by Jennifer Ward I remember the winter I turned ten most of all. One Sunday, my father stood by the front door in his worn blue coat, a coffee mug in his hand. The faint smell of whiskey lingered between us, bitter as a broken promise. I tried to look past…
by Gracie Jones You lean in— our noses almost touch as you fog the glass between us. Your features shift, melting into the mist. The familiar smile ripples, loosens until you become unrecognisable. With one finger you carve your mask into the haze: poking two eyes, a little nose, a wobbly grin. Then stare across, through what you’ve made a changed man.
by Jonathan Horowitz The squirrel was burnt to a crisp, on its back with paws in the air, shriveled, in a tangle of crunchy, blackened grass, motionless against the spring breeze. I looked to the empty sky, the pleasant morning blue which mocked this creature, whose final breaths must have been full of agony and horror, an unbearable moment, a moment to haunt any witness to such suffering. Someone torched this squirrel, some messed-up piece of crap trying to impress another piece of crap—that would never be me, I had convinced myself. I skated with a dirtbag who claimed…