Tag Archives: Punchnel’s

Why We Have Serial Killers

1 Aug

I’m trying to decide what I think of this poem, but I’m pretty sure I like it. The language seems interesting, but there’s a part of me that feels it’s maybe overwrought, but in a good way? I’m unsure, but I’m pretty sure I like it. I like it enough to say I like it. I like it enough to say you should give it a chance; let me know if you like it. I care what people think. Maybe I care too much.

into the heads of the
pummeled hearts at
our feet reminding
us that we are not
safe from ourselves.
Otherwise they say
why would our
eat themselves

Read the rest at Punchnel’s.

An Evening with Frank Bill – Feb 10th

17 Jan

Vouched is teaming up with Punchnel’s, Second Story, and Big Car to bring you a night to hang out with author Frank Bill (Crimes in Southern Indiana).

From the desk at Second Story/Punchnel’s:

An evening of conversation with Frank Bill, author of Crimes in Southern Indiana, for readers, writers, and people who like hanging out with them. Bill will be joined by winning writers from the Boiled Down Noir Contest at Punchel’s.

Admission: Free
Food & drink will be available at the event

All proceeds benefit the work of Second Story to help kids learn to love creative writing.

We’ll also host a pre-event reading group discussion of Bill’s book at Service Center on Wednesday, Feb. 1 at 6:30 p.m. This is also free.

Sponsored by:

Vouched Books
Big Car

If you got them in you, crank out some words for the noir contest. And get thee to the Service Center on February 10th to drink some beer with a guy who knows his backwood noir.

What lies beneath the cover? Ekphrasis by Mitchell Douglas

17 Nov

Punchnel’s is a new’ish online mag/journal based out of my own glorious city of Indianapolis. They’re doing some amazing things here, publishing some great work, finding good audiences for it. Like this ekphrastic poem by Mitchell Douglas that made me pause, that made me Google “Car Accident—U.S. 66, between Winslow and Flagstaff, Arizona.”

This land is made of our bodies:
the cracked hip curve
of the mesa, the twigs—bare
from the clay, clutch
our legs
in scorched plumes,
formidable fire. What lies

beneath the blanket,
rests on the desert floor—
draws a newly muted choir
to bow heads,
exchange gazes?

Read the rest at Punchnel’s.

Then read the rest of Punchnel’s. There is good stuff there.