by donnarkevic Each Holy Week, babas, place orders with Ted, the mailman, for ducks to make Czarnina, soup from the blood. Ted reconnoitered behind enemy lines, his knife slitting throats of Nazis, wounds squirting blood, death draggling a green uniform to the pallor of red clay. In Pittsburgh’s strip district,…
by Laura Senff Inspiration approaches in many forms A ray of sunshine or a sliver of moonlight Watching campfire flames ignite The wind blowing in the trees or waves hitting the shore Or even watching winged beasts soar Inspiration in sundry situations transforms Maybe it is a speech on television…
by Michael A. Clark It was a quiet night at the Morehead Tavern when the Nazi sat down next to me. Chad the bartender was languidly watching the Hornets losing to the Cavaliers on TV as a chunky, balding guy was trying to chat up a girl twenty years younger…
by Laura Schulkind August nights we seek dark meadows to lie entwined, light show above us. Still surprised each time by the hush of these fireworks arcing across sky. Think not of their fire but ours on this earthy bed hurtling us through space. August finds us here beneath rain…
by Lois Hard She’s not afraid to be alone or to keep her tether short. Safety is the issue here– an impenetrable wall that wraps around her fortress. No biting bullets, no clawing blades of insults not meant for her ears. But she does hear, and the concrete window slams…
by Morgan Shaver Endless days float past, each one blurring into the other. I cannot remember the day when I was displayed on the high shelf above the produce. Nor can I say with any certainty how long I’ve been up here. Flanking me are similar creatures, though none of…
by Laura Schulkind I. My father could translate anything into Morse code. As a child, I never considered why. It is what fathers did. And I would demand translation of the ridiculous— Milk the fat cow. Cock-a-doodle-doo. Anything to make him laugh, easy in himself. That is what daughters did….
by Kim Sutton Allouche Three years after our divorce, my ex-wife Michelle phoned to ask me why I’d chosen that particular time to leave her. It was just an ordinary summer, she’d protested. It was. Once again, I turned the events over in my mind. She hadn’t even asked until…
by Laura Schulkind Two towns in the California desert, settled by those who settle deserts. Those with nothing left to lose. Those with everything to lose. Squeezing hope from stone. Digging, digging to the source of dreams. In one, growers imagined palm fronds whispering at night. Traveled to Arabia for…
by Washington Irving “Let’s just get to the cabin. I’ll show you my childhood haunts,” says Summer. We pass through the town with its small, grassed circle, flagpole planted in the center. Blink past a gas station, general store, and diner. Then a winding dirt road up a pine-shadowed…