HOOT – a {mini} literary magazine on a postcard – flash fiction, poetry, memoir, non-fiction, book reviews http://www.hootreview.com a {mini} literary magazine on a postcard - flash fiction, poetry, memoir, non-fiction, book reviews Tue, 20 Jun 2017 20:40:15 +0000 en-US hourly 1 https://wordpress.org/?v=4.8 HOOT POSTCARD 68, MAY 2017 http://www.hootreview.com/2017/05/30/hoot-postcard-68-may-2017/ Tue, 30 May 2017 15:42:51 +0000 http://www.hootreview.com/?p=3093 And Now
by Diana Roffman
hoot issue 68

Diana Roffman is a poet and middle school teacher in NYC. She has an MFA from The University of Montana. Diana loves sending and receiving postcards, and is honored to be part of HOOT!

(and HOOT is honored to publish her <3 )

HOOT POSTCARD 67, APRIL 2017 http://www.hootreview.com/2017/04/27/hoot-postcard-67-april-2017/ Thu, 27 Apr 2017 17:45:29 +0000 http://www.hootreview.com/?p=3068 Othodontia
by Allie Marini
april postcard

Allie Marini is a Floridian ex-pat living in the Bay Area with her partner, who is a more successful poet but Allie’s not into name-dropping (Too L.A.). Allie’s written some books, been nominated for some prizes, & exists in a nightmarish hellscape of student loan debt for an MFA that she’ll likely never use. She prefers to write on a typewriter, thinks slam poetry is a legitimate art form, & yes, she has crooked teeth. Shut up, her mom says it gives her character.


HOOT POSTCARD 66, MARCH 2017 http://www.hootreview.com/2017/03/27/hoot-postcard-66-march-2017/ Tue, 28 Mar 2017 01:15:30 +0000 http://www.hootreview.com/?p=3054 Walk the long way around from library to chapel
by Nate Pritts

Nate Pritts is the author of eight books of poetry, including Decoherence. He lives in the Finger Lakes region of NY state. [natepritts.com]

HOOT POSTCARD 65, FEBRUARY 2017 http://www.hootreview.com/2017/02/27/hoot-postcard-65-february-2017/ Tue, 28 Feb 2017 00:21:01 +0000 http://www.hootreview.com/?p=3050 Cold War
By Kierstin Bridger
Art by Michael Pagdon
finalversion2 with text

Kierstin Bridger is author of Demimonde (Lithic Press 2016) and All Ember (Urban Farmhouse Press). She is editor of Ridgway Alley Poems and has a new podcast: Poetry Voice with Kierstin Bridger and Uche Ogbuji.

Michael Pagdon is an illustrator in the Tri-State area. His work includes freelancing, as well as gallery showings of futuristic robots. His work can be found at www.pagdon.com and @pagdonillustration.

HOOT POSTCARD 64, JANUARY 2017 http://www.hootreview.com/2017/01/31/hoot-postcard-64-january-2017/ Tue, 31 Jan 2017 14:45:10 +0000 http://www.hootreview.com/?p=3030 Chicken Weather
by Caesar Kent
january 3

Caesar is a semi-nomadic California poet, living around the Bay Area and dividing his time between open mic stages, dive bars, and clouds.

An Artist’s Perspective on the Literature of Passion: White Heat http://www.hootreview.com/2017/01/04/an-artist-perspective-on-the-literature-of-passion-white-heat/ Wed, 04 Jan 2017 15:40:08 +0000 http://www.hootreview.com/?p=3022 art-for-jey


Under tan, stained skin
This blood screams for it
Like the whistle from your teapot
Taste me you’ll taste the truth

Wasn’t made to wait
I was made to make
Take, tear, sigh, leak for this
Drip Drip
Lips pulling my skin inside

You – me – him – you too
None of us matter
So what does it matter
We all look alike
We all stretch with impoverish
Touch me

Bind my body crush my spine
Choke my thirst with each finger tip
Tremble with each and every
Controlled. Practiced and disciplined

Now leave don’t look back
You, you stay
Console me
I just died so good
Hurts and I love it

You do too.
I love you
But not here
You’re a means to an end
Because it’s always gonna end

But you – are everything
Devouring glances
Inhale me like life
We smell sinful
Take me again



Artist Statement: 

Write what scares you. This is the mantra I’ve been reciting and dodging for over a year. If I wrote the truth – then I’d have to relive it – and even scarier than that – I’d finally have to let it go.  So here are my baby steps. Time to look into the mirror and recognizing who I really am – now – after. Love lost left me sinking into a quicksand I like to call “identity crisis”. The transition of living as a “we” to an “I” is daunting and unfulfilled. Coping soon became realizing all the parts of myself I’d been ashamed of and snuffed out over time.  All those things I’d been told I wasn’t supposed to be. Too dominant, too sexual, too sad, too emotional, too sensitive.

As a direct result of not becoming Mrs. (insert ex’s name here) – I became another me. The complex, often dark, insatiable force who bores easily and plays frequently. Perhaps I should be grateful? Say thank you?  But I don’t think I will . . .

So here are the thoughts of a modern coping woman. A blend of tears and savagery


Jey Aida: Writing and film have always been my greatest passions and outlets. I started dabbling in poetry in high school and went on to study English Literature in college and minored in Film. After I graduated college, I moved to New York to study screenwriting. This was without a doubt the best year of my life – exposing me to a great city and many writing opportunities. That year I wrote/directed/cast/and shot my first short film. I created my own sitcom and had the chance to work on and edit/act in the short films of my colleges. I then went on to freelance and write film reviews/blogs/video blogs for production companies based out of California. During that time I was also fortunate to work with TWIFF on their press releases and film festival marketing and coordination. It’s only recently that I have turned my attention back to poetry and I’m in the process of working on poetry exploring race and sexuality.
Overcoming Your Internal Critic http://www.hootreview.com/2016/12/29/overcoming-your-internal-critic/ Thu, 29 Dec 2016 14:46:30 +0000 http://www.hootreview.com/?p=3001 art-for-dirks-pieceI’ve been thinking a lot about writing and wondering whether I have anything worthwhile to say about it.

There’s always that same element of self-doubt when you’re about to embark on any writing project: “Is this going to be good enough? Am I going to be good enough?” You can read what others have written and try to do as they do. You can call on someone for advice or a helpful push in the right direction. In the end, as with few other things in life, it comes down to you and you alone.

“Writing, at its best, is a lonely life.” That’s from Ernest Hemingway, and he would certainly know. I couldn’t come up with anything nearly as good to say about writing; the best I could manage was a phrase that seems lifted out of a comic book speech bubble.

“Writing is the ultimate challenge.”
It really is.

No other pursuit faces such a daunting task with such a limited number of tools – to transcribe your limitless imagination and your innermost feelings onto a blank page, using only the words you know. The writer faces an eternal battle, with you on one side and a featureless void on the other. Everyone who views your work is a judge and every judge has his own set of criteria for whether it’s good or bad.

In a Rod Serling-like twist, your most vicious and inimical judge is always yourself.

I don’t write with publication in mind; I’ve never submitted my work to magazines; my “circulation” is usually my family and a few friends. Yet I’ve lost count of the stories I’ve abandoned because that internal critic was whispering in my ear, telling me that I just didn’t have it, that it wasn’t good enough, that I just needed to scrap it all. At those times, the ultimate challenge of writing becomes an ultimate defeat.

But by the same token… is there anything more satisfying than writing something that you like? Even if you finish it, file it away, and never share it with another living soul, you’ve joined the ranks of the storytellers. You can rub elbows (in spirit) with the authors of the Viking sagas, with the traveling bards, and with whoever that guy was that wrote Beowulf.

So maybe that’s my piece of writing advice (and I don’t feel bad giving it because I still make the same mistake myself): don’t hesitate. Just tell your stories, because every piece you complete is a victory over the void. That story didn’t exist until you wrote it. The only obstacle was the thought that you couldn’t tell it. You’ve scribbled, or typed, a whole little world into existence.

It’s the ultimate challenge, the ultimate test of our own resources.
We let the blank page win far too often.


dirk-headshot-for-hootFrom an undisclosed location in southeastern Pennsylvania, Dirk Linthicum spends as much of his free time as possible laboring away on short stories, plays, scripts, and a seldom-updated, viciously contrarian movie and television blog at ltgsabm.wordpress.com.

HOOT POSTCARD 63, DECEMBER 2016 http://www.hootreview.com/2016/12/27/hoot-postcard-63-december-2016/ http://www.hootreview.com/2016/12/27/hoot-postcard-63-december-2016/#comments Tue, 27 Dec 2016 17:25:16 +0000 http://www.hootreview.com/?p=2992 Corpuscle
by Shoshana Akabas
photography by Cassandra Panek


Shoshana Akabas is an MFA student at Columbia University, where she also teaches undergraduate writing. She studied English and organic chemistry at the University of Pennsylvania and now lives in New York City.

Cassandra Panek is a Philadelphia photographer and writer in a love affair with bold colors and dark themes. http://www.cassandrapanek.com

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HOOT POSTCARD 62, NOVEMBER 2016 http://www.hootreview.com/2016/11/22/hoot-postcard-62-november-2016/ Tue, 22 Nov 2016 18:32:59 +0000 http://www.hootreview.com/?p=2959 Poem
by Brennan Bestwick

Brennan Bestwick writes from the Flint Hills of Kansas. His poems have been published in THRUSH, Winter Tangerine, Colorado Review, and elsewhere. He is the winner of a 2016 AWP Intro Journals Project Award.

The morning after http://www.hootreview.com/2016/11/17/the-morning-after/ Thu, 17 Nov 2016 18:06:40 +0000 http://www.hootreview.com/?p=2955 accompanying-alex-piece

we emerge scorched earth
chap-lipped rye ringing
in our ears a four year
we do not      understand
our brows     furrowed
in disappointment
we gather
share   parka
share      hijab
against cold new wind
pass the conch
our mouths agape
a joint or three
between fingers
raised in mock peace
we yell a chasm
in unison hoping
it will erase the night
but it comes anyway
so we learn to operate
without light or air
hold our gasps

we take our spades
and dig
and dig
in threes
we replace every crater
with a spruce
a woman is not asked
to mend
every hopelessness
but she does anyway
crouched against the fire
our hands create
a pantomime on cave wall
shadows cast
by Golden Idols
they carted in
from the heartland—

whose heart
we wonder
whose land
whose limber limbic
hatred flows
through its rivers
poisoned caustic red
nerve pinch
vein bulge
eye twitch
anger so thorough
your father would be ashamed
how do we drink
from the same stream
as a demon?

tomorrow we will awake
the apocalypse will fade
a preexisting condition
we cannot shake
so we learn to watch
for boulders
and tumbling
and unkind words
and open carry
from pale strangers
whose only fear
is us
so we huddle together
and stare at them
while they rattle together
and stare at us
from the empty altar
they’ve built

tomorrow we will empty
ourselves in a circle
the sculptors
the artists
the poets
the proud     kooks
gather our morsels
under the rising
Yellow Star
pins in our lapels
drops of water
in a quiet undertow
and resist
and resist



Artist’s Statement

We feel broken.

We feel broken.

We feel like records someone forgot to flip, playing that raspy melody we’re not even sure means anything anymore. The others aren’t listening.

We feel impotent: unable to fix ourselves, to protect the vulnerable, to grieve with any meaning. Still. After the apocalypse, we must awaken. While we draw breath we must rail and resist and pour ourselves into creative endeavors because the river of knowledge will never stop flowing, not until the last human draws her breath, not until thought itself lays discarded on the highway. What we pour into the river is not for us, but for those who come after to sip at its shores before returning with a brimming bucket like we have.

Despair, but not for too long. Grieve, but be aware. Come back; Trump cannot halt us, though he might censor our words. Knit a blanket. Cook a hearty meal. Be kind to a fault.

And fight like hell.


SimandAlex Simand holds an MFA from Antioch University Los Angeles. He writes fiction, creative nonfiction, and poetry. His work has appeared in Red Fez, Mudseason Review, Five2One Magazine, Angel City Review, Drunk Monkeys, and others. Alex is the former Blog Editor for Lunch Ticket and past Editor of Creative Nonfiction and Diana Woods Memorial Prize. Find him online at www.alexsimand.com or on Twitter at @AlexSimand.