By Alex Scarelli Abby told me she had Stage IV breast cancer. There would be no miracle cure, no last minute turnaround. She would die in six months, three if she declined evasive medication. Sitting across from one another in the kitchen of our apartment, still dressed in pajamas and…
By William Worsham I have spent most of the meaningful years of my life being a father. So I only do what I know. I tell you, “Go this way!” Or that. You go your imprudent way through subsistence somehow despite me. You drift along, a leaf upon a sidewalk…
By Lynn Vroman “So, do you like the place?” Frank unbuttoned his suit jacket and leaned back against the dainty chair. “It’s a bit pricey, don’t ya think?” The sound of violins filled the dim room as waiters dressed in tuxedos pranced between the tables of diners. “Well, yeah, but…
By Amanda Paulger The lights lit up the sky, some vast darkness carrying the sounds of stars over the ocean like the ghostly antithetical cries of sirens, lost in the crash of waves. On the backs of those wanderers that climbed up the vast cliffs that rose up over the…
By Leila Fortier It is always with me Where I do not know~ Stuck in the Forefront of afterthought~ On the outskirts Of unformed memory~ And I, of the midnight asking~ Nighting of the unanswered~ This brothel of existence~ No longer of you or I- but of poetry~ Sprouting accents…
By April Garcia Middle class. Trailer trash. Stay-at-home mom. If staying home to raise my son, the noblest of all arts, deems me ignorant– then ignorance is bliss. Narrow-minded. Success-blinded. Workin’ for the man. You slave away, –9 to 5 I work 24/7 shaping the mind of an innocent young…
By Benjamin Jackson My daughter Emma was born in the last cold days of December, 2001, unmoving, unbreathing, unable to live without immediate surgical intervention. The very first thought I had upon seeing my very first daughter for the very first time was that I hoped I hadn’t made a…
By Andrew Clark Mr. Philips quietly wrote his name on the chalk board and then turned to face us. Mrs. Fisher, my second grade teacher, had left the classroom just moments before, taking a brief refuge in the teachers’ lounge where all the teachers go to regroup, rehearse battle strategies,…
in memory of Russell Libby, 1956—2012, former Executive Director of MOFGA By Cynthia Brackett-Vincent Paint your nails in the Jeep as your husband drives south. But then you hear rain on the roof and remember his poem—rivers flowing, water meeting. Shop at Toys R Us for your granddaughter’s birthday. But…
By Lynn Vroman “Hold it in the crook of your shoulder, boy. The kick will knock you on your ass if you don’t.” “It’s too heavy. Where’s the .22?” “That’s a girl’s gun.” A string of tobacco flies from Dad’s mouth, landing in a brown puddle on the snowy ground….