by Jeffrey Ronay Forty-year-old Tom Riley climbed into his spacesuit and dialed the helmet ring to the external setting. Angie, the Suit’s reassuring voice, confirmed, “Suit pressure is nominal—internal temperature set to seventy-one degrees.” A smile flashed on his weathered skin, tiny lines drawn from too much exposure to the…
by James Sennett chair was not Bonnie’s. How could it be? None of the telltale slouching evident in the faded cushions made of crushed flowers of indiscriminate species. Fitting just so for the visitor to lounge for a bit before taking the money of the neighbor you hated for stealing your recipe of some pie or other. Like it mattered anyway.
by John Grey you speak in lakes and dead mothers the universe nests like water in your head for a swimmer like you there’s no such thing as drowning just prayers for anything floating on the surface of the years gone by the mercy that’s the reason you have eyes meanwhile all you offer me is a shoreline a rock soft sand to run…