RETORTMAGAZINE.COM

Mad Year

Retort Magazine — Wed, 21 Dec 2011 00:17:25 +0000

Ok, I apologise for the lack of updates to Retort Magazine this year. Seems life got in the way. I spent the year studying full-time, working full-time and full-time exhausted. I am not entirely sure whether it will be possible to continue publishing in 2012. Retort has been online for over 10 years now . . . → Read More: Mad Year

Three poems by Luke Skoza

Retort Magazine — Tue, 19 Jul 2011 06:39:08 +0000

Rust Dear Evee, my love for you, was fake and invented just like this poem masquerading as a letter. You do not do any more, We were a white tennis shoe in which I lived like a toe, able to move but trapped to your foot, afraid to speak or breathe. Today, my neighbor . . . → Read More: Three poems by Luke Skoza

Three poems by A.J. Huffman

Retort Magazine — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 03:14:25 +0000

White Shadows

Desire is the first step to destruction. Its light is unreality. All shining and golden. But a touch reveals the perpetual blackness underneath. And it sticks to your mind like glue. Eating the corners of your memories. Until they become hard enough for your eyes to recognize. They are your pain. And . . . → Read More: Three poems by A.J. Huffman

Fat Venus: Three Poems by Danny Pelletier

Retort Magazine — Tue, 05 Apr 2011 03:03:52 +0000

I. Venus of Willendorf at Her Toilet

the ugliest cook in the college café wears whiter through the white of a chef coat, like snow on an un- and shoveled walk, (a shift of color subtle as an areola,) a white brassier to contain breasts mottled with a soiree of molefrecklezits, these oddly decorated . . . → Read More: Fat Venus: Three Poems by Danny Pelletier

A short story by Greg Bogaerts

Retort Magazine — Wed, 08 Dec 2010 11:35:42 +0000

TAXI STORY

GREG BOGAERTS

I’d lead what is called a sheltered existence my life bound by a strict regime of school, homework, swimming training and practising classical piano, so when school finished all that came to an end. In my early twenties I was lost. I didn’t know what to do; I’d . . . → Read More: A short story by Greg Bogaerts