HOOT Online, Issue 25, November 2013 – Micro Fiction, Poetry, Memoir, Book Reviews



by Stacey Balkun
Artwork by Kelly Murray


Uranus—blue planet, I want to know
your icy atmosphere. In Fresno, the cold
stays only a few days each year.

The northbound train flees
through the city, mourning its quick
ellipsis—so many straight lines.

A man with blue eyes walked
me home once in December—
taught me about icebergs

floating around the north pole,
the strange vibration of northern lights.
Do comets flee? Or circle sound

orbits, returning to their birth?
Ice Giant—I first mistaked you
for a comet, your strange pattern

of movement. You shift further from me
each year. The train tracks
need repairs. Sometimes I chase

after my own tail, walk alone
in circles, humming in the dark.








by David Endre Feaman
Artwork by the author
we eds recording

There were two of us and our names were Ed.

Fuzzy sack-bellies, round man-breasts, and horse-shoe hair-lines emphasizing our baldness,we Eds bear-clutched each other. Our laughter made the doctor uneasy. He turned to his colleagues, whispered something we couldn’t hear for laughing, and the white examination room went still.

“What’s with them?” We Eds asked each other in unison.

Elated with our commonality we cackled insanely. We Eds plucked our snug white briefs open by the bands simultaneously and glanced at each other’s floppy bushy genitals. “Get a load of that!” We exclaimed together.

“Get rid of that one…” The doctor pointed to me. “We only need one model. One shot from within the crowd. The Prime Minister goes down. The model chews the cyanide capsule. Win-win. Everyone’s happy.”

One of the doctor’s colleagues shoved a syringe into my neck.

The doctor said:  “Gosh! are they ugly.”









by David Endre Feaman
Artwork by the author
dead line recording

 Five contestants passed out, thudded to the floor, and the cameras continued rolling. His eyes burning with sweat, his brains mushy with the heat, Lou mouthed the words and waited to hear the other two drop.

“My moldy mother missed my matinee making me mad… Mad me making matinee my missed mother moldy my… My moldy moth – “

Thud! Another contestant dropped. Lou raked a wet forearm into his eyes and peeked through the searing pain. The tiny metal chamber pulsed a suffocating 134° F. One more contestant… The camera lights blinked red through the narrow slit windows.

“… Making matinee my – “

Thud! The last contestant toppled limply.

“Congratulations!” The host shouted through the speaker. “Lou Ansley, you just won Dead Line!” A din of cheering thundered through the speaker. “How does it feel to be a millionaire?”

Slumped, Lou only continued:

“… Missed my matinee making me mad…”






by Phoebe Brown


hover between two

The irreplaceable
flower and the hierarchy of atmosphere. Stairs
that cannot be climbed.

Those little birds hurry
while missing
pieces of green feathers

float up.  Remain.




Stacey Balkun’s work has appeared or will appear in The Los Angeles Review, THRUSH, Bodega, and others. She lives in California, where she explores the deserts, mountains, and lakes.

Kelly Murray likes junk. Intrigued with using materials in unexpected ways, Murray enjoys the stories
that develop amongst these mysterious and unrelated objects as she uses them to illustrate her own history.

David Endre Feaman, (for the sake of brevity,) can neither fix cars nor can he fly… Otherwise he is adept at everything magical, practical, imaginative, artistic, and a supreme master of embellishment.

Phoebe Brown is a Florida native who writes poetry and creative nonfiction.  Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Healing Muse, Touch: The Journal of Healing, and Deep South Magazine.



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