by Amanda Valerie Judd The oceans are a poem –The continuous ebb and flow of the tides,Stanza after stanza in the greatest poem ever written;Each wave a line, punctuated by dolphins,holding a different meaning for each coast it caresses;every word a grain of sand, spoken by the surf,before being tossed…
by Ivy Rozen This poem was originally published in Hot Pot Magazine. We ate avocadoson toast, in salads, with chips.We craved their pits.We saved them inventi plastic cups, logo fadingbut my mom’s misspelled nameremained in Sharpie. Tap water, lukewarm:only fill it half-way.Stab the heart with wooden stakesto hold it up,…
by Joshua Gessner (This story contains a dead body.) “It’s weird to see a dead one up close.” Those words felt wrong. All dirty and naked; they were almost like a baby. When it first comes out, wailing and red, pretty but in a gross way. I don’t recall Jane…
by E.J. Fawn A girl stands before me, donning a cobalt-colored dress. She turns to me silently, eclipsed in the typhoon of sundry blues, “Does this look good?” She asks me, hair fashioned in buns uneven. This girl is my friend, so frankly, I tell her no. The dress—we admire—has…
by Jess Earl Tomorrow comes and the thing behind my headboard scuttles along the drywall, scales chipping paint as it stretches a claw from the shadows above my pillowed head, only to retreat as I open my eyes. “Good morning,” it creaks in the floorboards of the house, “I’ve been…
by Brooke Gebhardt You’ve never seen the worlduntil you’ve seen your mother cry. When pale white knucklesgrip the kitchen sink as she questionswhether to let you see. When hazel mixes with crimson, staringback at you, sparklingwith fresh tears. When lips quiver and shoulders shake,attacking the walls of your heart and…
by Amanda Valerie Judd Despite its reputationas an early riser,I imagine there must be days,at least one or two,when even the Sunyawns in protestat the hourit must open the curtainson another morning.
by Marah McCarty she is quiet within her skin,although there is no definition for demureness in the Garden.she does not need to be courageous,feel the adversity which make women stagnate toGod’s greater plan.she is supple and pink,a canvas of the most impractical womanand mankind’s most perfect.he is robust, with large…
by T.W. Strawhouse Hello all, I knowthis email will probably be as hard to read as it was to write2 A disturbed field, the dirt upturned by plowleft to be, sun-bleached, and its nitrogen depleted is an open invitationfor ragweed, Lespedeza, and thorn-skinned scatters of invasive Bradford pears3 – Using…
by Marah McCarty My paradigm shifted to accommodate you.You have been a ghost all this time, never caught, never taunted, filling the pages of anthropology portfolios, flat-field lands of headstones.You give no referendums before your decisions. Yet, no one can enact revenge upon you. There is nothing of yours that…