by Jason Grant The entire king-sized bed is mine now, but I can’t seem to move from the left side to the right because on the nights you were here—laying there—if I dared move from my side to yours in the middle of the night it was like I-was-crossing-some-boundary you-needed…
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Bloodline
by donnarkevic Each Holy Week, babas, place orders with Ted, the mailman, for ducks to make Czarnina, soup from the blood. Ted reconnoitered behind enemy lines, his knife slitting throats of Nazis, wounds squirting blood, death draggling a green uniform to the pallor of red clay. In Pittsburgh’s strip district,…
Rusty Nails
By Donnarkevic I recognize the black balloons, the same kind used at the office party for my fiftieth birthday. Now sixty, I expected something more creative: black homburgs, melanistic leopards, caviar. I would have settled for farfalla schwarz (black bowtie pasta). Instead, I got first pick from a six-foot sub, Black…