by Rowan Tate I Suspect That Moths and Regret share a language no one translates. Grief has poor timing and excellent posture; I am learning to walk without finishing the sentence. I am not who I meant to become, but the bread still rises.
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Bad Hair Day
by V. J. Hamilton After I left Shari’s place, the first person I encountered jumped to one side and gave an embarrassed chuckle, as if to say, “Now look what you made me do.” I patted my hair and looked back at the ramshackle house, where Shari’s kids tussled amid…
Popsicle
by V.J. Hamilton Blue was on the bottom. The popsicle was red on the top, pointed like a rocket; white in the middle, the cylindrical fuel tanks; and blue on the bottom, where its mighty boosters would achieve lift-off. Gigi’s tongue, that slick primordial muscle, rooted around for blue. She…
Out of the Box
by V.J. Hamilton Life would be so much easier if I were a cartoon character. My clothes would always look freshly pressed. Nice and flat, except for a squinchy line or two where I bend my knees and elbows. And my hair. It would stay the same, unless I’m electrocuted…