Tuesday, April 21, 2015


Sasha Thurmond

unday morning, my horse Tigere', and my dog Tuxedo began snorting and barking at some monster in the woods. Clad in my pajamas, I dashed outside looking like a toothless, wreck of the Hesperas.Two men were marking off boundary lines with neon pink, plastic tape that flapped ferociously in the high winds.

The befuddled men looked up quizzically when I queried "Whad up ?" Recognizing the younger one, I blurted out "I know you, you're the one who cost me $1,000 when I first moved here!"

"Oh, Yea,  you're the one who backed your truck into my SUV !"

Silently I thought to myself that this was still debatable. It transpired eleven years ago on a moonless evening at the dimly lit parking lot of our local variety store. While I was in the store, my new neighbor parked perpendicular to the rear of my battered old farm truck .As I backed up eagerly to return home, I heard the old familiar and sickening CRUNCH!! "Ugh......not THAT” ...dollar signs flashing in my stressed out head and flying out of my pockets. The thought hit me that maybe I shouldn't have moved here after all. I was determined to make it on my own, but I always got miserably lost attempting to find my way home, and my whole world was discombobulated. Enough of that thought....I should have fought it. I decided to go the whole nine yards, and barraged them with questions. 

"Are you getting ready to build? Where are you placing your house? Are you developing all ten acres? Do you have horses?"

The father suddenly began speaking in Spanish as if he didn't understand me anymore.so I say, “Cuando empieza?" or something like that.

He flailed his arms and shouted,"Pronto!"

I smiled and slowly did a pirouette, followed by a peacock strut back home to finish my Sunday morning brunch, smugly hoping that my mission was accomplished. No way in Hell would my neighbor ever want to build his house close to mine.

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Sasha Thurmond is a graduate of the Cornell University MFA program where she majored in Printmaking. She lives on a farm in South Carolina with her horse and other animals, and sometimes finds time to make art or write stories.

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photo by Sasha Thurmond

Saturday, April 4, 2015

gorky hanged himself in calder's tree

mike foldes

bill was drunk on virgin mojitos, while the rest of us worked our way through peroni and corona. it was a chill day on the cutting edge of warm enough and too cold to sit outdoors, but that’s where we sat, at the cuban cafe talking art and history. calder’s name came up and rick said something about a russian artist hanging himself at calder’s farm and calder’s daughter finding the body, and bill said, ‘wasn’t it gorky?’ and we all agreed, “yes, well gorky did commit suicide.” or did he? in connecticut or russia? by his own hand or stalin’s? at the time it didn’t seem to matter, but not knowing and needing to know has since become a passion. besides, gorky was a writer, not an artist. not that gorky, bill said, arshile.

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Mike Foldes is the founder and managing editor of Ragazine, an online literary magazine.

editor@ ragazine.cc 
Join Mike on MySpace & Facebook
Mike is also the author of Sleeping Dogs, A true story of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping
Download at www.Smashwords.Com and www.Amazon.Com
Purchase the paperback at www.splitoakpress.com

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