Panic Attack by Michael Holme

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"Palette Of Light I", Copyright © 2008 Devin McCawley

“Palette Of Light I”, Copyright © 2008 Devin McCawley

Panic Attack
A spectacle of eyes transfixed by film
some third rate fifties black and white repeat.
Three minds imprisoned by the endless frames
are islands.
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Enigmatic Tweets of the Food Service Industry by Jose Padua

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Photo by Jose Padua
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Cutter Love by Shannon Barber

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Cutter Love

by Shannon Barber



Take the blade.
Her voice is smooth almost a monotone and the handle of her blade is cool against my sweating palm.
She watches me — my eyes directed to the left of the thing in my hand. I don’t tremble but my eyes shake.
I am so afraid.
Look at it. She doesn’t speak but I hear the command.
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Hungry Woman by Keith Ebsary

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Hungry Woman

by Keith Ebsary


<p class="”copyright”">Photo by Joel (<a href="">J. Nilsson Photography</a>) Copyright © 2014. Model: Angela Renner.</p>

Photo by Joel (J. Nilsson Photography) Copyright © 2014. Model: Angela Renner.



A mountain of steak, a bombardment of bovine, meaty, majestic, marbled and magnificent. And it’s all for my wife, the wafer-thin gorger in thong and bra picking at the slabs of flesh with slow and lazy fingers as she coyly telegraphs the imminent feast. Meat smells fill our bedroom­­—salt, char and blood—and the lights play over the sharp strake of her shoulders and wild lines of her ribs. She looks into my eyes, and the look is hungry, as my fingers drop one by one in a silent countdown.




Then the camera is on and the feast begins.

The first steak disappears in wolfy bites, jaws chomping in frenzy on tissue and gristle. I watch her throat bobble and gulp as her lips and tongue click in robotic harmony to the animal sounds mumbling through the juices inside her mouth.

The second steak is gentle, a quiet dinner in a riverside café, a bottle of wine with candlelight and fire. She fondles the meat with a lover’s touch, nuzzling the seared muscle with playful nips of her teeth. Meat juice precomes down her chin and she licks it away, eyes drilling through the camera to the unseen faces beyond.

The third steak is wild, ripped and shredded like the carcass of a woodland beast. She growls and barks as her fingers plunge into the wet muscle and tear off chunks that are swallowed whole. Her lips curl in predatory rage and her body hunches over the kill, a prize for her alone.

The other steaks become a smacking blur. She eats and eats and I watch in fascination as her gut bulges from the banquet packed within. The camera catches it all, every throat-swelling swallow, every satiated grunt. I try to fade from the scope of her hunger, become the shadow behind a plant. Finally the eating ends and she collapses onto the pillows behind her. I turn the camera off and join her on the bed where she lies with eyes half-open and stomach distended, glutted on cow like a sullen lioness digesting her kill. She crooks her finger, Come and I do what she says because she reminds me of everything beautiful.

Her kisses taste like meat and she is the sun inside me.
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Eddie Woods — in conversation with John Wisniewski

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Eddie Woods


in conversation with John Wisniewski


Eddie Woods at the Beat Hotel (Paris, July 2009). Photo © by Lars Movin

Eddie Woods at the Beat Hotel (Paris, July 2009). Photo © by Lars Movin

JW: You had a variety of jobs over the years while getting on with your writing. Could you tell us about some of them, maybe a few that you enjoyed doing?


EW: I wholeheartedly agree with André Gide’s dictum, “All work that is not joyous is wretched.” And while the word ‘enjoy’ may not apply to my time in the Air Force, I still got a lot out of those four years, about which I’ll be writing in one of my future memoirs. It’s a given that I grooved on journalism. Some of that is covered in my most recent book, Tennessee Williams in Bangkok. And I am now encouraging Stanford University to obtain copies of all the pieces I wrote for the Bangkok Post so they can go into my archive there. We can forget the Tehran Journal (I was their sports and night editor in the mid-1970s), as that paper got buried after the 1979 Islamic revolution. I dug being a short-order cook and had the best teacher, namely my father! Programming first-generation IBM computers for two years was all right, until they started to bore me and I quit. Selling encyclopedias was a gas. Did that throughout the latter part of the Sixties, made good money, got to travel around Germany and France, then out to the Far East (where another life began for me). Managing a steakhouse in Hong Kong was cool. Ditto a few other gigs. It would never have crossed my mind to toil in a factory or on a farm. I’m a dunce when it comes to any kind of manual labor. All I’m good at with my hands are eating, writing, and sex.
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