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Ahern, Edward |
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Balaz, Joe |
Barker, Adelaide |
Barker, Tom |
Barnett, Brian |
Bartlett, Daniel C. |
Bayly, Karen |
Beckman, Paul |
Berriozabal, Luis Cuauhtemoc |
Beveridge, Robert |
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Burke, Wayne F. |
Burnwell, Otto |
Campbell, J. J. |
Cancel, Charlie |
Capshaw, Ron |
Carr, Steve |
Carrabis, Joseph |
Centorbi, David Calogero |
Christensen, Jan |
Clifton, Gary |
Cody, Bethany |
Costello, Bruce |
Coverly, Harris |
Crist, Kenneth James |
Cumming, Scott |
Davie, Andrew |
Davis, Michael D. |
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De Neve, M. A. |
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Ebel, Pamela |
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Grech, Amy |
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Held, Shari |
Hicks, Darryl |
Hivner, Christopher |
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Holt, M. J. |
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Owen, Deidre J. |
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Plath, Rob |
Prusky, Steve |
Reddick, Niles M. |
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Rose, Brad |
Rosmus, Cindy |
Scharhag, Lauren |
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Schmitt, Di |
Sesling, Zvi E. |
Short, John |
Slota, Richelle Lee |
Smith, Elena E. |
Snethen, Daniel G. |
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Stoler, Cathi |
Stoll, Don |
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Taylor, J. M. |
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Traverso Jr., Dionisio "Don" |
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Woods, Jonathan |
Young, Mark |
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Zimmerman, Thomas |
Zumpe, Lee Clark |
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Duke by Daniel G. Snethen My first dog cost me $3.00. He was
part Collie and a mix of who knows what
other breeds. Duke was territorial and protected the
home front. His bite, literally was worse than his bark. Duke never
bit family, but everyone else was an intruder. I trained
him in basic dog obedience for 4-H and we
received a purple ribbon, but we were forbidden to advance to the
SD State Fair because Duke was prone to biting. Typical
dog, he loved chasing cars. We discouraged
this by
chaining him up at night, but you have to
give a dog some freedom. One evening, the neighbor girl’s boyfriend went zooming
past our place with rags locked
into his hubcaps. Duke chased and grabbed on. The next
morning, I found Duke— dead on the
shoulder of our township gravel road. At fourteen,
that was likely more grief, than I’d ever
before experienced. And my mother was livid with an
anger I’d not seen in her before or
since. Mother
looked up at God and said, “Damn him, Yahweh!” To my
knowledge she never swore again. A year
later, on
a hot humid summer afternoon, the neighbor
girl’s boyfriend drowned, while swimming in a stock dam.
Freedom by Daniel
G. Snethen What next? She
was naked and free. Covered in blood spatter like the bathroom
walls. He lay on the tile floor, prick-less
and dead. Blood still flowing from whence his
member came. The straight razor still clenched
in her right hand. She, still in shock, wondering what next?
Fly Collector by Daniel
G. Snethen Blue-bottle
blow flies & sarcophagic flesh flies neatly mounted—skewered
with nylon-headed Bohemian pins, by the thousands,
filled tens of dozens of professionally made Cornell entomological
specimen drawers. On display, neatly dispersed, throughout
his country cottage. Filled with expertly pinned, captive-raised
flies. Nurtured from blood-fed maggots collected
at crime scenes. Each encasement a sacred mausoleum: a
genetic gene pool of human DNA, labeled with taxonomic information; locality; date;
collector nomenclature and corpus delicti identification.
Pickles
Butte by Daniel G. Snethen
Named after a farmer's dog,
the highest point in Canyon County, Idaho is an ecological treasure. Black-tailed
jackrabbits play tag and chisel-toothed kangaroo
rats leave tail drags in ancient volcanic ash. Rear-fanged venomous spotted
night snakes and desert hairy scorpions venture out after dark
in search of xerarch sustenance. Giant turquoise blue centipedes slither
and slink like many-legged diminutive serpents overhauling
slower, often larger prey, killing them with venom before dining. Black
widows spin high tensile strength silk over lava creating
sticky traps for ensnarement. Rock wrens, woodrats, lizards,
ground nesting hawks and mound- building formicide ants thrive
on barren rock devoid of water. Jerusalem crickets and Mormon ones too,
eat what vegetation there grows in this dry wasteland,
predated upon by habitat-destroying dirt bikes and four-wheel drive trucks. But
the strangest creature, to sojourn across this magma-
hardened bluff, the solpugiid, or camel spider, looks like
a tailless tarantula-scorpion hybrid. An odd arachnid, inviting the heat
of the Idaho sun to get hotter and even hotter, parching every other
living thing as he crawls unimpeded through the moisture-less Idaho dust hunting
undeterred for whatever prey he can capture in his massive
hideous exoskeleton crushing jaws of death.
Daniel
G. Snethen is the owner and publisher of Darkling Publications. He serves as vice-president
of the South Dakota State Poetry Society. In May 2017, 10 pages of his poetry was anthologized
in Resurrection of a Sunflower, a tribute
to Vincent Van Gogh, curated by Catfish McDaris. Snethen's poetry has been
published by Bear Creek Haiku; Cover of Darkness; Danse Macabre;
Dark Gothic Resurrected; Haiku Journal; The
Horror Zine; Miller's Pond; Pasque Petals: Thirteen Myna Birds,
and several other publishers of poetry. Snethen also coaches oral interpretation of literature
and Poetry Out Loud. He has qualified two high school students for the National Poetry
Out Loud competition in Washington DC and has had the SD State Poetry Out Loud
runner-up on two separate occasions. His favorite poet is William Blake, and
his favorite poem is “The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner” by Samuel Taylor
Coleridge.
Native American Male
Kills Caucasian Teenager at Hardee’s: Rapid City, SD by Daniel
G. Snethen “The
court finds the defendant Maȟpíya Kimímila Lúta
(Cloud Red-Butterfly) guilty of third-degree manslaughter and hereby sentences him to 10
years of imprisonment.” And, just like that, the 19-year-old Indigenous teenager
from Potato Creek, SD, was sent off to the state penitentiary. Eleven
months earlier, Cloud had entered the lobby of the 6th & St. Joseph
Street Hardee’s near downtown Rapid City, SD. What Red-Butterfly didn’t realize
is that he was walking into the midst of a clandestine anti-bullying campaign. What he
first saw were three non-native teenage males picking on an overweight native girl. “What’s
that on your fish, baby? “Looks
like tartar sauce—bet you wish it belonged to me—don’t ya?” Another
grabbed a handful of her fries and with a mouthful, exclaimed, “Damn bitch, these
sure taste good—just like you, I bet.” The third spit a wad
of chewing gum into her Dr. Pepper. The girl started to cry. The
surrounding patrons appeared to be a bit disturbed by this blatant display of disrespect
but ultimately chose to ignore it. And the bullying antics continued. But as the clientele
began to unwrap their sandwiches, they seemed to become more and more agitated. Finally,
they started to approach the front counter to complain. But
they were not uptight about the horrible behaviors being perpetrated upon the young native
girl in plain sight. Oddly, instead, they were upset because several of their food
items had been deformed. Buns were flattened, burgers had no meat and fries were served
mangled and broken in two. The customers were both puzzled and outraged and demanded satisfaction. Finally,
after much consternation, the manager started to explain that this was all part of an anti-bullying
awareness campaign to show just how easy it is for people to become ambivalent and ignore
the plight of others while at the same time becoming extremely defensive when they felt
wronged. “Hopefully,
you all now realize that none of us should ever stand around complacent while others are
being harmed. Naturally, we will refill your orders and reimburse you your money and we
thank you for your participation and understanding.” But
while this was taking place, Cloud Red-Butterfly—with the noblest of intentions and
totally oblivious to the ongoing campaign, asked the three teenage males to please
leave the young lady alone. And
that’s when they called him a fucking prairie-nigger.
Dallas County
Phone Calls by Daniel G. Snethen I
knew a Native gal in the Dallas jail who called me, her Dad. Apparently,
I was the only father-figure she’d ever had. I
put money on her books so we could have our weekly phone
calls and so she could call her mother too. One
young black woman, a fellow inmate of my friend, was lonely and
apparently had no one to talk to on the outside
of prison. Amber gave her my number, and
before I knew it, I was talking to some young African American
woman from inside the Dallas County Jail. She
thought I was nice and funny too. Wanted me to check her status
on Facebook. I think she thought perhaps
we could hook up once she left County. I
checked her out, half my age, and a booty that’d make Sir
Mix-a-Lot’s anaconda smile. How the
hell was I going to hook up with her, there’s
a thousand miles separating Dallas, Texas and Dallas, South
Dakota.
Two Old Ladies Arrested for Feeding Feral Cats by Daniel
G. Snethen
Damn shame Yellow Mama is retired. Wetumpka
law enforcement is
in dire need of her assistance. Beverly
Roberts, 85 and Mary Alston, 61 were found guilty of feeding
feral cats near the courthouse lawn. Several
thousand dollars of damage was claimed by Elmore County
officials. Both cat molesters were fined,
arrested, sentenced and released on two years
of probation. Both claimed they weren’t really
feeding feral cats, but were capturing them to be neutered
thus reducing the feral cat problem plaguing parts
of the Nation. Apparently, it’s illegal to stand on
private County property enticing feral cats with a can of
Fancy Feast in your wrinkled hands. Besides,
such mutilation and the denial of a cat’s reproductive
rights just ought to be illegal. And apparently,
in Wetumpka, Alabama it is.
Her Name Isn’t Margo, but It Should
Be by Daniel G. Snethen She
never talks about feelings. It is as if they do not exist. If they do, they
are to be repressed. But how can I repress such things? Ours,
is clearly a nebulous relationship, obfuscated by shadowy concrete differences. I
am the Yang for her Ying. To most, I am a mystery shrouded in smoke. Best
understood thru Eastern mysticism. She helps stem
my rage. She is my soothing opiate. She completes me. To
her, I am a child—yet complicated. When I need her most—she knows. But
does she know why she knows? Does she really
know who she is? Does she really know who I am? Does she even
understand who we are? I doubt it, I doubt it, I absolutely doubt it. I
doubt she understands the answer is deeply spiritual—not empirical. She
doesn’t know that our essence should be inseparable, uncontainable. That
one cannot divide darkness from midnight, or hold mystery and love in a locked box. Like
time, we transcend all these things. But she knows not these truths and I dare
not tell for fear of losing her.
Yorick by Daniel G. Snethen I
stare into your eyeless sockets, remembering how I used to torture thee. How
I’d make you carry me barefoot through the creeping thorns infesting
the courtyard cobbles. How I would beat the hump on
your back with my wooden club urging you to greater speed. You loved me poor Yorick, and I treated
you as less than a dog. You were the court jester and I of royal
lineage. Your disregard was my birthright. You drug me from my castle room when a fire raged
mere feet from my door. Dove out through a window fifteen feet
to the frozen ground. Cracked your brainless skull and
broke your collar bone, but cushioned my fall. You watched over me, entertaining me with silly feats of
acrobatic antics as I lay sequestered away, quarantined from
the rest of humanity. Ah Yorick, you were an idiot to
have loved me so, and I, I was the royal buffoon.
Daniel G. Snethen is an educator, naturalist, moviemaker, poet,
and short story writer from South Dakota. He teaches on the Pine Ridge Reservation at Little
Wound High School in the heart of Indian Country. His best friend is his
three-legged dog, Knightly, who is a cancer survivor.
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