Rachelle Toarmino’s PERSONAL & GENERIC


Thursday (6/9/2016) 7:00-9:00 pm at SUGAR CITY 

PressBoardPress’ newest chapbook, Personal & Generic by Rachelle Toarmino, will be available for purchase

For more info. about this event: 97 Woodward Tribute Event Page

PressBoardPress Volume 2

It is with great pleasure and many sincere thank you’s for the patience that we here at PressBoardPress announce the release of PressBoardPress Volume 2!

Volume 2 features new poetry, fiction, and visual art from David Hadbawnik, Uzodinma Okehi, Joel Wood, Madison Clark, Kenyatta Jean-Paul Garcia, Changming Yuan, Ira Joel Haber, Moneta Goldsmith, Jane Rice, Andrew Lundwall, Joyeeta Day, Jamie Robles, Christopher Sgroi, Ricky Garni, Brian Warfield, Charlie Rasp, Ruth Á. Sacre, Nolan Allan, Neil Ellman, Rachelle Toarmino, Michael Collins, and Jeremy Bailus.

Please feel free to share and comment but most of all enjoy! (Click the image below to read the journal on Issuu.com)

pressboardpress2 cover

All the best,

Patrick Riedy

Thank You

Thank you to all who have submitted for PressBoardPress Vol. 2. We are excited to dive into your work and look forward to putting out what is sure to be an excellent magazine. Check back in January when we ring in the new year with some new work!

Now reading submissions for PressBoardPress Vol. 2!

PressBoardPress is committed to printing both established and emerging poets, writers, artists, and any combination of the above. Wonder what work we are looking for? Take a look at PressBoardPress Vol. 1 or search through any of the weekly submissions.

Reading period for PressBoardPress Vol. 2 will run from August 28, 2013 – November 28, 2013

Please read the following:

Please give us four weeks to respond after the reading period closes. If you do not receive a response in that time, please e-mail us at pressboardpress@gmail.com.

If you submit to our e-mail, your submission will be immediately rejected. Please use Submittable™ to submit your work. The link is provided at the bottom of this page.

Do not submit multiple submissions. Send it in one file. If you plan to send both fiction and poetry, please submit in the respective options.

When sending in your submission, provide a small biography (70 words max.) about yourself in the third person. Please do not list all of the places you’ve been published in. Just select three or four places that you’re proud to be published in. We do NOT want your CV of publications.

*Do note that if you do agree to publish with PressBoardPress, we acquire one-time rights. Copyright reverts back to the author after the publication of their work.

*Please do not submit previously published works.

Submit to us here at: [submittable].

When You’re Not Dreaming and Chronicles for sale!

PressBoardPress is proud to announce the release of the last two summer chapbooks!

When You’re Not Dreaming by Kayla Rizzo is now available here:

Chronicles by Janet Kaplan in now available here:

Both books are $10 for domestic orders (shipping is included), and $15 for international orders.

Both covers are letter pressed and hand sewn, When You’re Not Dreaming is an edition of 50, Chronicles is an edition of 100.

Two Poems by Jesse Prado

push me

push off of me

let’s watch the pusher trilogy at kevins’

we don’t have to watch the entire thing

it isn’t a marathon

I played a part in the planning and I didn’t want to make anyone feel obligated by planning that way

So you can leave whenever you want

Nobody will say/think anything of it

somebody shot me a sinister look before applying chapstick to their face

moments before this

I’m thinking about taking my cousin to the driving range

He had a reception after his graduation last Sunday and I didn’t go

I think I was working

I’m working now

Profile: Jesse Prado

Two Flash Fictions (Spring Breakers, Ceremonial Garb) by Marcus Slease


Gerald introduced the movie. He was Navajo. The spring breakers waited for Gerald to finish his shift. They waited outside and smoked 12 Marlboro lights under the awning of an Indian smoke shop. There was a big rubber Indian outside the indian smoke shop.

When Gerald exited the imax movie house one of the spring breakers put her hand over his eyes. The other put her hand over his mouth. Then they giggled. They said: wanna be happy and have fun. They asked Gerald to buy them some Bud Light from the nearby gas station. Gerald said: sure. He went into the shop and bought a case of Bud Light. Then they went to the playground and drank them and smoked Marlboro Lights while swinging on the swings. They swung as high as they could and jumped off the swings into the dirt. They had a contest to see who could jump the furthest. It was a tie. They kept landing in the same spot.

– Do ya’all wanna head up the canyon and sleep under the stars? (said one of the spring breakers)
– Whatdoya say? You got a sleeping bag? (said the other looking at Gerald)

Gerald nodded. Said he could pick them up in his Ford Tempo. His Ford Tempo was a hunk of a car.

– Be back soon. (said Gerald)

When Gerald pulled up in his hunky Ford Tempo the spring breakers began singing their theme song. The theme song was: spring break spring break forever. They sung it really softly. It was a lullaby pop song.

On the way up the canyon one of the spring breakers said: watch this. She undid her seat belt and wrapped it around Gerald’s neck. The other stopped the car by taking over the steering wheel and pushing slowly on the brake pedal. The car didn’t stop slowly. It went off the side of the road in a pile of dust. It didn’t roll down the canyon. It didn’t flip over. There wasn’t an explosion. No one got hurt.

– Would you like a Bud Light? (asked one of the Spring Breakers)

Gerald looked at the spring breaker with the longest hair. She had brown hair and did a guffaw when she laughed. He liked her spacey grin. But he especially liked her peachy lips.

– Sure. (he said)

The spring breakers and Gerald drank Bud Lights on the side of the road looking down into the gaping mouth of the canyon. They went to the trunk and pulled out their sleeping bags. They saw a sign for a trial. They walked along the dirt trial humming Hit Me Baby One More Time.

– So tell us story. (said the spring breaker with the longest hair)
– Yeah. (said Gerald). I am not really into that.
– Oh come on (said the other spring breaker with short short hair and sun kissed lips). You must have some good stories from around her.

Gerald continued to refuse the spring breakers a story. He pulled out a toy pistol and pretend fired into the dirt.

– I am firing into the skirts of my ancestors. (he said)

The spring breakers nodded. They pulled out their i-phones. They looked up dirt. The spring breaker with sun kissed lips read dirt to Gerald:

As cities developed, arrangements were made for the disposal of dirt. The Public Health Act 1875 required households to place their refuse into a container which could be moved so that its contents could be carted away. This was the first legal creation of the dustbin.

Gerald and the spring breakers sat in the dirt for a while and ate an apple. When the long haired spring breaker finished half of her apple she held it to her eye. She held up the half eaten apple to her eye and looked at the short haired spring breaker.

– You’re the apple of my eye. (she said in a sultry voice)

The short haired spring breaker pulled out a pistol. It was a real pistol. She stuck it in her mouth. Then she stuck it in Gerald’s mouth. Gerald sucked the barrel. He sucked the barrel back and forth. Then they laid down in the dirt for a group hug.


Spare Ass Annie was the name of the turtle. It was a warrior turtle. It wore turtle armor and battled giant centipedes. The centipedes were called William Butler Yeats. The centipedes lived in centipede city and the turtle lived in a big box. The big box also had the bones of youthful vigor.

The local priest was authorized to wear ceremonial garb. Once a month he held a festival of youthful vigor. He made everyone kiss the turtle in his box. Then they assumed the position. The position was filth and humiliation.

One day the centipedes caught on. They stopped invading the big box full of the bones of youthful vigor. They lined up their centipede bodies and ate the priest. They made new ceremonial garb. The ceremonial garb was made of meat coats.

Profile: Marcus Slease


Shane Jesse Christmass

Cough sizzurp at sea with my body thin tightening. Sizzurping with a friend of mine on the San Giorgio Maggiore. His presence is lucky for me. No leisure to love us. My thin things tighten. A little. A toy body in nothing. Eyes grow accustomed to the sizzurp. I make the outline of my friend out. A tall phantom, a tinge of half-blue about the edge of him. Let the patients lash against pain. Don’t busy the orderlies opening and stamping letters with astonishing rapidity. At days you’d say they’re all crazy. It’s like living in Essex. This friend of mine ponders the pressing matter out of my head. You don’t go to a fistfight carrying waterworks. The colour of closed eyes. Night train to Southampton. Night train on urgent business. The friend of mine is dining with our brilliant foreign correspondent. His position’s in Laos these days. We turn a deaf ear to him. A bit of a bore. Flapping gums. A steamboat up the river to Hammersmith. It is Spring. An old woman nods in a delicate position. And yet why not? One may realise in a dim way that she’s no longer on the floor during the service. People can’t understand how Catholics pickpocket her perfectly. We are excellent friends when we meet, this friend of mine. Water just keeps falling, painting the horizon. Cowboys lined up at the bar. Their wives are not friendly. Mahogany and cages of snarling leopards and screaming parrots. Voices in dark corners of night clubs catch the talk of sexuality experiments. Delighting in the fairy-like and cotton threads that hold up the bridges in Mugembo. She helps me bathe, a drunken parody of her real self, a shrewd, calculating prude. People grow up. They’re dishonest. We’ve run out of gentle vitamins. We are trying to crumble a couple of slush-lamps. My presence translated into sound. Boom. Boom. Blip. So enormous was the sound that I had no words for it. Glass shrieks carve the brightest statues. Paint unyielding bone. A ridiculous machine thundering an unmuffled exhaust. All along the maindrag, outside the convenience store, under the freeway, the night people are alive. The time of the suction cups. Very soon the bilge begins to fill. The old imagination should be stirred by a familiar skill. Soap in the shape of  a  _______  in the soap dish.

Profile: Shane Jesse Christmass