by Jason Grant The entire king-sized bed is mine now, but I can’t seem to move from the left side to the right because on the nights you were here—laying there—if I dared move from my side to yours in the middle of the night it was like I-was-crossing-some-boundary you-needed…
by Anne Johnston October in Georgia is a mosaic of orange, green, yellow, brown, red—of ash, birch, gum, oak, and evergreen trees that look down like elders onto the khaki pants, pastel prints, boat shoes, bourbon, and biscuits on the earth below. The elder trees nod and wave as the…
by Brianna Kittrell I wake up each morning and somehow remember less, from my father’s favorite song to my mother’s favorite dress. The moments of yesterday just barely linger, I try to grasp the memories, but they evade my desperate fingers. There are small flashbacks from happenings long ago, but…