by Travis Michaelis Long had I heard tales of the abandoned church overlooking the town of Ashbrook. With its peeling wooden walls reminiscent of fingernails being pulled back to reveal putrid flesh below, and its slanted roof threatening to collapse in the final touches of the church’s death throes, it…
by Travis Michaelis Long had I heard tales of the abandoned church overlooking the town of Ashbrook. With its peeling wooden walls reminiscent of fingernails being pulled back to reveal putrid flesh below, and its slanted roof threatening to collapse in the final touches of the church’s death throes, it…
by Kelly Sicard Is life merely handed down? Yellow high-tops snuck from sister’s closet, sun-kissed freckles passed from Dad’s DNA, ripened stories picked from Mom’s memories, salty sayings and second chances from little brothers. How much of me, if anything, is baked from scratch? My morning tea steeps the familiar brand found in my childhood kitchen cabinet. The thick batter I pour…
by Jesse Teller She was crying. I was in a cardboard-cutout restaurant, a place we have seen over and over again, trying to eat a soulless meal while I stole glances at my college Lit book. And this girl was weeping. It was the kind of crying you do when…
by Shannen Barrow Smoke and dust fill my lungs like silver needles edging on my itching throat. Now holding a blackened hand to my chest, burning. Every time I breathe in smoldering air, sweat sticks to my skin and blurry eyes. Tossing my head in sunken cotton threads, here my nightmares are unable to sleep as horns…
by Millie Sullivan That Which is Sweet Delia sat on the velvet settee, her back straight and her knees pressed together. The air was thick with the scent of citrus, undercut by cinnamon and a whisper of clove. Bowls of oranges—plump, dimpled—sat artfully arranged on the small coffee table before…
by Diane Webster I am a 69-year-old woman who sleeps on Garfield sheets. I am a 69-year-old woman who hangs a poster of a crabby cat that states, “I AM smiling!” I am a 69-year-old woman who has a samurai sword mounted above her bed and who no longer has to sleep with a kitchen knife resting on her night…
by Diane Webster Day by day my pills leave their tiny doors open attesting to the fact that I swallowed them. Week after week I fill the compartments with their allotted pills and snap the doors shut. Only to start Sunday through Saturday time after time, faster than a week used to last.
by Jon Wesick How much does anarchy weigh? Is the State of the Union Address on Elm Street? Do penguins cheat on their income taxes? Does the aristocracy make good bookmarks? What about elephants? Did telegraphs cry when Inspector Morse died? Are mountains safe to machine wash? Do giant sequoias shop at big-and-tall stores? What color socks…
by Grant Segall A shadow glided across the urn. Still her mother’s daughter, Anna glanced at the sky. “In the maple now,” Jim whispered before she could find it for herself. “A goshawk, maybe?” “She taught you well.” Momma used to lead the family through bramble and mud in search…
by Sonnet Mondal When I read a book of poems I try to think of the moment when the first flow of thoughts gushed through its pages. When I hear a music album I try to think of the moment when the first note of the first track in it kissed the muse of its roots. When…