by Mohit Saini We wander in the margins of a book, where footnotes bloom like untamed vines, each asterisk a door left slightly ajar— a breath of elsewhere. The spine cracks, and the chapters rebel, plotting detours in the subtext. We follow the scent of ink, lured by digressions dressed as roads. The author’s hand hesitates, then…
by Mohit Saini We wander in the margins of a book, where footnotes bloom like untamed vines, each asterisk a door left slightly ajar— a breath of elsewhere. The spine cracks, and the chapters rebel, plotting detours in the subtext. We follow the scent of ink, lured by digressions dressed as roads. The author’s hand hesitates, then…
by Matt Zambito One day, someone’s gonna get an itch they can’t scratch without their trigger finger’s help and push the button they will. All the governments with known nukes already ready to turn the world to rubble remain part of an international mutually assured destruction pact, and I don’t even trust my next-door neighbor Ned won’t heave his whippet’s waste into my yard. Even if Heaven is an absolute blast, I don’t wanna end time on Earth just because nations are bad fictions. Radio- active annihilation sounds awful as awful could be: and it…
by Christopher Stolle Everyone here is in the middle of something. We’ve come from different places and we’re headed somewhere after this. People talk incessantly, voices blending into hummingbird murmurs. They reminisce about previous trips and decide how to get to their hotels and discuss how best to solve myriad conundrums— an existential exercise in folly and futility. But these imperfect strangers find commonality in this singular activity. They converse politely despite knowing they’ll never see each…
by Te’Mera Bell There are times when I still set the table for two. Perhaps it’s because of habit, or maybe it’s because of false hope. The mornings come with a heaviness that settles within me. It’s dark, and bleak. There is no sunshine, there is no true rest, there just is. Grief is there, holding on to the vows we used to…
by Zach Jones I hold up the roof of my home Flowers spring up at the base of my feet I keep my TV volume at only odd numbers And line my yard with pavement I walk on wood and gasoline products Cheap rolls, shiny tile I run myself ragged When the…
by Megan Hodges Bring milk, powdered now, rationed through a glitching app that thanks you for your patriotism. Eggs, if you can find them, each stamped with a barcode and a warning: “May induce memory.” Two loaves of bread, one for now, one to trade for a minute of Wi-Fi so we can watch the President cry into a teleprompter, insisting, yet again, that it’s still…
by Matt Zambito “One of the biggest revelations is that the Earth and Moon are slowly drifting apart at the rate that fingernails grow, or 1.5 inches (3.8 centimeters) per year. This widening gap is the result of gravitational interactions between the two.” —from a NASA statement released August 10, 2020 Alas, this celestial couple is separating, capitulating…
by Erin Harer On good days, we dance. We sing Grace’s favorite songs while I cook a real dinner, with no boxes or frozen things, making our tiny redwood cabin smell like a home. We laugh at stupid jokes and let time pass without me having to force a smile or…
by Betty Stanton Hands smelled of smoke long before the match was struck. We stacked the wood too high, and it swayed with the weight of grief. The fire took its time choosing which bones to touch. Ash gathered in our throats, and we swallowed without protest. Someone said the word sacrifice, but it tasted…
by Zach Jones I miss those Marlboro memories, Smoking, watching silver screens. Call me from a phone booth late at night. Scratches on my LP helped me sleep. Beat boys jumping trains, Bumming for a bed. Now drugstores are disappearing, Drugstores are dead. Give me back records, Give me cassettes. Drugstores are disappearing, Drugstores are dead. I miss real life, I…