Robert Beveridge

“I read an article”, you said—

no, it was “this”, as in “I read

this article about how our seafood

is mislabeled.” I looked down

at what they had claimed haddock,

imagined it giant gar. We were

taking a break from the day's

activity: accost passersby, convince

them to sign a presented petition

to make calamari a religion, tax-

exempt status and all. We'd tried

to find a catchy slogan, but there

is no way to combine “capital gains”

and “squid” memorably.

                   The haddock,

if it was a haddock, stared back.

“After lunch,” you said, “we'll cross

the bridge. More seafood-eaters

there. They're used to deception.”




Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, Ohio. He spends his time sourcing sketchy seafood for underground chefs and agitating to have ketchup taken off the official list of vegetables. 2018 is the thirtieth anniversary of his first publication in a national magazine. He has recent and upcoming appearances in Savant-Garde, Other People's Flowers, and The Indiana Horror Review, among others.