by Tom Catalano There wasn’t much for her to take. She had given away most of her possessions when they left Malibu. He furnished the new house in San Francisco. She merely brought an old country table, an old wooden chest, some art objects, and an antique doll’s chair. But in…
by Morgan Shaver A man sits stolidly gazing out through the room’s singular window. Behind him fading stains intersperse white walls adorned with two gaudy floral paintings. Disinfectant permeates the air attempting to mask the scent of gradual decay. His doctor, authoritative and formal, makes the first punctual visit of…
by Teresa Burns Murphy As Tom Langston drove up the street where he lived in the suburban neighborhood of Kennerly, Arkansas known as Hawk Hills, he saw his recliner sitting on the curb in front of his house. He pulled his car into the driveway, jerked the gearshift into park,…
by Autumn Carter Dedicated to my Grandmother, Marilyn Kay Blaydes, who died February of 2013 of ALS. You weren’t really gone; not at Christmas when your hundred dollar check for your great-grandson’s college savings didn’t come in with the gushing note about how proud you are of him (and his…
by Ross Glover Bubba circled his bed next to the driveway. The arthritic pain in his joints kept him from easing his body onto the ground, and he fell with a grunt. Soon the warm sun would take the ache away. He had no sense of time except for day…
By Steven Glifford The world goes through a growth spurt during a shower: A jigsaw puzzle of wood and glutinous darkness, swishing elsewhere liquidly, owns a roofless heart, a reflected candelabra without an originator. Legions leap eons with subtle intensity. Black fire pulls back to an underground city of the…
By Frank Scozzari The door swung open and the silhouette that appeared was undoubtedly that of a ballerina. The figure was sublime and had the fanning outline of a tutu about the waist. “Can I use your phone?” the silhouette cried out. Marge, the fifty-something waitress-proprietor looked over at the…
By Meryl Healy My wavy red curls lie in a pile on the floor; my bloody gold crown lies in a small wooden bowl, and my new brown loafers were ripped from me—in the same way that the bastard Nazis took Mama and Papa. My forearm is crimson and throbbing…
By Benjamin Jackson Sweat-scented sheets which once wrapped legs and limbs, limbered by love and lust and expansive, demonstrative selves now sit clean and sterile, cast aside on a lonely shelf like trophies commemorating a sport no longer played. You folded them crisply with your distant hands, just before you…
The Blatant Realization By Susan Soares When the layers of your onion Finally peeled away I wasn’t happy with your center When the colors of your rainbow Finally shimmered in the sunlight I didn’t bask in their glow When the last of your insecurities Finally freed themselves from you I…