Author Archives: CS

Goodbye and hello

Thank you all for the love and support for Mad Rush’s various incarnations. It is greatly appreciated. I am, however, moving on to a new small print project: a quarterly zine. Here is its website. I have sent out requests to some folks to assemble a preview issue. Once it is available I will open the official reading periods. Let’s do this, people:

Hiatus. Again.

Mad Rush is on indefinite hiatus once again.

My apologies for this.

All submitted pieces are released.

Please do not submit any work at this time.

Colin James – Poem

Identifying a Lover

Stalkers, we make excuses.
Like anyone caught, feign
indecipherable Glaswegian.
It’s these beginnings where empathy
has a tendency to not run rampant.
A notebook to document
time, place and environment
hangs from a string.
The convenience of it all
and then a slow stroll
back to the van.
Discarded mattresses
from personal eulogies
align these comforts
with pathological sin.

Denny E. Marshall – Poem

The Warm List

Our dreams turned to liquid
And we drank them
Like a rare wine
We tasted before
Though could never afford
You tasted it
Just like me
The sweet nectar reminded you
Of life as you played it
A reminder you lost the tape
Or was it lost
Like the both of us
If we are going to be lost
Let us be lost on love
We floated like clouds
Like the sky
I touched you
And you touched me
Like the world has been touching us
From the very beginning
Since the start of the list we made
Is it complete
Are they whole
Let us start from the beginning
Until we know
And if we never find out
Oh well, we tried
Like the birds in the light
With the sun at our wings
Would warm our minds at least

Kyle Hemmings – Flash Fiction

Substitute for Love #3

We lived in the middle of a long block of modest colonials and silent dogs. As a kid wearing paper tissues under those dreaded starched collars for school, or with ear glued to a transistor blaring “Baby Love,” hands cutting the outlines of paper heroes, I thought the sun and the moon revolved around our house. Nobody dies in this home; nobody flies away. My mother, who loved Maria Callas and Brigadoon, bought two parakeets because she thought a house is not a nest without birds. I became overly attached to the shy one because he reminded me of myself in classrooms, of being stuck for answers. One day in a fit of rage, my father opened the cage and chased the birds out the window. I ran after them because the world was too big for the two of them, especially the one who didn’t chirp much. I didn’t see the car coming. The world was too big for the three of us. So now, I’m holding the world in my hand. It’s made of glass and it’s really very small after you’ve grown beyond it. I spin it around and around in my palm. Inside, I can see a small boy chasing two birds because they mean life and death to him. They keep running all around the world until they catch up. But the birds will always fly away and the boy is growing too tall and too starry-eyed for a life of glass and pain. So I make a fist and crush this world.