Creation and Criticism

Ryan Quinn Flanagan (b. 1978) is a Canadian-born author residing in Elliot Lake, Ontario, Canada with his wife and many mounds of snow. He attended Queen's University in Kingston, Ontario, Canada where he received his Master's Degree in Military History. He has been nominated multiple times for both Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net awards. His work can be found both in print and online in such places as: Evergreen Review, The New York Quarterly, The Huffington Post, Cultural Weekly, Setu, Red Fez, and The Oklahoma Review. He can be contacted at ryanquinnflanagan@hotmail.com.

1. Sink Hole

I started losing my voice weeks ago.

Right around the time that sink hole

opened up on our street while the latest

disaster movie put asses in the seats.

First, a pain in my throat.

Followed by the stretching of the vocal

chords until I became some

gulping screenshot waterfall everyone

pretends they want to visit when they don't

even want to get out of bed.

The price of gas won't get you six

city blocks from your house anyways.

And the price of food, it's just easier to starve.

But not without a voice,

how am I supposed to complain?

Or sing in the shower

if the right song

comes along?

Or scare the cat

each time it runs its claws

down the couch?

No one ever sets out to give themselves

the silent treatment.

It could be something serious,

even if I have never been.

All this water

and not a single freshwater

lake in sight.

2. The City Needs Consent

This hardhat from the hydro company

comes to the door.

Leaves some contact information

doorknob hanging,

but I catch him on the way out.

He has been out back the past week,

inspected the powerlines and noticed some

small growth that has to be removed.

I try to tell him about a tree

my wife has been talking about.

That she wants them to cut away.

He says he did mark

a single poplar a few yards down

for removal, but that we look okay.

I am a grown man in his pajamas.

Trying to speak with some authority.

On my third bottle of wine

at two in the afternoon,

hoping to appear as though I am not on

my third bottle of wine.

And we talk for some time.

He mentions this herbicide

the city needs consent

to spray so the trees do not grow back again.

Asks if we have any pets.

I tell him we do.

He asks if our dog goes outside.

I tell him we have a cat and that she goes

outside for almost half the day.

So we'll just say no, he says.

We agree to say no to the herbicide.

Him getting back in his truck

and me returning to the bottle.

These demolition site words

that can't help but fall right on top

of one another.

3. Unmistakable Bedrooms

The abyss never gazed

back at me.

Who's abyss?

Surely not that well-mustachioed Octoberfest

caught in an Italian love triangle.

This is not some randy kiss kiosk

at the county fair.

Exchanging herpes and lipstick

and monies as per the modern

capitalist model.

Which brings me to the honey

from the hive.

Why buildings wait for jumpers

like sincerity at altitude.

Whole fertilizer bombs

renouncing the farm.

If I see you when things get dark,

lead me up to unmistakable bedrooms.

Filled with lust and ugly trinkets

that could belong to anyone else.

After all those stairs

that keep your stamina

in question.

The curtains pulled over

like privacy making a comeback.

All this salvia switching teams.

The hangers in the closet

just back from the swinging gallows.

4. Hill of Beans

It starts with the simple opening

of a can.

That stubborn way the last bit of lid always

tries to stay on.

Like a long-oxidized coin forgetful pockets

refuse to part with.

Then a second can, a third, before a fourth...

Soon a hill of beans in spite of bad reputations.

A large pot over the stove element.

If anyone feel the heat, it doesn't show.

Surely, I am the luckiest man under clouded

molasses sky.

The heels of naked feet over cold linoleum.

Familiar three day wrinkles for clothes.

Something stirring that is not a mouse.

5. Feversham Water Source

Don't drink the water!

I hear those namby-pamby

water drinkers say that all the time,

as though their bodies are

made of different stuff,

a little silicon in places,

some collagen thrown in perhaps,

but hardly the main ingredient

for a very limited menu

if we are talking feathers

out of their only cushy pillows

which is, of course,

exactly what I intend to do

on these many sleepless nights

while poorly lit

Baphomet altars spread

their silly valedictorian wings

and the window sits ajar

like some childhood

cookie heist that always ends

in denials.