May 2012
4 posts
5 tags
Lapels, by Rhys Leyshon Evans
For Luke F.
Winston never used to walk that much, but lately he found himself drawn to ambling around the city every Saturday and Sunday. It was the end of September. The two bedroom apartment Winston shared with an Australian lost in London was an organism that seemed to have regressed in size over the previous six months and forced Winston to locate some form of abstract solace on the city...
5 tags
Snapshot '87, by Sheldon Lee Compton
Huddled up to a split-end oil barrel half loaded with chunks of coal plucked from the belt, its insides on fire, George fought off the urge to take two more pills. Instead, he charged three coal scoops, stood and held two pills for more than two minutes, took a female connector to the mouth of the mines to a man everybody called Torch, loaded the barrel again and felt warm, even when the guts of...
5 tags
Fun and Games, by Sara Lippmann
I’m trying to tell him what it was like.
My brothers played foosball. In my mother’s closet among party dresses suffocating in bags I’d hide while in the basement rods spun and missed. Sometimes I’d carry a jar of olives, but usually I kept my hands free in case the KKK should happen to hop the porch and catch the wink of chrome on our doorpost and torch it all down to reach me.
That’s...
7 tags
from 'The War Beyond,' by Erwin Uhrmann
I
My great-aunt was murdered by a nurse, at some point in the 1980s where there was a hole, a glittering hole brimming with neon light, tragedy, and glamour. And there, in a house with dark drapes, emerald-colored wall fabrics, and sheepskins on smooth parquet floors, is the place where I grew up. Racks of books, where I slid along the top shelf and flew by, pulling them with me, and they came...
April 2012
4 posts
5 tags
Haunt, by Ethel Rohan
Once, Matt and I hitchhiked together from Dublin to Cork. Months earlier, he’d put my engagement ring on layaway and was paying off five pounds every Saturday. Matt and I stood on the side of the road in Chapelizod, our thumbs out, as if waiting for something to be hooked onto us.
“What are we going to do in Cork?” Matt asked.
I didn’t know. Ma always claimed she was...
5 tags
Five Senses: Terracina to Rome, by Eva Sandoval
A crinkled old man working the train station bar: leaf-skin delicate hands, shriveled nicotine-yellow lips, an indifferent shrug—Who knows?—when asked if there’s a transit strike tomorrow. Espresso in a tiny cup, black and spattered with pools of sepia bubbles. Torn plastic train seats, graffiti on the windows: Quanto 6 bella, Riccardo + Valentina, Larvetta Mia! Claudio 6 vecchio. 20/4/09....
5 tags
Bridges, by Walter Bjorkman
Sometimes I want to scratch the skin of a thousand tears off my body and awake in swaddling clothes in your arms. My weeping holds no legacy, no shrift for the poor or helpless, they are only shed for me. We awoke to beastly sounds above Death Valley, got happily lost in the California coast mountains; you gave me refuge years later when my mother died. I could not return it to you in the...
5 tags
What Naomi Says, by xTx
They didn’t find the body until weeks later. Its hands chewed off, the rest of it torn through like an old sheet. Naomi said it smelled exactly like death should.
I ate the peach just pulled from the fridge. Its juice ran down my chin, cold, like, “Wake up chin! Wake up!”
My silence, my chewing, just made Naomi talk more. I learned things I didn’t want to. Things people reading the newspaper...
March 2012
5 posts
4 tags
Reminders and Remains, by William Henderson
I’d find you in the center of a labyrinth and I’d outsmart the minotaur and I’d tell you that the journey was easy and that I’d make it again and again, if only to reach you, where we’ve learned—or will learn—how to separate love from not love and love from tears and tears from everything else that doesn’t contribute to filling rivers and oceans when Zeus—or Thor, if you swing...
4 tags
Two Poems, by Liz Minette
Parking in Central Hillside
After work, back to my car, parked in front of the chipped, red triplex. Summer’s six p.m. outlines only his sunglasses and voice as the man says to me through blowing fan in the first floor window: “Say I’m Rising Sun yeah Rising Sun and you’re a fox.”
Yes.
I always see foxes. Red bodies silk along the wood fence across the street from...
4 tags
An Encounter, by Brent McKnight
I ran errands at the Galleria to kill time on my day off, wading aimlessly from store to store through the tide of shoppers. It was an awkwardly arranged upscale strip mall—Barnes & Noble, Anthropologie, Apple Store, a nicely maintained decorative waterfall surrounded by wrought iron benches. For the first time in over a week, the sun was out, and it was warm enough that I got away with just...
4 tags
Two Poems, by Amber McMillan
Our Wedding Day for Matt When you forget, I’ll remind you. I’ll describe something about the flowers, or the leaves on the trees. I’ll tell you something about the weather, about what that means. Do you remember now? When you took my face in your hands, firm where you stood, as soft as you could (I think you remember now) you said, “My name means Clearer of the Woods.” I...
4 tags
Woe Lung, by Kenny Mooney
I breathe in this dust of concrete and plaster, this mist of fiber that floats through my apartment. I suck it down into my lungs and I let it grow there, a furry fungus lining my chest. In my sleep, throat filling with liquid, I choke. Black and thick, like ink, spitting frantically at the walls, vomiting into the bathtub in the flickering white neon. The slack air of night moves in cold currents...
February 2012
4 posts
4 tags
Cera, by Sian Cummins
The North Sea heaves, and Cera stands behind the sea wall and won’t go down. Don’t be an idiot—obviously she’s been down there before. Last year she and Lott walked from Margate to Westgate along the beaches, but she forgot about the rocks and slipped and became frustrated and pissed off and cancelled their night at the Chinese buffet. Lott had been looking forward to it because...
4 tags
Candy, by Marcus Speh
The fire-man cometh, the children cried and began to dance as their parents had danced and the parents of their parents before them. He’s coming, he’s coming, hizzah huzzah, they sang cheerfully. The moon-faced fat mayor smiled and his triplicate chin wobbled. His thick rose- colored hand lay on the head of a child, who wasn’t dancing but reading. “What’re you reading,” asked the mayor’s spouse....
4 tags
Two Poems, by Ben Nardolilli
What They’re Trying to Tell Me
You were here, last night, And this morning, I feel the trickle Down of rain against my feet And think you are crying, still here, You never left, and my eyes cannot get up, Crying, yes, but with me, Your sadness stitching you to this room, Brown eyes wet and rolling, Your face gone for a swim in the sea between us.
Most Celebrated Work
Separate with some...
4 tags
The Bruise, by Zoe Dzunko
This is what I did not tell you about those early hours of Christmas morning. We were sleeping on the basement level of that guesthouse on West 20th Street, our window a porthole to the feet of passersby and us, left gazing up in anticipation of those flashes of shadow. They appeared to pass at regular intervals, somehow, we below the skin of the city, seizing little more than mere impressions of...
January 2012
4 posts
4 tags
The City From a Bridge, by Robb Todd
I dove into piles of leaves in a park because it was my last chance before the snow and if my friend and I were going to enjoy the city properly on the holiday, unbound from obligation and other people, we had to do whatever everyone else was not doing.
Birds flying in flocks circled above the streets and between buildings, black outlines against a bright, clouded sky, and they landed on ledges...
4 tags
Two Hands Are Better Than Four, by Nathaniel Tower
My son was born with four hands. I suppose it would’ve been okay if he had four arms, but he’s only got two, so there’s two hands coming out of each. It looks more than a little odd.
He’s starting to preschool next week. We’ve kept him sheltered for the first four years of his life, but now my wife thinks it’s time for him to become part of the world. When he...
4 tags
Two Poems, by J. Bradley
Leaving The Silver City
I’m terrible at painting. You can tell from the way the bulls-eye shifts based on her name.
I look for the red flags, burn the ones I can’t live with, fuck her on top of the ones I’ll tolerate.
The ending constantly revises itself. Mondays, she gets bored of my fingernail biting. Thursdays, I catch her kissing light poles. Saturdays, her patience erodes when for the...
4 tags
The Story of Us, by J.E. Reich
For Liz, in some way
I saw you at the party with a cup of coffee in your hand. You said you always fell asleep and left too early. You and I took a walk in the park. You said butterflies were impervious to looks. I said the angel at Bethesda Fountain looked a bit like a pretty boy. You said you didn’t like Woody Allen, he made Manhattan look too easy, so we saw the film with Dolly Parton instead....
December 2011
11 posts
4 tags
Goodbye To All That, by Sarah Flynn
(Adapted lovingly—”covered”—from the essay of same title by Joan Didion)
It is easy to see the beginnings of things, and harder to see the ends. I can remember now, with a creeping and warm blush of embarrassment, when my life in music began, but I can’t quite tell you exactly when it ended, when I lost the sense of success-is-just-over-that-hill wonder that is necessary to set...
4 tags
Last Night On Oil Street, by Nicolette Wong
The Commune
Spray paint ecru to heat searing through my fingers I’m leaving this block of farce we’ve inhabited and lost: the rights to sleep facedown on canvas, away from red taxis and men shuffling in and out of banks, briefcases in hands to waste their lives; the rights to swing glass doors to the garden, benches to roll beer bottles and halve embraces to dark bird songs. Some left the commune...
5 tags
Broken Toys, by Bryanna A. Buchanan
People remind me of broken toys. When I first get my toys, they’re of top importance; I always want to play with them. Then one day, they suddenly break. The warranty claimsgood for a lifetime but proves faulty. It’s always when I love the toy the most, too, that it breaks right in my hands. My broken toys always want to get fixed, so I suit up and run to aid them. My tool...
5 tags
My Voice, by Cindy Caban
My evil voice sings to you at night; ravaging the beast inside you, awakening your soul, and making you scream and shrill in your bedsheets. Yet when the sun begins to bloom, it becomes tied with innocence, sacred to the bone. Its lovely harmony makes you smile and you follow its melody day after day, wondering if it’s real. And as you try to figure it out, my voice begins to shut down as I’m...
5 tags
Theft City, by Sharline Dominguez
Shrill sounds insidiously climbed into my resting thoughts, but I could not move on my bed. Mesmerized by the cacophony flowing in through the bottom of my open window, I allowed for the sinister night to cradle me in its arms. The alarm sounds coming from a vehicle somewhere down Rockaway Parkway were as loud as they could have been that night. But I was too far gone in my sleep to realize that...
5 tags
Ping and Bang, by Stephanie Hernandez
When did it start: not enjoying the dream Why’d it happen, not what it seems The oldest fable hanging on a side, An elderly mother before her time.
Is life so long as the rowdy sea? A ping and a bang then jealousy. I was fine and now I’m lost
Crossing a street where the ground is soft, Too many roads I’m solely lapsing: The boot lace, and the leather jacket
I’ll fall for a reminder no matter ...
5 tags
Push Tape to Signal for Stop, by Emely Paulino
On Tuesday, January 11, John Valdez crosses the busy intersection of Main Street and Roosevelt Avenue without looking both ways. Before making it to the other side of the street, he contemplates whether or not today is a show day. Oh god look at that line, I can only imagine what it’s going to be like inside. Without slipping on the remaining ice from the recent snowstorm, he briskly sweeps in...
5 tags
It’s Not Christmas Without You, by Emily Sarita
She only walked through the neighborhood during Christmas because it reminded her of her mother. Her mother’s green eyes would shine every time they passed by a house that was overly decorated with ornaments, plastic reindeer, and multicolored lights. She would smile at the beauty of Christmas and close her eyes while faint snow hit her cheeks lightly. Then her mother would grab her hand, and they...
5 tags
From a Queens Window, by Sarayah Wright
She roams the street with her cart everyday—once in the morning then again at night. I watch from my window. I hear the rubber wheels scrape against the concrete, the tinkering of pebbles hitting against cold metal. She quickens her stride; the cart almost flies down the sidewalk. She must hurry before they come to collect. She needsthis. Her skin, the color of old age and labor: she works too...
4 tags
Ultima Thule, by Ashley Stokes
(Part Two of Two)
Later he found the bar at the rear of the hotel, an array of dark green padded alcoves and stained glass partitions that wheeled around a circular serving area. No one was drinking here, no other reps or lorry drivers. Kay was standing behind the counter in front of a wall of shining, yellow-tinged glasses and glimmering bottles and spirits. Around the walls were hung framed...
4 tags
Ultima Thule, by Ashley Stokes
(Part One of Two)
Ansbro crossed a deserted market square, wary of slush and ice, the weight of his overnight bag and The Product drawing down on his shoulders. In what he assumed was the city’s main drag he passed pubs and bars, all empty. Behind the windows of pizzerias and restaurants untouched wineglasses were arranged in shining squares on circular tables. It was Thursday evening. It was...
November 2011
4 posts
4 tags
Nothing to Fear, by Pat Rushin
FADE IN:
INT. BEDROOM - MORNING
MAX, 20s, big and muscular, thrashes in bed, tangled in the sheets, tormented by a nightmare.
The alarm clock BUZZES, and Max jumps bolt upright, eyes wide, GASPING. He clutches a pillow to his chest, cowering.
SHRINK (V.O.) Are you taking your medications, Max?
INT. BATHROOM - MOMENTS LATER
He stares at his twitching, hollow-eyed face in the mirror:
MAX (V.O.)...
4 tags
Three Poems, by Bill Yarrow
Babble
We had a family copy of Isaac Babel’s stories out of which my dad would read aloud when he was home, which owing to his employment issues was very often. I had no idea what I was listening to, but that’s just another way to fail to define childhood, I guess. Anyway, the stories were short, some just a page, and I let my imagination sail away on some word that jumped out at me (one always...
4 tags
Star Anise, by Kari Nguyen
I
It is hot. Her black hair, like everyone else’s, is fraught with steam. Sweat collects at her hairline and sits above her lip. They need hats, she thinks. Hats would help.
It is the first hot day, and the third at sea. The wind has stopped, for the moment, but the boats carry on. Lang sits quietly. She wears a yellow collared shirt rolled up at the sleeves, back streaked with perspiration. Her...
5 tags
Two Poems, by Igor Ursenco
fortuna labilis
MEMENTO: ”Pure literature is nothing but non-literature or the death itself” —Jacques Derrida under the convergent sign of lightning in shortage of serotonin the Word could have been my friend but We answer
to different names and fates
we always get through Samsara’s breaking line to the unique mistress that we share
fraternally...
October 2011
4 posts
4 tags
Starlings, by Jack Bootle
“I’m so sorry,” said my mother, as Mrs. Norton opened her front door. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea you were at home.”
Mrs. Norton was wearing a dressing gown. She smiled and winced at us in the morning sunlight.
“I’m so sorry to disturb you. You see, I thought you worked during the week.”
“Oh, I do normally,” said Mrs. Norton, and she coughed into her hand.
My mother’s eyes widened in...
4 tags
We Continue to Evolve, by Barry Basden
Since the drought, turkey vultures have begun riding afternoon thermals into town, gliding in on their enormous wings to survey heatstruck pets in parched backyards. The mimosa is oozing sap. Wasps of all kinds—red, black, striped—gather there to fuss and worry the dove from her nest. It’s mostly quiet now. Cicadas have stopped singing and the pump was turned off weeks before...
4 tags
The Games We Play, by Mensah Demary
Mike looked up from his glass of water, watched Elle ride the cold winds into the bar, and motioned to the bartender for a refill, a replacement. Confident that she’d meet him, Mike arrived thirty minutes late and sipped water to preserve his lucidity.
Elle appeared an hour late, made small talk with a few patrons by the pool table, bummed a cigarette and lingered while Mike stroked his beard...
4 tags
Closet Tarzan, by James Valvis
Tarzan was in my closet.
I didn’t know if he was the real Tarzan, but he looked the part. Leopard skins over taut muscles, a square jaw, miraculously white skin. How he ended up in Toms River, New Jersey was anyone’s guess.
Every hour he laid a hand on the side of his mouth and howled that annoying Awwwyaaayaaaayadiyaa!
I asked him what it was supposed to do since we lived in the city. There were...
September 2011
5 posts
4 tags
Treasure, by Matthew Boyd
He is eight years old. On vacation with his parents in Cancun, he wanders off by himself down the beach. It is very hot, so he walks in the shallow water. He is wearing red and blue board shorts and goggles. He stops to pick up a shell, and when he stands up again, there is a man looking at him.
The man is dark-skinned, bald. He holds a metal detector in one hand and a pail in the other. His white...
4 tags
Prevailing Winds, by Meg Tuite
Winds of words howled inside Gerald’s head as he sat silently eating his supper.
“You’ve just never been a people person.” Gerald’s wife picked at her lima beans, while behind glass, a panorama of juniper and blazing mountain ranges surrounded them. Gusts whistled past the house without giving anything away.
“You’ve got to play the game,” she said.
“Yes,” said...
4 tags
Leftovers, by Daniel Romo
My palms are a mosaic of breadcrumbs and nacho cheese. Sack lunches are bagged nostalgia. I recall butterflies pinched from petunias; dusty wings painted my fingertips the color of crushed sun. I kept tally of their bodies shish-kabobed through needles in the neighbor’s cactus, and those slammed to the cement—two checks for breaking the creature in half. Scurrying ants in grass were singed...
4 tags
Miller vs. Winterbourne, by Suzanne Marie Hopcroft
Waits wants only a little sad she is watching under plate glass the ruffles and pant creases that saunter past flaneur comfort all anonymous of course none is what/whom she has been waiting wanting watching for there so beneath the eyes of the city’s nine basilicas all of which she ought to be praying to statues inside of because he is not coming or else not in the way that she wants she instead...
4 tags
Shiny People Club, by Abby Rotstein
When I was a kid, I talked to Michael Winslow on the phone. He did all the noisemaking—impersonating fighter jets and ambulances—while I looked on in amusement. He was making a video with the company my dad worked for. Or perhaps they were trying to recruit him. Whatever the circumstances that brought him into my life, they weren’t the ones I usually dreamed about.
When I imagine meeting a...
August 2011
4 posts
6 tags
Everyone Wants to Live There, by Sarah Malone
Gillian was tall and thin with white-blonde hair trimmed close, tipped pink and moussed on end, raw eyes, and such taken-aback brows that, my first morning in the office—it was my only interview in New York—I thought I’d mistaken my day to be there.
“No, you’re on time,” she said. “You’ll get used to that.”
Most mornings her boss—soon mine—didn’t arrive until eleven. I read The New York...
6 tags
Salvation, by Jen Violi
You listen to him start the joke for probably the hundredth time. You stopped counting last Lent around time seventy-five because your neon green post-it note, the one you keep stuck beneath the Saint Agnes Parish office calendar, ran out of space on both sides for hatch marks.
“What’s the difference between a liturgist and a terrorist?” he asks the couple in to plan their June wedding. All three...
6 tags
Types of Circus, by Jen Knox
The last day I saw Michelle she weighed 325.2 pounds. She used to greet me each morning by reading her weight as it was recorded earlier that day in a small black notebook. If she was losing weight, she’d treat herself to a glazed donut and give me a high-five. If she was gaining, she’d shrug and leave the cream out of her coffee. Michelle drove an airport shuttle bus then, and I drove a taxi; I...
6 tags
The Whole Deal, by Myfanwy Collins
On his way back from collecting the mail, Mike noticed a gray lump on the snow bank next to the old barn. Unsure of what it was, he bent over its body for a closer look. An owl. He leapt back, hand to chest, the mail falling at his feet. He picked up a twig and poked at it to see if it would move. It remained still, dead.
He’d never seen a dead owl before. Couldn’t imagine they even died,...
July 2011
4 posts
5 tags
Five Poems, by Brett Elizabeth Jenkins
1:26
And I can’t concentrate on anything except
how green your face looks, illuminated
by the light from the dashboard numbers, and how
lonely the talk radio always sounds at such an hour.
And I know right now that we’re
not going to make it—how unpainful a process
it will be to retrieve my things from your house,
to give back the ring and some socks you’ve left.
Love Me...