This was accidentally put on Ashley Bach’s personal blog earlier this week…

Hello, all!

The “About’ page has been updated

  • BLW will now come out on Fridays
  • BLW will now include literature reviews.

In fact, that is what will come out tomorrow. It is the opinion of us two editors that since everyone is a critic, this opens up the submission pool to the world!

Have a good day!


We need some submissions for Monday’s weekly. Submissions will be accepted until Sunday at Midnight, and it is planned to have a longer version of the weekly, since it’s Labor Day. So, instead of two featured writers, there will be three!

So submit at

A Note From the Editors

As you should all be well aware of by now, the first full issue of BLL comes out a week after tomorrow!

Remember that submissions are open until next Tuesday. Send us your prose, art, and poetry!

It’s been decided, since there will be a full issue coming out the week of the 14th, there will not be a Baby Lawn Weekly that week. This is a two-many operation, we’re just trying to make things the tiniest bit easier on ourselves. Sorry.

Anyway, there will still be a BLW for the 7th. Send us short fiction and poetry!

Have a good week, everybody!

-The Editors


Prose Poetry

Corpus Delicti

William Doreski

Along a patchwork sidewalk, asphalt, flagstone, cement, a doughy child totes a bundle of toweling. What has she wrapped? Maybe a dead baby brother. Maybe a live baby brother. I should stop her and ask. I’m sure she would tell me. Look at her knee socks, sandals, short skirt. Only a child could dress like that and survive. Behind her, the brick row houses with limestone ground-floor facades grin into the usual London smog. Politely, in the Fifties, we called it fog, but everyone knew that wasn’t the right word. Has this child grown up and old? I hope that rolling her baby brother, dead or alive, in a towel didn’t impede her progress through childhood, puberty, and womanhood. We don’t hold such tiny crimes against anyone. Besides, there’s no corpus delicti. It’s only a roll of towels fresh from the laundry. Her mother needs those towels to dry baby brother fresh from his bath.  By now he too has grown up and old, and appreciates our concern.

stay this little

Picnic Ground

William Doreski

Alone in the park, framed by trash cans, perched on a picnic table, this fellow looks too crewcut to trust. Look how the trees lean over him. One tree has disjointed its trunk, like a carnival trickster. The ground looks so smooth, a billiard table without billiard balls, except for the one rock set before the young man like an offering. The rakish ledge behind him leers with geological certainty. The woman with her back turned is fading into the background. She doesn’t know this man. Doesn’t care how white his shirt, how blunt his crewcut.  This polished slab of landscape conceals and reveals in proportion to the needs of strangers. The trees contort into holographs no one can read.

William Doreski teaches courses in poetry and fiction writing, literary theory, and poetics. His own poetry has appeared in many journals and several books. His most recent collection is “Another Ice Age” (2007). He has also published five books of criticism, including “Robert Lowell’s Shifting Colors” (1999) and “The Modern Voice in American Poetry” (1995).


Beach Dreams

Heather Lisbon                        

Blue vast oceans
Surround me
Surround this tan, sandy beach

Here I dream
Dream that all things are possible
Dream that someday
I’ll have a massive, silver diamond ring
On my hand
With a beautiful girl
By my side
Giving me one of those big smiles
With eyes filled with admiration

In my dreams
We would be the perfect couple
Rub the kinks out of each other’s necks
Dip grapefruit into heaves of chocolate

And feed it to each other
Such a luscious experience
That all can relate too

Then again
This is just me dreaming
Among the swooshing waves
With the soft sand
Beneath my toes
In the spot
Where dreams come true

Heather Lisbon lives in North Dakota and is applying to MFA programs.


BLW No. 3 comes out Monday.

Featured writers have already been notified.


Here’s a work of haunting Johnlock fanart, called “Submissive”                                                                                                                                 Sorry if this offends anyone who doesn’t like fanart, the submit joke, or BBC’s Sherlock.



John GreyA Friendly Game of Chess

Such a bizarre game of chess.

Your bishop cheated with my queen.

My knight beheaded your lead pawn.

Your king rustled one of my horses.

Pieces drifted onto the wrong color squares

or made moves not in the rule book.

Blood was spilled during en passant.

Check was nothing less than an insult to integrity,

a stain on the other’s honor.

There’s was fencing, forgiveness,

Verbal abuse, power-plays, hugs and kisses.

and even a riot at KB 1.

I don’t remember who won.

It could have been a draw.

It may not have even been chess.

Gator Watch

John Grey

Below your reflection’s brown ripple

among rotting logs and cattails,

an alligator’s gray-scaled head breaks the surface.

In your mind, there’s only ever

been the one of these giant reptiles.

It’s a million years old.

Its hunger is prehistoric.

And it has always dwelled here,

within a jaw’s-reach of the fishing hole,

where you dangle your line and lure,

a modest trap compared to its

occasional murderous thrashing rampage.

Unblinking eyes excuse its lack of memory

What it can see suits the monster well enough.

No, it means you no harm.

Your thin tough body

is not in its repertoire of kills.

It just wants you to know

that all of time is watching.

And it is still and silent,

infinitely cold-blooded.

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Perceptions and Sanskrit with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Owen Wister Review and Louisiana Literature.

Low Clouds

Richard King Perkins II

The young married guy at the diner
whispers loudly
to his unsympathetic wife:
Please, please.
I don’t want you to leave.
Stay with me, please.
You’re the only one
who understands my farts.
She walks out into the low clouds
never looking back.
He sinks into the padded bench
passing gas, misunderstood.

Yuma Air

Richard King Perkins II

You have heard the owls questioning below the cloud circus,
slow talons releasing earth. If a balloon could feel

this is the dangerous love it would submit to. In Yuma, the owl
is a tangent of horizon, a focused thirst above constant night.

You are small and lithe; you wear it perfectly, but someday,
you too will feel the slash, then the slowness of escaping air.

Richard King Perkins II is a state-sponsored advocate for residents in long-term care facilities. He lives in Crystal Lake, IL with his wife, Vickie and daughter, Sage.