  battle  scars  now  and  insurance  paid  for  them  all.     Ghost  Pain     I  recall  it  was…   Like   a   lightning   streak   through  my   hip  down  the   front   and  back  thigh  cutting  fast   between  my  right   knee,   searing   my   shin  and  twisting  my  middle  toe  in  two.   And,  now  it’s  over,  incision  made  and  still  the  pain’s  memory  is  imprinted  on  my  mind  and  body’s  canvas  such  that  I   still  feel  it.  Yet,  new  glorious  sensation  floods  my  right  thigh  now,  like  rain  pools  forming  in  the  desert,  dry  nerve  root   trees  soak  up  the  space  newly  devoid  of  bulging  discs  and  spasming  muscles.  When  he  caresses  my  right  thigh  my  whole   body  convulses  for  a  second  and  is  shocked  to  feel  there  after  years  of  frozen  flesh.       My  roommate,  Tracy,  is  a  deeply  spiritual  Christian  who  was  raised  in  South  Carolina.  She  is  a  middle-­‐‑aged   African-­‐‑American   woman   who   learned   that   the   tumor   they   removed   from   her   brain,   just   days   ago,   was   benign.       She  tells  me  stories  of  her  childhood  in  South  Carolina.  Her  mother  would  give  tea  parties  and  dress  her  and   her  sister  up  every  week  for  church  and  for  High  Tea.  I  imagine  young  ladies  and  girls  of  the  1950s  and  60s   with   lace-­‐‑fringed   socks,   shiny   patent   leather   shoes,   pink   crinoline   dresses   adorning   their   radiant   dark   complexions,  light  fabric  fluttering  in  the  sun.       Three  days  after  I  came  home  from  the  hospital  a  nurse  called  me  to  check  in  and  see  how  I  was  recovering.  I   shared   the   fear,   still   lingering   in   the   back   of   my   mind,   that   I   am   going   to   break   myself,   the   screws,   my   vertebrae,  by  brushing  my  teeth,  rolling  over  in  bed,  standing  up  and,  of  course,  having  sex.     “You’re  not  fragile,”  she  said.  No,  I’m  not.  I  am  Titanium.  Where’s  my  cape?  

Yellow Chair  Review     31  

Plastic Man'ʹs  Hymn  to  the  Aesthetic  Beauty  Center   By  Michael  Karl  

_________________   Sexier  than  a  sting  ray  in  Bermuda,   Flatulent  yet  strung  out  on  raw  ether,   I  flaunt  my  mutability  to  stay  neuter   With  more  ass  than  you'ʹd  care  to  remember.     I  lurk  beside  hoods  and  crooked  dicks,   Shoot  craps  and  split  the  ambiguity,   Shape  shifting  among  schizophrenics,   Flashing  serial  killers  with  rapier  nudity.     Crime-­‐‑fighting  in  upper  or  under  classes,   The  deuce  I'ʹll  ever  serve  a  warped  racket   On  red  and  yellow  acid  behind  dark  glasses!   My  pal  Woozy  takes  comfort  from  his  straight-­‐‑jacket.     Cheeks  smoothed  over  by  collagen  therapy,   Whoever  is  too  beautiful  becomes  ugly;   Me,  I'ʹm  diagonal  in  a  zigzag  cacophony,   Transitioning  between  genders  quite  snugly.  

Batman Jesus   By  Chad  Parenteau  

_________________   Batman  Jesus   gives  you  literal  leaps  of  faith.     Batman  Jesus   is  not  Batman   barring  continuity  changes.     Batman  Jesus   has  rotating  membership.       Batman  Jesus   may  be  Batman'ʹs  son.   There'ʹs  some  debate.     Batman  Jesus   places  his  faith  in  the  hands   of  reader  polls.     Batman  Jesus   can  come  back  to  double   as  prodigal  son.     back  for  revenge,   mad  at  his  lord'ʹs  imposed   survivor'ʹs  guilt.     Batman  Jesus   wears  stigmata  red,   thorn  crown  green     and  enough  yellow   for  making  halos   to  die  at  dawn.     For  Batman  so  loved  fans   that  he  gives  his   latest  begotten     for  an  uptick  in  sales   and  50  cent  hotlines.  

Yellow Chair  Review     33  

The Hobbyist   3D  digital  rendering/solid  modeling   By  Nick  Romeo  

The Spawn  of  Fett  

3D digital  rendering/solid  modeling   By  Nick  Romeo  

Yellow Chair  Review     35  

League of  Extraordinary  Women   By  Chris  Billings  

_________________   I  may  not  have  had  superheroes  on  my  underwear   but  I  did  have  one  who  washed  my  underwear   she  also  fed  me   cared  for  me   disciplined  me  when  I  was  wrong   praised  me  when  I  did  something  well   raised  five  children   all  while  living  with  the  knowledge  she   would  not  see  any  of  us  reach  adulthood     I  had  one  who  took  me  into  her  home   treated  me  like  a  part  of  her  family   made  me  her  son   acted  like  a  mother   not  just  because  I  married  her  daughter   but  because  that  was  the  kind  of  person  she  was   and  it  was  hard   when  her  powers  started  to  fade   because  I  didn’t  want  to  watch  her  go     I  have  one  who  took  a  scared,  insecure  young  man   gave  him  the  confidence  to  become  who  I’ve  become   she’s  my  lover   my  best  friend   who,  for  the  past  35  years,  when  I’ve  gone  to  sleep   has  still  been  there  the  next  morning   loving  me   and  though  she  doesn’t  laugh  at  my  jokes  anymore   she  encourages  me  to  keep  telling  them  

I have  two  who,  as  children,  allowed   me  to  impart  what  knowledge  I  could  upon  them   trusted  me   believed  in  me   and  watching  them  make  their  own  way  in  life   they  instill  me  with  pride  and  joy  and  humility   because  now   both  are  teaching  me  as  much  as   I  was  ever  able  to  teach  them     They  may  not  have  worn  capes  or  colorful  costumes   they  may  not  have  had  super  strength  or  powers     to  fly  or   save  the  world   but  they  saved  me  time  and  again  in  my  fight   against  right  and  wrong,  good  and  evil   and  they  all   possess  powers  beyond  comprehension,  these,   my  superheroes,  the  League  of  Extraordinary  Women  

Yellow Chair  Review     37  

Figure Eight   By  Laurie  Kolp  

_________________   My  son  learned  how  to  use  knives   in  cub  scouts  carving  soap.   One  day  he  borrowed  a  bar   of  Ivory  and  whittled   away  while  whistling   (because  he  knew  how   &  his  older  siblings  did  not).   When  his  work  was  complete,  he   walked  up  to  me  and  showed  me   what  looked  like  a  figure  eight,  his  smile   wider  than  mine.  It  could  have  been   a  cloud,  a  snowman  or  white  polar  bear   an  off-­‐‑color  peanut  or  wavy  gray  hair.   Maybe  a  slip  knot  or  the  obvious—   his  age.  I  love  it,  I  said,  explain  it  to  me.   Can'ʹt  you  see,  Mommy,  it’s  infinity   our  love  for  one  another   that  will  never  die   like  Grandma  did.  

I’m No  Wonder  Woman   By  Laurie  Kolp  

_________________   Dear  long  continuous  Pilates  class,     don’t  you  know  my  summertime  kids     yank  my  arms  and  legs  here  and  there   with  moves  impossible  to  follow  even     after  sixteen  years  held  in  this  plank?   They  sculpt  lavish  plans  come  June,   plans  to  improve  core  relationships     within  the  family.   Vacations  turn  to     one-­‐‑day  treks     turn  to  staycations.     Lunches  spin     from  vegetables     to  nuked  junk.   Weekly  movies  pump     weakened  budgets   only  to  become   You  Tube  videos.   In  July,  I  gasp  for  fresh  air   green  air  filled  with  money     used  on  unused  gym  memberships.     Muscles  strain  my  fleeting  thoughts     can’t  stay  together  when,  as  August  nears,   frequent  sibling  spats  roll  unfavorable  results.   I  scramble  for  the  swan  but  only  find   a  hundred  reasons  why  a  hundred  breaths   won’t  bring  me  back  to  center.  

Yellow Chair  Review     39  

Wonder Woman’s  Website   By  Deborah  Bacharach  


I  like  to  tie  men  up,  the  men  who  like   to  get  tied  up  by  women  like  me,     bounty  rising  behind  great  gates.     I  can  flow  like  Ponce  de  Leon'ʹs  fountain,   brush  the  edge  of  your  fingertips.       I  am  the  invisible  airplane;  you     just  missed  the  lift  off.     My  waist  is  cinched  like  mother'ʹs     wine  glasses  in  the  good  cabinet.     You  can  get  down  on  your  knees,  look     through  the  paned  windows.  You  may  beg,   panting  on  your  knees,  to  touch     my  star  spangled  Amazon  island-­‐‑-­‐‑     hot  beaches,  deep  lagoons.     Just  try  to  take  that  next  step  closer.   I  have  the  golden  rope  right  here,   the  one  that  pulls  the  truth  from  you;   you  want  this  wanting  and  not  getting.     You  want  me  in  long  red  boots   running  you  down,  the  lasso     hovering,  a  wrap  and  a  slap,   grounded,  out  of  control,  hard     breathing.  If  you'ʹre  good,  and     you'ʹre  good    when  I  tell  you  you'ʹre  good,   you  may  lick  my  golden  wrists.   All  major  credit  cards  accepted.  

Wonder Woman   Photoshop   By  Francesa  Davis  

Yellow Chair  Review     41  

sagres By  Ian  Watts  

_________________   Grandma,   Mama  and   us  kids   were   supposed   to   meet  Great-­‐‑Grandma   and   Auntie   Ginger   at   Aloha   Tower.     We  put   on   our   Sunday   clothes   even   though   it  was  Saturday.     You   could   pick  out   the   Portagee   kids   in   the   crowd  because  we  all  looked  proper.    Moms  wore  make-­‐‑up  and  pretty  dresses.    Dads  were  all  pressed  and   shaven.    Mama  even  put  on  her  perfume  that  made  her  smell  like  the  forest  after  it  rained.    All  the  way  past   Makalapa   gate   Mama   and   Grandma   talked   and   slipped   into   Pidgin   like   when   their   men   weren’t   around.     Father  would  get  so  mad  and  call  them  damned  Portuguese  like  they  had  the  plague  or  worse.    He  was  at   work   at   Pearl,   so   he   couldn’t   hear   “the”   become   “da”   and   them   speaking   with   the   same   melody   as   the   mynah  birds  in  the  mango  tress.   We  stood  in  a  line  to  tour  a  ship.    Yet  another  ship.    I  don’t  see  why  we  had  to  dress  up  for  a  ship.    It  was  a   tall   one   with   three   masts:     A   barque.     All   the   sheets   were   taken   in   and   it   was   painted   gleaming   white.     I   looked  up  and  saw  her  name,  Sagres,  on  a  wooden  placard.    I  couldn’t  pronounce  the  word  in  my  mind.    I   asked  Grandma.    She  said,  saw-­‐‑grey.    I  asked,  where’d  the  S  go.    She  said,  it’s  there,  you  have  to  listen  harder.     I  repeated  saw-­‐‑grey  to  my  little  brother  and  sister.   I  asked  Mama  what  that  green  and  red  flag  at  the  bow  meant  since  I’d  never  seen  it  before.    Grandma  broke   in   and   told  me   this  boat   was   from  Portugal.     She   said   Pour-­‐‑two-­‐‑gaul   like   she   had  cotton   in   her  mouth,   not   Poor-­‐‑chew-­‐‑gull  like  how  Grandfather  says.   Portugal,  The  Portugal?    I  asked.    The  very  place,  Grandma  said.    I  was  so  excited  I  almost  cried.   Envoys  from  another  land,  my  homeland,  are  here.    Messengers  from  the  storyland  are  on  a  white  ship  that   sailed  from  the  other  side  of  the  world  are  here!    They’re  here  and  I’m  steps  away  from  the  ladder  that  will   take  me  aboard!   My  heart  swelled  with  love  and  pride.    Chinese  ladies  fanned  themselves  vigorously,  walked  slowly  saying   ai  ya  and  spit  red  crack-­‐‑seed  on  the  quay  while  the  Hāoles  with  their  cameras  and  white  legs  stopped  the  line   to  take  photos  of  themselves  in  matching  aloha  shirts  at  the  gangplank.    I  wanted  to  push  them  all  aside  and   run  on  deck.    Maybe  the  sailors  would  take  me  back  with  them  to  my  homeland.   I  waved  to  a  man  dressed  like  a  British  sailor  looking  down  from  the  railing.    He  waved  back  and  tossed  a   cigarette  into  the  water.  

Who Knew  That  Man  Could  Stop  Bullets?   By  Ryan  Anthony  Summers  

_________________ Superhero.     Panties.  Pantyhose.  Capes.  Good  hair.  All-­‐‑American.  The  champions     all  come  from  Olympus,  or  the  good  side   of  the  urban  sprawl  (across  the  tracks),  or  a  space  station,  and  fight   the  darkness  devouring  the  world  (it'ʹs  too  brown,  chocolate  brown),   the  demons  (Michael  Brown),  the  Dr.  Doom   and  gloom  and     Superhero.     I  wanted  to  be  a  superhero,  one  above  all,  but  I  couldn'ʹt  fly   and  couldn'ʹt  play  sidekick  after  my  side  was  kicked   in  a  beating  on  the  curb  lining  the  avenue   of  Martin  Luther  King.  Who  knew  that  man   could  stop  bullets,  like  he  was  a     Superhero?     He  stopped  a  bullet.  A  bullet  stopped  him.   Krypton  is  dead.  Chris  Kyle  is  dead.  Why'ʹd  they  have  to     pluck  the  petals  from  my  rose  is  dead  and  Sharon   is  no   Superhero.     I  could  see  the  fire  in  his  eyes   and  the  stake  I  am  tied  to,  tied  down,  magnetic   attraction  to  Diana  of  Themascira  made  up     but  that  Amazon,  she  was  cut  down  to  make  room   for  a  real     Superhero.  

Yellow Chair  Review     43  

Real Life  Super  Heroes   By  Rie  Sheridan  Rose  

_________________   Real  life  superheroes   Don’t  know  how  to  fly…   Without  a  plane   Or  at  least  a  helicopter.     They  aren’t  impervious     To  knives  or  bullets,   But  they  charge  into  the  fray   To  protect  the  weak  anyway.     Batman   Superman   Green  Arrow   Flash     Comic  book  heroes   Face  comic  book  foes   Comic  book  problems   Comic  book  woes.     Real  life  superheroes   Don’t  wear  spandex     Or  tights  or  a  cape.   They  wear  cotton  and  Kevlar.     Policemen   Firemen   Doctors   Parents…     Real  life  superheroes   Make  the  comic  books   Seem  tame.  

Gotta Save  ‘Em  All   By  Adam  Sprague  

_________________   I  failed  to  save  a  soul  today   and  watched  their  last  breath  leave  their  lips,   too  many  people  to  save  I  say   they'ʹre  slipping  through  my  fingertips.  

Yellow Chair  Review     45  

My Genetic  Scientist  Ex-­‐‑Nun  Grandmother   By  Audrey  T.  Carroll  

_________________   The  card  in  my  dresser  drawer  holds  a  simple  message  written  in  a  lovingly  crafted  script:   Since  your  10th  Birthday,  Autumn  always  reminds  me  of  you.    I  would  see  red  leaves   &  do  "ʺPretend  Walks  and  Talks"ʺ  with  you.   When  I  was  nine  years  old  my  mother'ʹs  sister  was  married  and  my  father  broke  ties  with  the  whole  maternal   side  of  my  family.    I  was  supposed  to  be  a  flower  girl,  but  we  weren'ʹt  even  allowed  to  go  to  the  wedding.     When  I   think  of  my  grandmother,   I  consider  the  evening   I  spent   in  a  convent.    My   all-­‐‑girls  Catholic   high   school   had   a   club   that   all   of   us   were   convinced   was   actually   a   secret   nun   recruitment   system.     I   think   about  the  silence  so  fierce  it  felt  as  though  it  were  built  into  the  walls.    Even  when  I  was  walking  with  a  close   friend  down  those  halls,  speaking  was  unimaginable.     It'ʹs   hard   to   remember   what  I   was  thinking   of   in   those   moments.     Were   some   of   those   thoughts  and   feelings  shared  with  my  grandmother  who  had  lived  in  a  place  like  this  forty  years  earlier  before  deciding  to   marry  my  grandfather?    Did  she  worry  that  she  wouldn'ʹt  get  the  scholarship  she  needed  to  go  to  college?    No;   she  had  already  become  a  nurse.    Did  she  consider  her  lack  of  independence,  that  she  might  just  fall  into  the   walls  one  day,  get  absorbed  up  into  them  and  no  one  would  ever  find  her  again?    Maybe.    How  odd  the  shift   must  have  been  from  her  dependence  on  God  to  her  co-­‐‑dependence  with  my  grandfather.     I   can   say   with   absolute   certainty   that   she   did   not   play   "ʺDid   you   ever"ʺ   with   the   girls   from   Stella   Mattress  and  suddenly  feel  like  the  most  sheltered  kid  ever  dropped  on  the  face  of  the  planet.    I  think.     I  think  of  the  woman  who  she  became—not  only  a  nurse  or  a  twice-­‐‑over  nun  or  a  wife,  but  the  mother   of  four  children  and  grandmother  to  five,  the  genetic  scientist  who  lived  in  Woodhaven  and  birthed  the  term   "ʺproficient  worrier."ʺ    The  woman  who  treated  her  daughter  and  grandchildren  to  their  first  Disney  World  visit   as   a  celebration  of  her  daughter'ʹs   Master'ʹs   degree   and   then  told   us   to   Seek  shelta  at   the  slightest   hint  of  gray   skies.     I  think  of  the  woman  who  sent  poinsettias  for  Christmas—was  I  9?  10?—and  signed  it  from  Mr.  and   Mrs.  Claus.    She'ʹd  hoped  that  my  father  wouldn'ʹt  intercept  the  flowers  with  his  embargo  against  my  mother'ʹs   family.    The  message  was  that  she  still  loved  us  and  missed  us  dearly—I  didn'ʹt  get  to  read  it,  but  I  know  that   now—and   my   father   would   have   none   of   it.     Later   my   grandmother   would   tell   me   that   she   and   my   grandfather  wanted  to  sue  for  visitation  rights  for  me  and  my  brother,  but  they  didn'ʹt  want  to  put  us  through   that.     All  those  years  I  was  told  she  didn'ʹt  love  us.    And,  when  the  world  can'ʹt  give  you  enough,  while  her   daughter  is  not  allowed  to  speak  to  her  she  becomes  a  widow.    Her  grandchildren  lose  their  grandfather  and   are   unable   to   attend   his   funeral.     Her   daughter   leaves   a   note   with   the   casket   for   my   grandmother'ʹs   dead   husband.    My   grandmother  pursues   my   mother   after   the   funeral,   but  my   father   is   quick   to   whisk   her  away   into  his   car,   my   grandmother'ʹs  sole   opportunity  to   reunite  with   her   daughter  and   her   grandchildren   ripped   away  on  the  same  day  that  they  bury  her  husband  in  the  ground.  

When I  finally  meet  her  again  after  over  a  decade  apart  and  she  hugs  me,  I  can  feel  in  the  grip  of  it  the  years  of   lost  time  that  will  never  be  recovered,  the  grandfather  I  never  said  goodbye  to,  the  fear  that  she  would  never   see  us  again—all  alleviated.    I  think  of  the  nervous  habits—all  the  Be  careful  with  the  children  and  You'ʹre  makin'ʹ   Nana  nervous—and  see  the  nerves  passed  down  to  me  through  my  mother.    Putting  it  in  perspective,  it  seems   like  the  nerves  are  halved  with  each  new  generation,  but  still  very  much  so  present.    From  Seek  shelta  to  What'ʹs   that  cough  about?  to  I  must  triple-­‐‑check  that  the  front  door  is  locked  or  I'ʹll  think  about  it  all  day.     That'ʹs  what  we  are.    A  legacy  of  nerves.    Nerves  and  stubbornness.     I  think  of  the  woman  who  panicked  when  she  discovered  I  was  moving  to  tornado  alley,  who  told  me   that  she  insisted  as  a  child  the  state'ʹs  name  was  pronounced  "ʺAr-­‐‑kansas,"ʺ  because  why  else  would  Kansas  be   pronounced  that  way?     I   wonder   where   I   might   have   these   "ʺpretend   talks"ʺ   with   Grams.     Her   silver   hair   might   match   the   strong  steely  buildings  back  in  New  York,  but  I  don'ʹt  have  the  same  benefit  of  leaves.    And  my  mind  wanders   back  to  the  convent  I  visited  once  before  I  knew  her  again,  when  my  grandfather  was  still  alive.    I  can  close  my   eyes  and  think  of  those  still  and  empty  halls  and  imagine  her  among  them,  imagine  the  girl  before  the  woman,   imagine  the  life  she  would  go  on  to  lead.    I  pretend-­‐‑ask  her  if  I  can  accomplish  half  as  much  and  tell  her  that   the   title   of   my   memoir   won'ʹt   have   the   same   ring   as   the   one   I   imagine   for   her:   My   Genetic   Scientist   Ex-­‐‑Nun   Grandmother.  

Yellow Chair  Review     47  

Captain America   Copic  Markers   By  Natasha  Reeves  

We All  Love  The  Underdog   By  Wayne  Russell  

_________________   we  all  love  the  underdog     America  really  loves  that  kind  of  shit   you  know   the  rags  to  riches  stories     of  those  that  beat     unbelievably  difficult  odds     like...     (the  sadistic  alcoholic  father   and  the  clinically  insane  mother)     you  know   those  underdogs  that  beat     unbelievably  difficult  odds     only  to  ascend  to  the  top  of  their     hard  fought  for  and  well  earned  careers       and  when  that  underdog  has  risen  to  the  top   where  they  sweat  and  longed  to  be   all  their  lives     we  (the  people)     love  to  knock  them  right  off  that  pedestal   we  love  to  pull  that  posh  rug  right  out  from     underneath  their  feet   people  love  to  see  a  success  story  until     that  success  scares  the  shit  out  of  them    

Yellow Chair  Review     49  

The Guy  With  The  Coffee   By  Sean  Wofford  

_________________   My  head  is  a  mausoleum,  a  heavy,  useless  structure,  wavering  at  the  top  of  my  frame.  It’s  7:08  in  the   morning.  No,  7:09!  As  usual,  I  opted  for  the  snooze  button  in  lieu  of  simply  getting  up  like  an  adult  and  so  I   was  running  a  bit  late.    I  crawl  into  my  car,  the  floor  of  which  is  a  mobile  monument  to  every  fast  food  joint  in   town.   Old   cups   and   crinkled   up   wrappers   adorn   the   carpet   like   confetti   after   a   parade.   The   rainy   Tuesday   morning  is   a  blurry  jumble   to  my   tired  eyes.   The  street   ahead   looks   like   some   crummy  student’s   attempt   at   impressionism.   If   I   was   not   so   accustomed   to   driving   half-­‐‑awake,   some   might   consider   what   I   was   doing   irresponsible  or  dangerous.  But  those  people  are  stupid.  My  little  car  soldiers  on  through  the  wet  streets.  I  pull   into  the  convenience  store  around  the  corner  from  my  apartment.  Too  tired  to  care,  I  leave  my  hood  down  as  I   slump   through   the   rain.   My   movements   are   automatic   as   I   enter   the   store,   turn   down   the   first   aisle,   cut   through  the  drink  section,  and  approach  the  coffee  bar.    As  I  struggle  to  keep  my  eyelids  open,  I  feel  my  hands   thrust  out  before  me,  grab  a  paper  cup,  a  little  cardboard  sleeve,  slip  it  on,  and  then  grab  the  coffee  pot.  My   hands   tip   it  over  but  no  sound  is  heard  and  the  cup   feels  no   heavier.  My  body   begins  to   react   in  alarm!  My   spine  straightens,  my  eyes  open,  my  neurons  begin  to  fire  away,  making  their  first  connection  of  the  morning,   and  I  realize,  there’s  no  coffee!  Not  an  ounce!  A  sip!  A  drop!  I  slam  the  pot  back  into  its  station  and  frantically   search   the   counter.   There’s   nothing   to   be   found   except   a   pot   of   decaf.   Decaf!   The   single   most   blasphemous   beverage  ever  concocted,  right  up  there  with  non-­‐‑alcoholic  beer  and  skim  milk!  I  feel  my  chest  begin  to  heave.   My  breathing  grows  heavy.  I  struggle  to  accept  this  cruel  universe  we  inhabit  and  in  despair,  I  throw  my  face   into  my  hands.    I  lean  down  against  the  coffee  bar  and  silently  weep.  Suddenly,  the  heavenly  aroma  of  freshly   brewed   Columbian   beans   dances   around   my   nose.   I   perk   up   and   see   a   little   man   in   an   apron   replacing   the   empty  pot  with  a  fresh  one.  Filled  to  the  brim  with  boiling  hot  black  coffee!  My  weeping  continues  but  now   they  are  tears  of  joy!  I  hug  the  little  man  and  shower  him  with  my  gratitude  as  he  squirms  away  from  me  and   shouts  curses  in  his  native  tongue.  I  pour  myself  a  big  cup  and  hold  it  up  in  cheers  for  my  hero,  the  guy  with   the  coffee.    

When Superman  Changes  In  The  Phone  Booth  (Coming  Out  Gay  At  50)   By  Dylan  Debelis     Carry   to   the   teeth   underground   sprockets   pop   come   for   air.   Bad   signage   on   the   underpass   teenage   stained   slipping  sundress  tight  til  moon  crush  venetian  glass  feel  ladybug  jarred  asphyxiate.  Cough  wriggle  spell  last   name  backwards  until  the  hiccups  recede  quick  chatter  cold  spine  shiver  lazy  eye  tracing  manhood  mead  thick   chutney  what  country  you  came  from  coastline  jigsaw  melt.  Slow  climb  to  summit  clutter  bones  windchimes   middle  school  groping  letting  go  kite  strings  love  rings  even  louder  now  maybe  I  cradled  softer  skin  choose  to   live   again   into   dirty   chai   and   marmalade   spread   eyeliner   kneads   transformation.   Butterfly   weak   metaphor   was  never  what  words  was  for  the  taking  you  and  I  from  angel  granted  granting  resurrection  dimly  burned   charcoal   cutout   Marriott   midnights   wives   tucked   jeans   pockets   swollen   bathtub   rooms   away.   Your   stubble   spry  ready  willing  tainted  sweet  undone  tongue  lash  night  in  gulps.  Only  two  more  months  til  sunrise.    

Yellow Chair  Review     51  

Once Again  I’m  The  Hero   By  Donald  Illich  

_________________   Tonight  the  plane  crashes   I’m  out  of  there       like  a  flash   carrying  the  baby   on  fire,  smoking,   cut  up  and  bloody   but  strong,  brave,  courteous,  kind   fire  engines  arrive   just  as  I  escape   explosion!   I  hand  off  the  child   can’t  stick  around     for  my  medal   because  a  hostage  crisis   I  hear  on  the  radio   of  the  car  I  borrow   sorry,  big  emergency,  babe   I  slide  parallel  parking   without  even  looking   between  the  black  and  whites   the  frightened  people   the  police  skeptical   do  you  have  training?   Christ!   I  talk  the  gunman  out     remember  your  dear  old  mom?   would  she  want  you  to  kill  the  cheerleading  team?   she  makes  the  kind  of  meatloaf   you’ll  have  in  prison   pompoms  confetti  around  me   when  I  help  the  girls  out   whatever  can  we  do  for  you   we’re  staying  at  this  room  number   I  wish  I  could  check  it  out   I  have  a  football  game   my  limo  driver  is  Batman   get  in  Robin   hold  this  pigskin   the  arena  screams   I  enter  in  my  uniform   gladiator!   it’s  fourth  down  last  play  of  the  Super  Bowl   my  number   is  called  I  run  it  in  with  no  sweat  dodge  tacklers,   insult  their  moms,  girlfriends,   as  I  twirl  around  with  ease   the  flashbulbs   excitement   everyone  screams  my  name   no  time  for  Disneyland,  though   I  hold  the  trophy  once   my  high  school  talent  show   is  raging  across  town   in  my  Porsche  I  kick  it   burn  rubber  near  teachers   who  gave  me  a  D  in  gym   screw  them,  I  have  a  guitar   the  band  fears  I  wouldn’t  show  up   hell,  yes,  I’m  rocking!   Iron  Maiden,  “Running  Free”   turns  into  Metallica,  “Fade  to  Black”   greatest  riffs  of  all  time   play  lead,  rhythm,  and  bass   da  da  duh  da  da  duh   “sirens  wail,  I’m  running  free,  I  was  me,   but  now  I’m  gone!”  Vick  Probst   the  school  cheer  mascot   pushes  her  boyfriend  Al  Schmolinski  away   he’s  so  dreamy   lights  shut  off  at  the  end  back  on,  claps,  whistling,  lighters,     offers  to  have  my  children   I  can’t  stick  around  because   the  alien  saucer  above  Stebbins  H.S.   light  glowing  on  my  face  

“Attention, earthlings,  only  Donald  Illich  can  rescue  our  planet   from  certain  destruction.    His  incredible  mind  and  physique   are  the  only  things  standing  between  us  and  certain  destruction.”   I’m  pulled  up  by  the  tractor  beam   I  shout  Vulcan  live  long   and  prosper  speech   promise  to  give  the  Klingons,  Romulans  hell!   you’re  in  your  house   wrapped  in  pink  covers  safe  and   sound   I  want  to  wave  goodbye  you’re  too  far  away  now     in  dreams  where  you’re  the  heroine   telling  the  white  knight   where  to  stick  it  killing  it  in  basketball   raging  against   the  machine   I’m  not  in  your  fantasies  you’re  not  in  mine   I  can  save  everything  here   even  a  world   but  I  can’t  save  us.  

Yellow Chair  Review     53  

The Joker   Pastel  Crayons,  Paint,  Photoshop   By  Anushree  Nande  

Grind Time  Fantasy  Mirage   By  David  S.  Pointer  

_________________   Psychic  superheroes                                                                                        inherent  inside   systemic  overcompliance:                                                                                        embryogenesis                                                                                        cells  screaming                                                                                        for  justice   and  more  Geiger  counter  trainers  to   warn  us  of  gentle  doctors,  and  their   radioactive  medical  test  mythology                                                                                        cannibalizing   mass  X-­‐‑rayed  parts  for  healthy  profits  

Yellow Chair  Review     55  

_________________   The  Win   Comic  Art  (Paper/Pens/Magic  Markers)   By  Luis  Neer  

The Secret  of  the  Red  Wedding   By  Hilary  King  

_________________   The  secret  of  the  Red  Wedding  is   that  it  was  secret  at  all.     That  the  early  adapters,  the  readers!   the  hardy  George  R.R.  Martineers  who  hiked  up     all  those  names           and  places             and  wars               and  rapes                 and  Joffrey     and  more  war  and  more  rape  and  Roose  worse  than  Joffrey     kept  quiet  through  three  seasons,     to  then  sit  silent  while  their  lover  or  friend  watched     what  they  thought  was  going  to  be   a  wedding.     my  husband  taking  my  hand   as  my  heart  is  stopped  by  slaughter.  

Yellow Chair  Review     57  

Chair Stealer  and  Tickle  Finger   By  Brad  Murgen  

_________________   Whose  chair  is  this?   Oh  that'ʹs  mine   Thanks!     No  no  no  give  it  back  that'ʹs  my  chair  Daddy!     I'ʹm  not  Daddy,  I'ʹm  Chair  Stealer   And  I  like  this  chair   It'ʹs  super  comfy   It'ʹs  mine  thanks!     I'ʹll  stop  you!     Impossible!   How  can  you  stop  me?   Chair  Stealer  cannot  be  defeated   I'ʹm  invincible     Tickle  Finger  can!     Tickle  Finger  isn'ʹt  here   And  I'ʹve  turned  off  my  tickle  zones   Her  powers  will  be  useless     Nuh  uh  here  she  comes  now  it'ʹs  Tickle  Finger!     You  called?     Pfft  go  away,  Tickle  Finger   I'ʹm  enjoying  my  new  chair     Get  him  Tickle  Finger  get  Chair  Stealer!     See?    It  doesn'ʹt  work   You'ʹre  wasting  your  time,  Tickle  Finger   Ah...  this  chair  is  so  comfy...   Hey   Stop   No   No  fair  I  thought  I  turned  them  off—    

Tickle Finger  turned  them  back  on!     No...  no  no  that  tickles  stop—     Get  out  of  my  chair  and  she'ʹll  stop!     No,  how  are...  HEY  how  did  you  get  in  the  chair  that  was   MINE!     Thanks  Tickle  Finger  for  saving  my  chair!     Don'ʹt  hesitate  to  call  on  Tickle  Finger,  sweetie   She  always  wins     Yeah!     No  one  can  survive  against  the  power  of  Tickles   Not  even  Daddy     Grrr  it  seems  you  win  this  round,  Tickle  Finger   But  I'ʹll  be  back   You  haven'ʹt  heard  the  last  of  Chair  Stealer!

Yellow Chair  Review     59  

A Graphic  Novel  in  Six  Chapters   By  Adam  Kotlarczyk  

_________________   1.   A  giant,  fire-­‐‑spewing  robot  terrorizes  a  factory  in  an  American  city.   Iron  Man  flies  down  from  the  sky.   “I  can’t  let  you  do  that,”  he  says.  He  shoots  energy  beams  from  his  hands  into  the  giant,  fire-­‐‑spewing   robot.  It  collapses.     The  factory’s  problems  are  solved.   “We  love  you,  Iron  Man!”  cry  the  workers.   “I  have  to  get  a  burrito  now,”  says  Iron  Man.   #   2.     A  genetically  modified  mutant  Sharkaconda™  attacks  an  American  ghetto.     Spider-­‐‑Man  swoops  in  on  a  web  rope.  He  shoots  webs  out  of  his  hands  and  captures  the   Sharkaconda™  in  a  sticky,  unbreakable  web.   “Ungh,”  says  the  Sharkaconda™.  It  has  trouble  talking  on  account  of  the  shape  of  its  mouth.   “Just  another  day  for  your  friendly,  neighborhood  Spider-­‐‑Man,”  says  Spider-­‐‑Man.   #   3.   A  madman  threatens  to  blow  up  the  World  Series.   Batman  pilots  in  a  stealth  bomber.  It’s  black  and  shaped  like  a  bat.   A  rope  shoots  out  and  lassos  the  madman.  Batman  disarms  the  bomb.    The  crowd  goes  wild.   “I’ll  be  watching,”  growls  Batman.  He  sounds  like  he  has  something  in  his  throat.  Like  maybe  a   racquetball.   “He’s  the  hero  we  deserve,”  says  a  fan  with  a  tattoo.   “Yeah,”  says  the  boy  next  to  him,  “Fictional.”   #   4.     Back  at  the  Batcave,  Batman,  Spider-­‐‑Man,  and  Iron-­‐‑Man  have  a  drink  and  chat  about  their  days.  It’s   really  a  bit  of  a  Good  Old  Boys  club.  They  drink  scotch,  neat.     “What’s  wrong  with  your  voice?”  Spider-­‐‑Man  asks  Batman.  “It  sounds  like  you  swallowed  a   racquetball.”     Before  he  can  answer,  there’s  a  knock  at  the  Batcave.  In  walk  the  giant,  fire-­‐‑spewing  robot,  the   madman,  and  Sharkaconda™.         “We’ve  had  enough  of  all  this,”  says  the  madman.     “Have  some  scotch,”  says  Iron  Man.   “We’re  tired  of  losing,”  says  the  Sharkaconda™.  His  articulation  is  much  better  now.     “So  you  came  here  to  fight  us  again?”  asks  Spider-­‐‑Man.     “I  think  we  all  know  how  that  will  turn  out,”  says  Iron  Man.  Spider-­‐‑Man  and  Batman  laugh.  But  the   madman,  fire-­‐‑spewing  robot,  and  Sharkaconda™  are  undeterred.        

“We don’t  want  to  fight,”  says  the  madman.  “We  just  want  to  know  why  you  fight  us.”     “Because  you’re  evil,”  says  Batman.     “Because  you  hurt  innocent  people,”  says  Spider-­‐‑Man.     “Nothing  else  to  do,”  says  Iron  Man.   “You  see,”  says  Sharkaconda™,  “We  just  think  there  are  bigger  problems  in  the  world  than  us.  We  aren’t  even   real.  And  we  have  our  own  problems.”     “Yeah,”  says  Sharkaconda.  “Where’s  the  superhero  to  help  us?”  He  sounds  despondent.     “What  problems  can  you  possibly  have?”  Batman  growls.     “I  have  bad  teeth,”  says  Sharkaconda.  “When  I  don’t  have  my  good  dentures  in,  everything  I  say   sounds  like  ‘ungh.’”     “That  makes  sense,”  says  Spider-­‐‑Man.     “You  should  have  brushed,”  says  Iron  Man.     “Tell  me  about  it.  But  my  employer  health  plan  doesn’t  include  dental.”     Batman,  Spider-­‐‑Man,  and  Iron  Man  are  aghast.     “What  about  him?”  asks  Iron  Man,  pointing  to  the  madman.       “Freddy?  He’d  be  fine  but  he  can’t  afford  his  medication.”     “Medication?”  Iron  Man  asks.     “Antipsychotics,”  says  Freddy  the  madman,  embarrassed.  “And  antidepressants.  My  serotonin   reuptake  is  uninhibited.  Maybe  my  norepinephrine,  too.”     Batman,  Spider-­‐‑Man,  and  Iron  Man  agree  this  is  terrible.       “Maybe  you  can  help  with  my  medicines?”  asks  Freddy  the  madman,  looking  up  at  Batman  and  Iron   Man.  “I  hear  your  alter  egos  are  rich?”     “Er,”  says  Batman.     “Um,”  says  Iron  Man.     Freddy  hangs  his  head  again.     “That  still  leaves  the  fire-­‐‑spewing  robot,”  says  Spider-­‐‑Man.     “I’m  supposed  to  work  on  cars,”  he  says.  “On  an  assembly  line.  But  all  those  jobs  are  in  Mexico  and   China  now.”     For  a  moment,  they  all  sit  there  nipping  at  their  scotch.  It’s  a  lot  to  think  about.     “Maybe  he’s  right,”  says  Spider-­‐‑Man.  Batman  and  Iron  Man  look  up  hopefully.     “Maybe  we’re  chasing  the  wrong  problems  altogether.  Everything  we  do  is  just  so…sensational.”     Iron  Man  and  Batman  nod  and  mumble  their  agreement.     “Now  that  I  think  about  it,”  says  Batman,  “Iron  Man  and  I  could  probably  help  more  people  through   philanthropy  and  paying  higher  taxes  than  all  our  vigilantism  put  together.  It’s  easier  on  the  body,  too.”   Batman  has  bad  knees.   “Maybe,”  says  Iron  Man,  draining  his  scotch  and  flinging  the  glass  across  the  Batcave,  “We  act  serious  but   distract  people  from  the  subtle,  real  threats  to  the  world.”     “People  need  distractions,”  says  Batman.   “You’re  right,”  says  Spider-­‐‑Man  to  Freddy,  Sharkaconda,  and  the  robot.  “We’re  all  in  this  together.  It’s   time  –“   “—past  time—“   “—past  time  that  we  started  working  together,  realizing  that  all  this  silly  fantasy  does  is  keep  us  from   addressing  more  serious  issues.  It’s  escapism,  pure  and  simple.  It  just  casts  a  somber  façade  over  childish   whims  and  fantasies.  We  feel  like  we’re  doing  something,  but  we’re  not.  Why,  if  we  worked  half  as  hard–“  

Yellow Chair  Review     61  

“-­‐‑There’s nothing  stopping  us!”  cries  Batman.   “Unless…”  says  Iron  Man.   “Unless?”  say  Batman  and  Spider-­‐‑Man  together.   “Unless  there’s  some  force  out  there,  something  that  keeps  us  going,  something  stronger  than  us  that   prefers  sensational  solutions  to  imaginary  problems  over  dull  solutions  to  real  ones.”   “Couldn’t  be,”  says  Batman.  “That’s  not  the  force  we  need.”     #   5.   Just  then  the  door  to  the  Batcave  bursts  open.  There  stand  Spider-­‐‑Man,  Batman,  and  Iron  Man.     “Who  the  hell  are  you?”  ask  the  first  Spider-­‐‑Man,  Batman,  and  Iron  Man.   “We  are  the  Reboots,”  says  the  new  Batman.  “You  can  go  now.  We’ll  take  it  from  here.”     “Over  our  dead  bodies,”  growls  Old  Batman.     “What’s  wrong  with  your  voice?”  says  New  Batman.  “Never  mind.  You  can’t  beat  us.”     They  fight.  Old  Batman,  Old  Spider-­‐‑man,  and  Old  Iron  Man  are  defeated  by  New  Batman,  New   Spider-­‐‑man,  and  New  Iron  Man.  They  never  had  a  chance,  really.     “Soon  everyone  will  forget  all  about  you,”  says  New  Iron  Man.       “I  already  feel  simple,”  says  Old  Spider-­‐‑Man.  “Underdeveloped.”     “I  myself  feel  trite  and  dated,”  says  Old  Iron  Man.  “A  caricature  of  my  era.”     “My  voice  sounds  funny,”  says  Old  Batman.  Then  they  disappear.   #   6.     Batman,  Spider-­‐‑Man,  and  Iron  Man  glare  menacingly  at  the  madman,  Sharkaconda™,  and  the  fire-­‐‑ spewing  robot.     “We’ll  give  you  to  the  count  of  ten,  then  we’re  coming  after  you,”  says  Spider-­‐‑Man.   “Why?”  says  the  madman.   “Because  you’re  evil,”  growls  Batman.   The  fire-­‐‑spewing  robot  sighs  deeply.   “What  do  we  do  now?”  Sharkaconda™  asks.   “You  better  start  running,”  says  Iron  Man.   “We  better  start  running,”  says  the  fire-­‐‑spewing  robot.     They  run.  

_________________   Gambit   Photoshop   By  Remie  James  

Yellow Chair  Review     63  

The Sniper   By  Jay  Sizemore  

_________________   He  knows  the  truth  about  God’s  plan.   Crouched  in  knolls  of  tall  brown  grass   or  in  the  penumbra  of  nameless   crumbling  towers,  rifle  perched   just  beyond  the  lip  of  a  stone  window  sill   and  safe  from  heaven’s  give-­‐‑away  glare,   he  waits.     He  waits  while  the  line  of  shadow  and  light   inches  its  way  across  the  ground,   waging  its  endless  war.   He  knows  it  doesn’t  matter  which  side   you  choose  to  stand  on,   the  other  will  win  half  the  time.     In  the  village  of  his  last  assignment,   they’ve  roped  off  the  wall  outside  the  church,   not  to  retain  evidence  of  the  crime,   but  to  preserve  the  image  of  Jesus   that  appeared  in  the  spatter  of  blood  and  brain,   dried  between  flakes  of  white  paint  and  rock,   where  the  minister’s  head  exploded   like  a  lightbulb  filled  with  salsa.     He  thought  the  Rorschach  pattern   of  dark  crimson  and  sun-­‐‑bleached  mud   looked  more  like  Willie  Nelson.   What  irony  that  the  villagers  mourned  him,   crossed  themselves  when  passing  the  site   of  his  death,  prayed  with  hands  up  outside  the  wall,   like  a  third-­‐‑world  Mecca  to  martyrdom,   not  knowing  their  lost  prophet   was  responsible  for  the  beheadings   of  countless  children  in  a  drug-­‐‑war   that  left  no  room  for  new  competition.     He  doesn’t  always  know   why  he’s  pulling  the  trigger,   he  just  listens  to  the  voice  in  his  ear.   It’s  not  the  voice  of  God.   It  changes  from  the  throaty  rasp  

of a  cigar-­‐‑chewing  hard  ass   to  the  refined  nasal  tone   of  a  Harvard  med-­‐‑school  drop  out,   coming  between  the  crackles   and  pops  of  static  between  miles   and  miles  of  whispers.   He  is  not  the  angel  of  Death,   but  his  manicured  hands   know  the  silence.   His  weapon  is  not  a  flaming  sword,   raining  down  vengeance  for  blasphemy.   His  weapon  is  patience.   His  weapon  is  precision.   His  weapon  is  poetry.     He  waits  through  the  sounds  of  breezes   sliced  into  ribbons  of  sighs  by   the  razored  edges  of  weeds,   waits  through  the  mists  of  rains   that  drive  the  birds  from  the  sky   and  push  the  dust  to  the  earth,   waits  through  the  pains  of  hunger   and  thirst  that  coil  in  his  guts   like  electric  springs.     He  waits  for  the  next  face   to  stroll  into  the  crosshairs,   waits  for  the  whisper   that  tells  him  to  breathe.     That  night,  he’s  washed  his  hands,   six  shots  of  whiskey  bring   a  dreamless  sleep.   He  knows  it  doesn’t  matter  which  side   you  choose  to  stand  on,   the  other  will  win  half  the  time.  

Yellow Chair  Review     65  

Captain Beatty  As  George  Bush   By  Jay  Sizemore  

_________________ It  was  a  pleasure  to  burn,   to  smolder,  to  murder  words,   combustible  thoughts  heaped  in  piles   like  lifeless  birds,  to  see  black  roses   bloom  in  the  white,   imaginary  sky,  bleeding  outward,   petals  withering  with  cancer  of  the  mind.   It  was  a  pleasure.     Gasoline  vapors  stinging  my  eyes,   the  charred  ideas  danced   like  drunken  fireflies   in  the  searing  heat  of  righteous   Conformity.   What  are  these  words,   these  keepers  of  names,   intangible  things  that  set  fires  in  the  brain?   They  are  uncontrollable,   and  they  must  be  snuffed  out.     I  am  the  man  for  the  job.     I  tried  to  warn  him;   I  could  see  the  glisten   of  betrayal  in  his  eyes,   that  vague  shape  of  fear  draped   over  the  itch  of  curiosity.   I  told  him  what  they  were:   A  siren  song  chorus   of  meaningless  screams,   promises  leading  to  the  pitfall  of  dreams,   but  he  wouldn’t  listen.   They  never  do.   He  sealed  his  fate  with  the  turn  of  a  page   sucked  in  by  the  current   that  suffocates  like  the  clenched  fist  of  rage.   And  now  I  have  to  kill  him.    

He’ll regret  the  day  he  took  this  foray   into  the  unknown  jungle   of  the  black  and  the  grey.   The  long  dead  hands   of  Shakespeare  and  Poe,   Faulkner,  Chaucer,  and  Thoreau,   will  welcome  him  with  a  cold  embrace,   a  tired,  old  cliché.  He  preferred   their  company  anyway,   but  his  ghosts  could  not  protect  him,   that’s  why  he  ran  away.     Ha!   Let  him  run!   He  has  no  home!   The  ice-­‐‑like  grip  of  night  and  bone   will  find  him  curled  in  the  darkness   alone.   Cringed  against  the  wall  of  doubt,   the  soulless  shrieks  of  the  mechanical  hound,   we’ll  find  his  flame,  we’ll  smoke  him  out!   Mark  my  words:  this  terrorist  will  pay.   I  will  not  rest,  I  will  not  sleep   until  once  more,   there  are  no  secrets  to  keep.   The  people  are  safe,   the  people  obey   and  once  more   they  are  free  to  stay   in  the  soft,  warm  mouth  of  security.     I  am  the  man  for  the  job.  

Yellow Chair  Review     67  

Chronic   By  Laura  Ring  


Superheroes’ powers     are  a  consolation  prize  for  pain.     Toxic  waste.  Gamma  radiation.     Planetary  exile.         Still,  as  booby  prizes  go,     they’re  pretty  sweet.  Inhuman  strength,     the  ability  to  fly,  other     stranger  gifts.         Sometimes  the  powers  are  dormant,     and  appear  at  the  moment  of  need  –       loved  ones  in  peril,  lack  of  oxygen,     apocalypse.         I’m  still  waiting  for  mine     to  show  themselves.             There’s  a  cartoon  knot       on  my  skull  from  a  childhood     blow  to  the  head  –  a  beacon     that  telegraphs  migrainous  signals     in  a  rhythm  I  can’t  decode.         But  I  know  that  when  the  time  comes,     when  my  need  is  great,       the  knot  will  unravel  its  dark  threads       and  turn  my  pain  to  power.           Mind-­‐‑reading,  maybe,     or  x-­‐‑ray  vision.       I  know  I  can’t  choose,         but  I  hope  it’s  teleportation.     There  are  so  many  places     I  want  to  go.    

Better Man   By  Charles  Darnell  

_________________ I  look  back  to  misty  nights   And  early  mornings   Before  the  sun  was  up,   But  he  was  up  long  before.   Black  coffee  in  the  same  chipped  cup,   His  breakfast  ,  and  maybe  a  Camel,   The  tip  glowing  in  the  gloom.   His  dented  hardhat  already  on  his  head,   He  winks  at  me  and  heads  for  the  door.     Lunchbox  filled  with  his  p  and  j’s   And  an  over-­‐‑ripe  banana,   He  sits  heavily  behind  the  wheel   And  checks  the  lights.   The  truck  gives  a  tired  turnover   And  sparks  to  life  with  a  little  gas.     He  backs  out  the  drive,   Waves  a  left  hand  to  wife  and  kids,   Heading  for  a  blue-­‐‑collar  world,   To  be  broken  down  in  time,   His  way  of  delivering  love,   And  still  a  better  man  than  I’ve  become.  

Yellow Chair  Review     69  

I may not have had superheroes on my underwear but I did have one who washed my underwear she also fed me cared for me disciplined me when I was wrong praised me when I did something well raised five children all while living with the knowledge she would not see any of us reach adulthood‌

Yellow Chair Review: Superheroes  

Welcome to Yellow Chair Review's Superheroes issue. For information on contributors please visit

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