by Elizabeth Wischler Thomas Ray hadn’t touched the box since it arrived. It lived under his bed, where dust settled without judgment. He didn’t talk about the war, not in church, not over coffee. Not when his wife asked why he woke up gasping. The medal came three years late….
By Christopher Keller rays bend glass-caught straw as she bends to her purse; each iris darts a dimly-lit direction. cone-colored thoughts, lingering in rods, occipital interpretations; a blink – sensory memory keeps curves in Polaroid transgression at a refraction of the cost. trapped forever in devouring focus, she stirred something…