by Nancy Swallow Somerfeld Mama was a brave woman. That’s how I see her life. Most thought her meek, a stay-at-home wife, A mother of six, knuckling out three meals a day. We walked home for lunch: hot soup, piled With croutons and ham on seeded rye. All stacked up…
by Moe Hashemi (This story contains suicide.) To bring the dead to life Is no great magic. Few are wholly dead: Blow on a dead man’s embers And a live flame will start. —Robert Graves, “To Bring the Dead to Life” “How are you feeling,” he says. No hellos…
by Nancy Swallow Somerfeld Boy, aloft, swinging on A rope over the ravine, landing Tiptoe on the shale, the grass skidding Wet underneath, no slippage For my brother who knew nothing Yet Of crashes into the river of life, drowning, Gasping, sucking for air. It didn’t hit him till he…
by Marnie Lyn Adams Writing—or avoiding it—is a stressful business. The critical element to evade creative writing of any type—from a George R. R. Martin-length series to a haiku—is to maintain productive activity while neglecting your long-term writing goals. However, with practice and a focus on diversionary tactics, you too…
by Sally Cragin the things they carried Aquanet hand-maidensalways in pairs,fishnets, Doc MartensMascara’d black staressmoking in tandem,sauntering downstairs Boys give them a glancebut they’re slightly shit-faced(a bottle of Jack in that purse –next to Mace) Oh, those purses – so stylishfrom skinned vinyl leopardsor dragon-skin sacks stitchedout of Auntie’s old…
by Bailey Sweatman Lex Barrett was doing a hundred and forty-five down a highway that looked more like a farm road, thinking about the estate lawyer and her dead dad. He was recently dead – her dad, not the lawyer – and she was avoiding the appointment to hear his…
by Cat Hannon My last memory of you –The nurse ripping the pain patch from behind your ear.Pain crossed your face – the crinkle and frown, burnt into my memory.I felt your pain as you faded from this world.Within the hour, you and Grandma would be reunited…Finally, and forever. You…
by Elisa Stancil (This story contains sexual assault.) One summer when I was still a small girl, my father—thin as a crane back then—crouched beside me on a big, flat rock, his arms and knees akimbo. His hand was steady on my shoulder as we watched the American River surge…
by D.R. James Look, I want to love this world as though it’s the last chance I’m ever going to get to be alive and know it. …
by Myra Bellin I have a distinct early memory of watching my mother as she diced onions for a dish she called minute steaks and onions, a greasy, delicious mess of meat better known as butter steak smothered in fried onions. After peeling the onions and slicing off each end,…