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Jon Bishop

Jon Bishop’s writing has appeared in outlets like the Fitchburg Sentinel & Enterprise, the Arts Fuse, Boston Literary Magazine, Laurel Magazine, and the American Writers Review. His first book of poems, Scratching Lottery Tickets on a Street Corner, was published by Finishing Line Press on October 5, 2018.

A New Poem: pressing onto the place where the sun rises

Poet Jon Bishop reflects on this time of disease and anxiety.

Marvel and Disney Vs. Martin Scorsese: How the Modern Studio System Is Impoverishing Cinema

This ongoing superhero movie debate isn’t about superhero movies. 

Before I continue, let me say I’m a fan of Marvel films. I think they’re fun to watch, moving, and well-made. I also think it’s entirely reasonable for us to have different categories of film. It would be off-base, for instance, for us to compare Endgame with Citizen Kane. They’re two entirely different styles of film, two entirely different cultural products. (I borrowed this metric from the late film critic Roger Ebert.) 

I don’t think this debate will die down anytime soon. I don’t think it should.

New Poem: Call Center Requiem

I’m spent, useless, blind

and lying burned

and sizzling and cracked

on the hard ground….

New Poetry: Annoyed By the Bluebird

I can hear you roaring dully,

like a lonely lion

announcing across the desert

that dinner is ready.


I want to shut you out,

but I can’t.

Because you are everywhere.

You bubble up like muck

from the depths of the earth,

and you are muck now,

squelching slime into the air,

cackling as you do.

New Fiction: Childhood Nightmares

At first, the room gave no sound, but then a creak was heard from under the bed. Ryan’s ancient house, aching and groaning in the night. It happened all the time. He shut his eyes, half-dreaming, and then he heard the creak again. He shivered. Maybe it was the way the floor creaked, or maybe it was the time of year, but tonight, it reminded him of when he once snuck into his mother’s room while she was sleeping and slid under her bed. His mind drifted off. He was no longer forty and single. He was nine and afraid to be alone.

New Poetry: The End of the Workday

A chorus of yelps
from the office towers
that scrape the sky,
from the buildings low,
barely dirt,
from everything, all…

New Poetry: Daydreaming

Standing on the corner of the road,

Watching the sky change from black to red,

Thinking of all the day demands.


Hungover from the night before.


How am I alive?

New Fiction: Stupefacient

They gave me these pills to deal with my football injury. I busted up my leg. I caught a handoff and started streaking up the field, and then a guy took me out. But I landed wrong. My leg snapped. I don’t remember much:  I felt a kind of otherworldly pain, as if getting pinpricks from hell, and then I howled. And then I blacked out.

I woke to about ten faces staring down at me, blank and expectant, and I couldn’t say anything. My throat felt sore. I opened my eyes and looked around the sterile and white room and then flashed a weak smile.

“Hey,” I said. “I’m okay.”

Laughter all around.

The Bible As Artist & Author’s Muse

The Andrew Klavan Symposium, Part 8

Five Liberty Island writers – Fred Tribuzzo, Alec Ott, Jon Bishop, Chris Queen, and David M. Swindle — explore the insights from the memoir of one of their favorite novelists

To Know The Truth About The World

The Andrew Klavan Symposium, Part 4

Five Liberty Island writers – Fred Tribuzzo, Alec Ott, Jon Bishop, Chris Queen, and David M. Swindle — explore the insights from the memoir of one of their favorite novelists

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