{"id":1902,"date":"2016-05-01T10:42:39","date_gmt":"2016-05-01T14:42:39","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902"},"modified":"2026-02-04T17:12:09","modified_gmt":"2026-02-04T22:12:09","slug":"the-early-years","status":"publish","type":"page","link":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902","title":{"rendered":"<strong>The Early Years<\/strong>"},"content":{"rendered":"<p><script><br \/>\n  (function(i,s,o,g,r,a,m){i['GoogleAnalyticsObject']=r;i[r]=i[r]||function(){<br \/>\n  (i[r].q=i[r].q||[]).push(arguments)},i[r].l=1*new Date();a=s.createElement(o),<br \/>\n  m=s.getElementsByTagName(o)[0];a.async=1;a.src=g;m.parentNode.insertBefore(a,m)<br \/>\n  })(window,document,'script','https:\/\/www.google-analytics.com\/analytics.js','ga');<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;\n&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>  ga('create', 'UA-60884670-1', 'auto');<br \/>\n  ga('send', 'pageview');<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;\n&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p><\/script><br \/>\nFounding editor David M. Harris published three issues of Rat&#8217;s Ass Review between June 11, 2009 and March 11, 2011. I was fortunate enough to have been published in two of those issues.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAll three of the issues which David published appear below:<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Issue #1<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThursday, June 11, 2009<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI don\u2019t know yet how often I\u2019ll be posting new issues \u2014 monthly, quarterly, occasionally, or what \u2014 but I have decided that I won\u2019t just post individual poems as I accept them. So here is the first batch of poetry to come out of the Rat\u2019s Ass. (Actually, none of this qualifies, in my opinion, as ratshit; I think it\u2019s all pretty good, in fact.)<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI Need the Dawn<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMy body wearies of bed.<br \/>\nThe moon rabbit cares<br \/>\nnothing for sleep,<br \/>\npounding forever<br \/>\nwith mortar and pestle,<br \/>\nfollowing no recipe.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWhen rose gold<br \/>\nsuffuses the east,<br \/>\nearth bound rabbits<br \/>\ntrack the snow,<br \/>\ndig under the unpruned<br \/>\napple tree for a taste<br \/>\nof late summer spice.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe gray owl spills<br \/>\ndown, silent on wings<br \/>\nruffled for such work.<br \/>\nA spray of red<br \/>\nblossoms, the last trace,<br \/>\nbecomes part of the legend.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n \u2014\u2014\u2014<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nExcuses Being Considered When Not Writing a Poem<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe toilet needs cleaning,<br \/>\ncleanser is on the shopping list.<br \/>\nThe sheets need washing\u2014<br \/>\nthey smell like one night too many.<br \/>\nMy husband is still wrapped<br \/>\nin them, rubbing his winter dry feet<br \/>\ntogether like a sandpaper cricket.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe grocery list looks like this:<br \/>\nbirdseed (it has been a hard winter)<br \/>\ncleanser (aforementioned toilet)<br \/>\nkitty litter (the slut cat\u2019s in heat and wakes me in the night, yowling)<br \/>\nlimes, chicken, tortillas, red and green peppers, cilantro, shredded cheese (a dinner of fajitas)<br \/>\ncoconut cake (reminds me of my childhood)<br \/>\nClementines (still in season?) maybe bananas?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHow can I write a poem<br \/>\nwhen I have never found an arrowhead?<br \/>\nI have dug up toads, wireworms, pale grubs,<br \/>\nred spider mites like tiny drops of velvet blood.<br \/>\nI have husked sweet corn, found a caterpillar still chewing,<br \/>\nand cut it out, but I can\u2019t put that cob<br \/>\non my plate, so it goes to the person<br \/>\nwho wasn\u2019t there to help with peeling<br \/>\nand silk brushing.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe poems I inherited from my grandmother:<br \/>\na shadowbox of dead butterflies,<br \/>\na catalog filled with pressed flowers,<br \/>\na chinoise.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nOn the news today they report<br \/>\nmore than a thousand World War II veterans die every day.<br \/>\nI don\u2019t know a single one to name<br \/>\nin a poem.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u2014\u2014\u2014<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nCarnage<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLate spring, the mist is almost fog<br \/>\nin the headlamps driving home.<br \/>\nHalos surround farm lights with damp<br \/>\ndogs lying in the dim glow.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSwamp spreads out from the Sugar River<br \/>\nfilling ditches, edges of fallow fields.<br \/>\nClimbs up the tires of an abandoned<br \/>\ntractor, put to pasture years ago.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThis is where the geese gather,<br \/>\nthe sandhill cranes dance mating.<br \/>\nRed winged blackbirds puff<br \/>\nand chatter, painted turtles bask.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIn this weather, leopard frogs,<br \/>\nfilled with strings of black spotted<br \/>\neggs, leap across the blacktop.<br \/>\nPops like gunfire, too many to avoid.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLisa Cihlar<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLisa J. Cihlar\u2019s poems have been published in Word Riot, Qarrtsiluni, Frogpond, Tipton Poetry Journal, and other places. She was nominated for a Pushcart Prize in 2008.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u2014\u2014\u2014<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nFifteen-Minute Poem<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIn the first three minutes,<br \/>\nnothing to say,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI\u2019ll breathe, seek aspiration, hope<br \/>\nto pass as somewhat loveable.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAbout minute four<br \/>\nwill gather a certain trepidation<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n(since words \u2014 given time-scheme<br \/>\n\u2013 must shortly arrive)<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nand so will stir, strive<br \/>\nthrough two full minutes of my Fifteen Minute Poem<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nnoting<br \/>\nhow I grew, studied, married,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nsuffered, divorced\u2026<br \/>\nGod-awful stuff scored through at once\u2026<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nand in the next six minutes<br \/>\nwrite furiously, as dark chords resound,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfetching up with my<br \/>\ndefault Fifteen Minute Poem<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nwhich yet again will praise<br \/>\nwu wei, guys, doing<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nnothing, letting<br \/>\nbe,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nliving in my socks, no<br \/>\nsweat this<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfaking of enlightenment<br \/>\nin my act-as-if way.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBarry Spacks<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBarry Spacks has brought out various novels, stories, three poetry-reading CDs and ten poetry collections while teaching literature and writing for years at M.I.T. &amp; U C Santa Barbara. His most recent book of poems, Food for the Journey, appeared from Cherry Grove in August, 2008.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n================<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWooden Anniversary<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nShe uncradles the phone with a lyric<br \/>\nfor someone who might be calling<br \/>\nif I weren\u2019t calling again from work,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nwho would be calling, she says,<br \/>\nif five years ago I hadn\u2019t<br \/>\npromised her me.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nFive years ago she believed me<br \/>\nand now she has children, four,<br \/>\na house, my calls each noon.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nFive years ago she lied to herself<br \/>\nas I napped on her parents\u2019 porch,<br \/>\nsilent yet shouting the truth.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nDonal Mahoney<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nDonal Mahoney has worked as an editor for The Chicago Sun-Times, Loyola University Press and Washington University in St. Louis. He has had poems accepted by Commonweal, Orbis (U.K.), Revival (Ireland), The Christian Science Monitor, The Istanbul Literary Review (Turkey), Poetry Super Highway, WOW (Ireland), Public Republic (Bulgaria) and other publications.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n====================<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nDemolition<\/p>\n<p>Not willing to pay contractor prices<br \/>\nto pull my aging deck apart,<br \/>\nI slam the sledgehammer<br \/>\ninto another stringer.<br \/>\nThis time a two by four detaches<br \/>\nand cracks me in the shin<br \/>\nso hard I might as well<br \/>\nhave just driven the sledge<br \/>\ndirectly into my leg.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nA week later the swollen shin<br \/>\nis still too tender for me to wear socks.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIn my Dad it was a ground ball<br \/>\nthat caught him halfway<br \/>\nbetween second base and third.<br \/>\nX-rays showed a dark grey circle<br \/>\njust above his ankle where the bone died.<br \/>\nForty years he walked with a piece of death<br \/>\nholding him upright.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAs I rub the swollen area,<br \/>\ncompare today\u2019s pain to yesterday\u2019s,<br \/>\nI wonder:<br \/>\nHas Death moved into me<br \/>\nas he did my Dad?<br \/>\nIs he even now assessing his new digs,<br \/>\nhanging his calendar on my ivory wall?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nRoderick Bates<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nRoderick Bates is a Vermonter and Dartmouth graduate. He has published poems in VT Folkus, at Poets Against The War, and in Naugatuck River Review. He also writes prose, and won an award from the International Regional Magazines Association for an essay published in Vermont Life.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n====================<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nOrbit, the Mother, Thermometer<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIt revolves around the sun, the earth<br \/>\nso here binding us with its gravity<br \/>\nwe rarely see it for what it is.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHow can we, can we see our eyes<br \/>\nin their sockets, they are too much with us<br \/>\ngravity and blood, the force the flow<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbut once they stop, beyond is<br \/>\nthe eternal zero of space<br \/>\nthe chill of blood congealed in the vein.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nOne frigid earthbound day I watched my father<br \/>\nhold the hand of death and knew, mother gone<br \/>\nthat he would always keep orbiting<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe star gone cold<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHarry Calhoun<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHarry Calhoun\u2019s articles, literary essays, book reviews and poems have been published in magazines including Writer\u2019s Digest and The National Enquirer. Recently, his online chapbook, Dogwalking Poems, went live at The Dead Mule. His trade paperback, I knew Bukowski like you knew a rare leaf, is now available from Trace Publications.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n====================<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nStaring at Beer in the Refrigerator<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSuch possibility<br \/>\nin this light\u2014something<br \/>\nto eat, something to drink,<br \/>\nbut none of it does the trick.<br \/>\nMy dad could coast through<br \/>\na sixer\u2014easy,<br \/>\noften\u2014and if Ed<br \/>\njoined him under the hood<br \/>\nof the Mustang to split more,<br \/>\nthen leaving, Ed was warned<br \/>\nof the Greenwich Road cops,<br \/>\noffered coffee first.<br \/>\nYou drive careful now,<br \/>\nboy. The same he told me,<br \/>\nthe same he cloaked himself. No<br \/>\navail. It\u2019s time to shut the door.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAndy Fogle<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAndy Fogle has three chapbooks of poetry, teaches English at Bethlehem Central High School in Delmar, NY, and is a doctoral student in Educational Theory and Practice at SUNY Albany.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n====================<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nKnocking<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAgain? They\u2019re knocking, knocking. The two of them<br \/>\ndon\u2019t blink as dawn escapes. I\u2019m barely there,<br \/>\nnot yet awake, and trip on my loose hem<br \/>\nagain. They\u2019re knocking, knocking. The two of them<br \/>\nstand straight and one relates, \u201cSorry, Ma\u2019am.\u201d<br \/>\nThe details end in \u201chigh-speed chase.\u201d I stare<br \/>\nagain. They\u2019re knocking, knocking, the two of them.<br \/>\nDon\u2019t blink. As dawn escapes, I\u2019m barely there.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMarybeth Rua-Larsen<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMy poetry has been published or is forthcoming in: Measure, 14 by 14, Soundzine, The Raintown Review, Two Review and The Worcester Review, among others. My work has twice been nominated for a Pushcart Prize and once for The Best of the Net. I was a finalist for the 2007 Philbrick Award.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n====================<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe Great War<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfor MH<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIt\u2019s you and me and we\u2019re fifteen and hysterical<br \/>\non the train and our classmates dangle from the overhead compartments<br \/>\nand we can\u2019t think with the noise and all this information and the need,<br \/>\nthis need to protest something, something. We saw a movie once<br \/>\nwhere a girl who could have been your mother or my mother<br \/>\nflashed a peace sign at a busload of soldiers on their way to Vietnam<br \/>\nand it was a sign of protest, and they returned obscene gestures,<br \/>\nvicious, sexual. It\u2019s you and me and a busload of soldiers<br \/>\non an empty road by Arlington Cemetery and all we have is this need<br \/>\nto climb out of our own bodies and we\u2019re protesting the world<br \/>\nand our parents for creating us out of chaos, and in defiance<br \/>\nwe flash angry peace signs at the busload of soldiers with their guns<br \/>\nand their uniforms and their following of orders, in defiance we flash peace signs,<br \/>\nand the soldiers smile and flash hopeful peace signs back at us.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u2014\u2014\u2014-<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMarzipan<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIt beckons from the pastry shop window,<br \/>\nlovely ripe bananas, cherries, apples,<br \/>\nand though you know it will prickle your tongue<br \/>\nwith the cyanide flavor of almonds, you go in anyway<br \/>\nand let the man who thinks he\u2019s in love with you<br \/>\nkiss you over a plate of fake fruit.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHeather Kamins<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHeather Kamins writes poetry and fiction. Her work has appeared in Alehouse and The Peralta Press. She enjoys long walks on the beach and reading about quantum physics. You can find her online at <a href=\"http:\/\/heatherkamins.com\">heatherkamins.com\/<\/a>.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p>FILED IN ISSUES OF THE MAGAZINE | TAGGED ADD NEW TAG | COMMENTS (1)<br \/>\nOur first review!<br \/>\nThursday, May 14, 2009<br \/>\n\u201cPerhaps the most refreshingly honest set of guidelines I\u2019ve ever read.\u201d \u2014 Valerie Fioravanti<\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nFILED IN UNCATEGORIZED | | COMMENTS (4)<br \/>\nHello world!<br \/>\nSunday, May 10, 2009<br \/>\nWelcome to the Rat\u2019s Ass Review, yet another online poetry journal. I\u2019ll be presenting my personal view of poetry (for details, see our guidelines), looking for new and established poets whose work I enjoy. Look around, read, and feel free to leave comments.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nDavid M. Harris, Editor<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u00a9 2013 RAT&#8217;S ASS REVIEW. WORDPRESS. XHTML. CSS. VERYPLAINTXT BY SCOTT. DESIGN JOANNE MERRIAM. RATS JOHN PIERRE.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Issue #2<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSaturday, October 24, 2009<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLevi 501\u2019s<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nOne for the boys, one for the ladies,<br \/>\nhe works at the mirror for hours<br \/>\nlearning to sneer and smile<br \/>\nat the same time. And thank god<br \/>\nfor Levis with your hands in your pockets<br \/>\nand a road house drawl\u2014<br \/>\n\u2019cause every country boy can sing<br \/>\nout a half his mouth, and baby<br \/>\nevery town has a two bit mason-dixon<br \/>\nwhere us country boys dangle lines<br \/>\nfrom the ends of our Marlboros<br \/>\n\u2019til it\u2019s back in the saddle again.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014-<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nGrace Wilson Rouke (1911-1963)<\/p>\n<p>In that kitchen with the cheap linoleum and chairs that didn\u2019t match<br \/>\nshe was still almost young\u2014<br \/>\na little harsh around the rouge and cigarettes, a look<br \/>\nI now see as from the war years.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe heart attack that dropped her to the floor was mercifully quick<br \/>\nand she disappeared from our lives.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nBut death is not a disappearing. It is an arresting, a putting<br \/>\naway of the unresolved and never known\u2014a gap<br \/>\nso dense it bends the light and the way we walk<br \/>\nlong after we have forgotten the brand of the cigarettes,<br \/>\nthe putting away\u2014even the absence.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTim Hunt\u2019s collection, Fault Lines, is forthcoming from Backwaters Press. His poems have appeared in Tar River, Epoch, Cut Bank, Alehouse, and other journals, and he has won the Chester H. Jones Prize. Originally from northern California, he currently lives in Normal, Illinois, which is a place, not a state of being.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n============<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAmortization<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWhen the glaciers bulldozed Vermont,<br \/>\npushed our topsoil like so much snow<br \/>\nto form Cape Cod, Long Island,<br \/>\nwe gave good farm land, and got<br \/>\nbare-assed ledges, hardscrabble<br \/>\nand Canadian rocks.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWith water at eight pounds a gallon<br \/>\nand maple syrup at eleven,<br \/>\nthere\u2019s just over three pounds<br \/>\nof Vermont in every can,<br \/>\nfiltered up through maple roots,<br \/>\nboiled down, graded, weighed,<br \/>\ngone south to Hartford or Boston.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nNow, at sixty bucks a gallon<br \/>\nfor Grade A Medium Amber,<br \/>\nwe get twenty dollars a pound<br \/>\nfor the dirt that heads south.<br \/>\nIt seems they\u2019re beginning to pay off<br \/>\nthe mortgage on the Cape.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nRoderick Bates was also in Issue #1 of Rat\u2019s Ass Review.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n===============<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nCirce<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u201cShe imagines herself and Odysseus<br \/>\nwalking through a field in November,<br \/>\nlicking melted snow from each other\u2019s mouths,<br \/>\nstopping to examine the still unfrozen track of a deer\u201d<br \/>\nFrom Margaret Atwood\u2019s Circe\/Mud Poems<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nCirce is secretly a child of winter.<br \/>\nShe has always preferred the clarity of it<br \/>\nto the raspy dying breath of her humid island.<br \/>\nEach afternoon sleeping by her pigs\u2019 muddy bath<br \/>\nshe sweats and tosses in dreams<br \/>\neyes sealed shut against the gnats<br \/>\nshe lets herself think of snowforts and siege.<br \/>\nDrifting out of range of so much sadness and dust<br \/>\nshe imagines herself and Odysseus.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHe is teaching her to tie knots<br \/>\nbut she keeps climbing to the eagle\u2019s nest<br \/>\nbecause the salt air reminds her,<br \/>\nis cold and bitter<br \/>\nlike frosty grass that they melted footprints into<br \/>\nfeet coming away patterned white from sharp cattails and thistle barbs.<br \/>\nBut mostly she recalls the shock of breathing<br \/>\nand his body beside her.<br \/>\nIt can be difficult to remember<br \/>\nwalking through a field in November.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLow clouds caught in the treetops<br \/>\nand Odysseus\u2019 breath was lemongrass<br \/>\ncooling her skin and giving her goosebumps.<br \/>\nHis hands too, like dry icicles<br \/>\nso smooth and cold<br \/>\nso she couldn\u2019t concentrate on anything<br \/>\nnot standing or speaking<br \/>\nall her heat finally released in shapes that spelled his name.<br \/>\nWithout realizing it, they turn south<br \/>\nlicking melted snow from each other\u2019s mouths.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWhen Circe has all but burned away the field they move on.<br \/>\nSo this is what love must be like.<br \/>\nThe other\u2019s voice floating over the prairie like a moon<br \/>\nyou only have to turn your face to the sky<br \/>\nto realize that he is calling you.<br \/>\n\u201cCirce, over here.\u201d<br \/>\nHe has fallen back and calls her near<br \/>\nstopping to examine the still unfrozen track of a deer.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAnnik Adey-Babinski is a student at McGill University. She has previously been published in the Scrivener Creative Review.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n===================<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe Choteau County Trilogy<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nChoteau County<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nRemember when you were the<br \/>\ntallest thing in sight until the<br \/>\nsheriff of Choteau County<br \/>\nclanked out on our wracked,<br \/>\nwarped, leaning porch and stepped<br \/>\ndown with his carbine in one fist<br \/>\nand Tommy in the other?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nCan I shoot the rifle? He looked<br \/>\nat my father and then at me.<br \/>\nSaid, you see some big deer out<br \/>\nthere or somethin\u2019 worth shootin\u2019?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI looked at Tommy. His head was<br \/>\ndown to hide the tears. No cuffs<br \/>\nbecause you didn\u2019t run from the sheriff.<br \/>\nNo, but there might be something I<br \/>\nmissed on the first look.<br \/>\nHe walked over and stuck Tommy<br \/>\ninto the Dodge on the shotgun side.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHe said he believed there was a<br \/>\nbig jackrabbit out there and silently<br \/>\ngave me the gun. See him? Right<br \/>\nwhere I\u2019m pointing. So I held it up<br \/>\nand fired. The stock hit me in the<br \/>\nshoulder like a ball-peen hammer.<br \/>\nI wasn\u2019t going to cry about anything.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLet\u2019s go get him you said. Son, I think<br \/>\nyou missed that ol\u2019 boy. It was the<br \/>\nsheriff talking so I guessed he was<br \/>\nprobably right. He shucked the shells<br \/>\nout and handed me the empty gun.<br \/>\nYou keep this for me while your dad<br \/>\nand I go into town for awhile.<br \/>\nI\u2019ll be back shortly to collect it. Keep it safe.<br \/>\nI don\u2019t have any bullets. I know, he said.<br \/>\nBut that don\u2019t mean you might not see<br \/>\nmore game out yonder. You have a pretty<br \/>\nbig back yard. I\u2019ll be back shortly, now.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nHe reached into his right trousers pocket<br \/>\nand pulled out a silver dollar then handed<br \/>\nit to me. Keep this for the movie of Saturday.<br \/>\nThey let preacher\u2019s kids in for free, though.<br \/>\nWell, just keep it anyway and don\u2019t go<br \/>\npointing that gun at anything that ain\u2019t<br \/>\nbetween you and out yonder.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThen you were the tallest thing in sight<br \/>\nagain .<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014-<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSugarbush (Choteau County II)<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThere were times I\u2019d sit out on the<br \/>\nback porch and look a thousand miles to the<br \/>\nRockies, straight across Sugarbush like<br \/>\nit wasn\u2019t even there.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI was a dumb kid and didn\u2019t even notice<br \/>\nit until the sheriff came by one day and<br \/>\ndecided to sit out there with me for a while.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLookin\u2019 back, that ol\u2019 boy was pretty fuckin\u2019<br \/>\nsmart, although he\u2019d have beat my ass if he<br \/>\never heard me cuss a lick.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThis time he was here or there for me and<br \/>\nnot my daddy. The Mennonites said I\u2019d<br \/>\nraped one of their daughters.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI\u2019d heard about it and halfway expected ol\u2019<br \/>\nJohn, the same man took my Daddy away.<br \/>\nLooks to me like sheriffs never die, not even<br \/>\nfade away. They are just always there like<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ndust and the echo of a lonesome song, say<br \/>\n\u201cRed River Valley.\u201d And we sat there looking<br \/>\nout across the thousand mile back yard<br \/>\ntoward the desert and all I could see was<br \/>\ntears, say I didn\u2019t do nothing to Candace,<br \/>\nwe were friends fer Chrissakes, John.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSo he asked me what I could see between<br \/>\nthe boards and the mountains and I said:<br \/>\nShit, John, sand and sagebrush! what the<br \/>\nhell can you see? He says: \u201cSugarbush\u201d<br \/>\nand spits a wad of RedMan into the sand.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAwright, where?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWell, it starts right there at your boots<br \/>\nand goes about as far as the tree-line on<br \/>\nthem mountains, there. I don\u2019t know if<br \/>\nit continues on beyond for sure.<br \/>\nI ain\u2019t never been that far.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYou can\u2019t see worth shit can ya, Wendy?<br \/>\nNo further than the day I took your daddy<br \/>\nto La Junta and left you with my rifle<br \/>\nto shoot rabbits in the Sugarbush.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nNo sir. I figured there must be a rabbit<br \/>\nout there somewhere though but<br \/>\nyou didn\u2019t leave me enough shells to hit one.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nLaughed and says, It\u2019s Sugarbush! You<br \/>\neither hit one or you don\u2019t. I couldn\u2019t<br \/>\nafford the shells to keep you occupied all day.<br \/>\nBesides, your daddy got ornery on me.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI\u2019m going to walk down to the Mennonite\u2019s.<br \/>\nYou stay here at the house while I\u2019m gone?<br \/>\nPromise?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nYes Sir. So he walked down the back alley<br \/>\nif it was that. To your right was the sorry little<br \/>\ntown. To the left was the Rockies all that clear<br \/>\ndistance far away. In between was something<br \/>\nI had never seen before the sheriff pointed<br \/>\nit out to me: Sugarbush.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nI flat stared until he ambled back, kicking<br \/>\nrocks like a kid with those fine boots. Whatcha<br \/>\nlookin\u2019 at, Wendy?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nDon\u2019t call me that John!<br \/>\nAwright, whatcha lookin\u2019 at?<br \/>\n\u201cSugarbush.\u201d<br \/>\nYep I thought you\u2019d see it.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe Mennonites don\u2019t want no trouble.<br \/>\nDid you cause any trouble?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nCandace and I went skinny-dipping in<br \/>\nthe Hollister\u2019s cattle tank. We didn\u2019t do<br \/>\nnothing but that, I swear!<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThat\u2019s what Candy said too. I been wastin\u2019<br \/>\nmy time on kids like you. \u2018Course now<br \/>\nthat you can see Sugarbush, I better<br \/>\nkeep my eye out for ya.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSheriff, come by again when you can,<br \/>\nwillya? It gets dull out here with daddy<br \/>\ngone and momma in La Junta at that school.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWendy, you are one of my regular stops<br \/>\nnow that we can both see Sugarbush<br \/>\nfrom your back porch. That\u2019s all there<br \/>\nis. And that\u2019s all there was.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2014\u2013<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nSuppers in Choteau County<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThey don\u2019t matter so much to me<br \/>\nas once they did. Mama always<br \/>\nkissed me on the head and Papa<br \/>\nwas a Preacher so he always said<br \/>\ngrace.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nOne parsonage was pretty much<br \/>\nthe same as another with sparse<br \/>\nstandard deviation but somehow<br \/>\nwe carted this huge round oak dining<br \/>\ntable from one end of this heathen<br \/>\nfuckin\u2019 nation to the other and then<br \/>\nback again.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMusta weighed a ton but the<br \/>\nMethodists always paid the<br \/>\nfreight and if they didn\u2019t Tommy<br \/>\nwould call up Bishop Phillips<br \/>\nto straighten it out.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe bishop had a way of persuading<br \/>\npeople I didn\u2019t understand but he<br \/>\nusually got the job done. He was my hero,<br \/>\nlongside the Choteau County sheriff.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThose two ol\u2019 boys were my heroes.<br \/>\nSaved my ass in a lot of ways I never<br \/>\nunderstood \u2018til later but they never<br \/>\ntold me why.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nEach one sat with us at that supper<br \/>\ntable by turns and intermittently.<br \/>\nThe bishop taught me how to pray<br \/>\nand the sheriff taught me why.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nIn the long run, they died of course<br \/>\nbut both of \u2018em had made their points.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nNow, I can\u2019t pray and I can\u2019t shoot<br \/>\nworth a damn but I pray to learn<br \/>\nto shoot and that I will never have to<br \/>\nand I shoot so as to distract myself<br \/>\nfrom the fact that I can\u2019t sit down<br \/>\nto supper with \u2018em anymore and pray.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWendell M. Tomlin, Jr., 59, male Caucasian. I take myself pretty seriously, except when it is just too hard to keep a straight face while doing so.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n================<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe Girls in Steno, 1970<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWhen it\u2019s break time<br \/>\nthe girls all walk together,<br \/>\ncigarette-protector cases<br \/>\nclasped between their index<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\ntapers and their thumbs.<br \/>\nOn each girl\u2019s fingers glow<br \/>\niridescent lacquers.<br \/>\nWhen break time nears,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthey peek at each other,<br \/>\ntwinkle, giggle, nod.<br \/>\nWhen break time comes,<br \/>\na bell rings and the girls rise<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nlike Lazarus. High on heels<br \/>\nthey click in couples down the hall<br \/>\nto fill an elevator.<br \/>\nThey get off at One. There<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthey float across the cafeteria,<br \/>\nmen everywhere,<br \/>\neyes everywhere.<br \/>\n(Is he the one?)<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWhen a new girl\u2019s hired<br \/>\nthe old girls<br \/>\nput her to the test:<br \/>\nWill she join them<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfor the coffee break?<br \/>\nIf she does, she joins them forever,<br \/>\neven after she marries,<br \/>\nretires or expires.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nDonal Mahoney was also in Issue 1 of Rat\u2019s Ass Review.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n==================<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nCruiser Weight<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMy neighbor\u2019s been asking for this.<br \/>\nThe police cruiser pulls into<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nher driveway. An officer<br \/>\ngets out and walks through<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nthe snow to her front door.<br \/>\nSmall arms dangle like dead fish<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nfrom his belt. He kicks his boots<br \/>\naround a bit, making a show of it,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nand pulls the storm door open,<br \/>\nsweeping an arc of snow<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\noff the stoop. Without knocking,<br \/>\nhe shuts it and returns<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nto his cruiser. He kicks the snow<br \/>\nfrom his boots and sits down<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbehind the wheel, pulls away,<br \/>\nleaving tracks in the snow<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nlike a Christmas card in the mailbox.<br \/>\nThis fantasy comes once a year,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nbringing the fiction that someone<br \/>\nis always home, even when my<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nneighbor visits family in Indiana.<br \/>\nIt\u2019s a favor between the like-minded,<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nwritten with words that flurry<br \/>\nlike snowflakes, evidence that melts<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\non their tongues, their ears.<br \/>\nIt\u2019s an intimacy only skin deep.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAndrew Rihn is the author of several slim volumes of poetry, including the forthcoming chapbook Foreclosure Dogs (New Sins\/Winged City Press). He has lived in one city his entire life, but thinks that could change any day now. Track him down <a href=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/andrew.rihn\">here<\/a>.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n=====================<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nMoonwalk, July 1969<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nWe had our own mission every month\u2014<br \/>\nthree and a half hours across the interstates,<br \/>\nthe tolls, one beltway, and a long backroad.<br \/>\nWe would arrive late Friday night<br \/>\nto parents waiting, table set,<br \/>\nkitchen steaming with dishes we\u2019ve never<br \/>\ntasted since. Afterwards we\u2019d sit<br \/>\namid the questions, stories, up-to-dates,<br \/>\nnothing too long, nothing demanding silences,<br \/>\nthe talk propelled along the sides<br \/>\nin minor arabesques. What did we know?<br \/>\nOur troubles curled like wisps of dust<br \/>\nunder our feet, puffing just ankle high,<br \/>\nthe jabber of small tongues turning us<br \/>\nfrom the deep fissures of those days,<br \/>\none small step between the Jersey scrub<br \/>\nand humid Philadelphia blocks,<br \/>\nthe bright reflective faces changing<br \/>\nwith each latitude but the arrivals just the same,<br \/>\ninevitable, unfeigned glows of bright interiors<br \/>\nwe always knew. And even on the sullen<br \/>\ndrives, the barren landscapes would dissolve<br \/>\nonce we approached the journey\u2019s close,<br \/>\nour motions stabilized, the spins surveyed,<br \/>\ndeflected, and drawn out of us, then fixed<br \/>\namid familiar furniture and family photographs.<br \/>\nAnd the moon, that adamant, steadily blazing<br \/>\nits sands, its powdery basins probed by alien gear\u2014<br \/>\nwas there ever such luminance, such perishable<br \/>\nlight in that vast and ageless sky?<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAskold Skalsky, a retired college professor from western Maryland, has had poems in numerous small press magazines and journals, most recently in freefall and The Dos Passos Review. He has also published in Canada, Ireland, and Great Britain. Earlier this year he received a prize for his poetry from the Maryland State Arts Council.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<\/p>\n<div id=\"post-39\" class=\"hentry p1 post publish author-David category-uncategorized y2011 m03 d11 h03\">\n<div class=\"entry-date\"><abbr class=\"published\" title=\"2011-03-11T15:45:17-0700\">Friday, March 11, 2011<\/abbr><\/div>\n<div class=\"entry-content\">\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<strong>Issue #3<\/strong><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nFriday, March 11, 2011<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nTermites<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThe last fifteen fence boards<br \/>\nin a span of seventy-five<br \/>\nare so fresh they still smell of pine.<br \/>\nEven their screws shine in the orange driveway light.<br \/>\nBeside their grey predecessors<br \/>\nthe bold new planks beg\u2014like red lips\u2014<br \/>\nto be noticed. Hollow and freckled<br \/>\nwith tiny holes, the old boards<br \/>\ndon\u2019t bother to warn them.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nCarrie Moniz\n<\/div>\n<p><strong>Carrie Moniz<\/strong> is a poet from the San Francisco Bay area. She holds a BA in English and an MFA in poetry from San Diego State University. Her poems and reviews have appeared in Ploughshares; Superstition Review; Yellow Medicine Review; Suisun Valley Review; Third Wednesday; Corium Magazine; Grasslimb; An Island of Egrets Haiku Anthology; scent of rain Haiku Anthology; A Year In Ink Vol. 4 &amp; 5; San Diego Poetry Annual; Charlotte: A Journal of Art and Literature; Web del Sol Review of Books; and elsewhere. Moniz is a co-founding editor of The California Journal of Poetics (<a href=\"http:\/\/www.californiapoetics.org\">www.californiapoetics.org<\/a>). She divides her time between the Bay Area and San Diego. &nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<\/p>\n<p class=\"entry-meta\"><span class=\"entry-category\">FILED IN UNCATEGORIZED<\/span> <span class=\"meta-sep\">|<\/span> <span class=\"meta-sep\">|<\/span> <span class=\"entry-comments\">COMMENTS (1)<\/span><\/p>\n<p>&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;\n<\/p><\/div>\n<div id=\"post-36\" class=\"hentry p2 post publish author-David category-uncategorized y2011 m02 d25 h03 alt\">\n<h3 class=\"entry-title\">An apology and a new concept<\/h3>\n<div class=\"entry-date\"><abbr class=\"published\" title=\"2011-02-25T15:34:19-0700\">Friday, February 25, 2011<\/abbr><\/div>\n<div class=\"entry-content\">\nI know, I know. It has been a ridiculously long time since anything new has shown up here, and it\u2019s all my fault, and maybe if I were a better poet I could tell you how bad I feel about that. I\u2019m going to try to do better, though.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nOne of the lesser problems was that there haven\u2019t been a lot of submissions since the last issue. In fact, I still haven\u2019t found enough poems I really like to do another issue, and I have no guarantee that they\u2019ll ever come in, unless Duotrope brings me back from the dead. So here\u2019s what I\u2019m going to do. Whenever I find a poem that\u2019s good enough for Rat\u2019s Ass Review, I\u2019ll post it here. Just like that. (Once I\u2019ve got the author\u2019s permission, that is.)<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAnd, in fact, here is our next poem, from John Grey:<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nAn Hour or Two in the Doctor\u2019s Waiting Room<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nThese are the people<br \/>\nyou don\u2019t know,<br \/>\nwho you will never see again.<br \/>\nA couple of them have colds,<br \/>\none a cut on the head,<br \/>\nbut most hide their diseases<br \/>\nunder their coats<br \/>\nlike kittens.<br \/>\nMost will survive.<br \/>\nSome will die.<br \/>\nYou don\u2019t know which is which<br \/>\nso you don\u2019t start a conversation.<br \/>\nDo you really want<br \/>\nthe woman seated next to you<br \/>\nto reply to your \u201cNice day\u201d<br \/>\nwith \u201cThere\u2019s nothing<br \/>\nthey can do for me.\u201d<br \/>\nAnd you still grinning<br \/>\nlike that\u2019s what&#8217;s nice about it.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nJohn Grey<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\nJohn Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Big Muddy, and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit, and Louisiana Literature.<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n<a href=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902\">Back to Top <\/a><br \/>\n&nbsp;<br \/>\n&nbsp;<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"<p>Founding editor David M. Harris published three issues of Rat&#8217;s Ass Review between June 11, 2009 and March 11, 2011. I was fortunate enough to have been published in two of those issues. &nbsp; &nbsp; All three of the issues which David published appear below: &nbsp; &nbsp; Issue #1 &nbsp; &nbsp; Thursday, June 11, 2009 [&hellip;]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":0,"parent":0,"menu_order":32,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"closed","template":"","meta":{"footnotes":""},"class_list":["post-1902","page","type-page","status-publish","hentry"],"yoast_head":"<!-- This site is optimized with the Yoast SEO plugin v27.7 - https:\/\/yoast.com\/product\/yoast-seo-wordpress\/ -->\n<title>The Early Years -<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"The Early Years -\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Founding editor David M. Harris published three issues of Rat&#8217;s Ass Review between June 11, 2009 and March 11, 2011. I was fortunate enough to have been published in two of those issues. &nbsp; &nbsp; All three of the issues which David published appear below: &nbsp; &nbsp; Issue #1 &nbsp; &nbsp; Thursday, June 11, 2009 [&hellip;]\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:url\" content=\"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:publisher\" content=\"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/groups\/82218108785\" \/>\n<meta property=\"article:modified_time\" content=\"2026-02-04T22:12:09+00:00\" \/>\n<meta name=\"twitter:label1\" content=\"Est. reading time\" \/>\n\t<meta name=\"twitter:data1\" content=\"25 minutes\" \/>\n<script type=\"application\/ld+json\" class=\"yoast-schema-graph\">{\"@context\":\"https:\\\/\\\/schema.org\",\"@graph\":[{\"@type\":\"WebPage\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/?page_id=1902\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/?page_id=1902\",\"name\":\"The Early Years -\",\"isPartOf\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/#website\"},\"datePublished\":\"2016-05-01T14:42:39+00:00\",\"dateModified\":\"2026-02-04T22:12:09+00:00\",\"breadcrumb\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/?page_id=1902#breadcrumb\"},\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"ReadAction\",\"target\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/?page_id=1902\"]}]},{\"@type\":\"BreadcrumbList\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/?page_id=1902#breadcrumb\",\"itemListElement\":[{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":1,\"name\":\"Home\",\"item\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/\"},{\"@type\":\"ListItem\",\"position\":2,\"name\":\"The Early Years\"}]},{\"@type\":\"WebSite\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/#website\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/\",\"name\":\"Rat's Ass Review\",\"description\":\"\",\"publisher\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/#organization\"},\"potentialAction\":[{\"@type\":\"SearchAction\",\"target\":{\"@type\":\"EntryPoint\",\"urlTemplate\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/?s={search_term_string}\"},\"query-input\":{\"@type\":\"PropertyValueSpecification\",\"valueRequired\":true,\"valueName\":\"search_term_string\"}}],\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\"},{\"@type\":\"Organization\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/#organization\",\"name\":\"Rat's Ass Review\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/\",\"logo\":{\"@type\":\"ImageObject\",\"inLanguage\":\"en-US\",\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\",\"url\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2015\\\/02\\\/Rat-No-Hat-Smaller.jpg\",\"contentUrl\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/wp-content\\\/uploads\\\/2015\\\/02\\\/Rat-No-Hat-Smaller.jpg\",\"width\":2460,\"height\":1968,\"caption\":\"Rat's Ass Review\"},\"image\":{\"@id\":\"https:\\\/\\\/ratsassreview.net\\\/#\\\/schema\\\/logo\\\/image\\\/\"},\"sameAs\":[\"https:\\\/\\\/www.facebook.com\\\/groups\\\/82218108785\"]}]}<\/script>\n<!-- \/ Yoast SEO plugin. -->","yoast_head_json":{"title":"The Early Years -","robots":{"index":"index","follow":"follow","max-snippet":"max-snippet:-1","max-image-preview":"max-image-preview:large","max-video-preview":"max-video-preview:-1"},"canonical":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902","og_locale":"en_US","og_type":"article","og_title":"The Early Years -","og_description":"Founding editor David M. Harris published three issues of Rat&#8217;s Ass Review between June 11, 2009 and March 11, 2011. I was fortunate enough to have been published in two of those issues. &nbsp; &nbsp; All three of the issues which David published appear below: &nbsp; &nbsp; Issue #1 &nbsp; &nbsp; Thursday, June 11, 2009 [&hellip;]","og_url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902","article_publisher":"https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/groups\/82218108785","article_modified_time":"2026-02-04T22:12:09+00:00","twitter_misc":{"Est. reading time":"25 minutes"},"schema":{"@context":"https:\/\/schema.org","@graph":[{"@type":"WebPage","@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902","url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902","name":"The Early Years -","isPartOf":{"@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#website"},"datePublished":"2016-05-01T14:42:39+00:00","dateModified":"2026-02-04T22:12:09+00:00","breadcrumb":{"@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902#breadcrumb"},"inLanguage":"en-US","potentialAction":[{"@type":"ReadAction","target":["https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902"]}]},{"@type":"BreadcrumbList","@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?page_id=1902#breadcrumb","itemListElement":[{"@type":"ListItem","position":1,"name":"Home","item":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/"},{"@type":"ListItem","position":2,"name":"The Early Years"}]},{"@type":"WebSite","@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#website","url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/","name":"Rat's Ass Review","description":"","publisher":{"@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#organization"},"potentialAction":[{"@type":"SearchAction","target":{"@type":"EntryPoint","urlTemplate":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/?s={search_term_string}"},"query-input":{"@type":"PropertyValueSpecification","valueRequired":true,"valueName":"search_term_string"}}],"inLanguage":"en-US"},{"@type":"Organization","@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#organization","name":"Rat's Ass Review","url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/","logo":{"@type":"ImageObject","inLanguage":"en-US","@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/","url":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/02\/Rat-No-Hat-Smaller.jpg","contentUrl":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/wp-content\/uploads\/2015\/02\/Rat-No-Hat-Smaller.jpg","width":2460,"height":1968,"caption":"Rat's Ass Review"},"image":{"@id":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/#\/schema\/logo\/image\/"},"sameAs":["https:\/\/www.facebook.com\/groups\/82218108785"]}]}},"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1902","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/types\/page"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fcomments&post=1902"}],"version-history":[{"count":9,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1902\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3655,"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=\/wp\/v2\/pages\/1902\/revisions\/3655"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/ratsassreview.net\/index.php?rest_route=%2Fwp%2Fv2%2Fmedia&parent=1902"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}