I wear/ my drab green gown and listen/ to the insecurities of the nurses.
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Two Poems by Kathryne David Gargano
a trembling/ of finches, for example: flung down/ a coal mine/ if she returns to me/ i am safe to remain
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Father Francisco Makes a Friend by Charles Haddox
Amid the maize and sugarcane fields, the village looked like a collection of cupboards painted white and left out to dry in the wind. Barking echoed over cactus and discarded glass bottles. Sunday mornings in San Juan Camotlán were usually quiet as a broken-down motorbike.
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Backwards T-Shirt by Genevieve Abravanel
It was like the old days—the earliest days—those chatrooms where lines of text concealed everything except your wit or the way it unraveled but they had already unraveled, now that everyone was home-bound except those who didn’t and got caught by the authorities and everyone wanted that job.
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Gus Who Sells Body Parts Down By The Railroad Tracks By Marya Brennan
When we first started dating, we’d stay up past sunrise doing nothing but blah blah blah, but then the Sad Thing crept in, and my husband refused to speak. The silence in our house is making my ears shrink, I swear. I stick a cue tip in and each day it swirls a little smaller. One day it won’t fit at all.
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tripping (in)dia by m.m. gumbin
The plane lands, I look out the window and see the outdoors spinning upside down, round and round. I’ve woken up in another century, somehow sittin’ next to my beloved grandparents.
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A Normal Interview with Ira Sukrungruang by Melinda Medeiros
Something that I’ve really had to tell myself when writing this book was: You have to rip the Band-Aid off. You have to look at the wound for what it is. The genre of memoir—as hard as it sounds—thrives on suffering and it lives on vulnerability.
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Three Stories by Jessie Carver
By day, she sprinkled into the river alfalfa blossoms and quail feathers and hollow flutes of cattails and tiny shells and smooth skipping stones—offerings to protect her family—chanting incantations of please please please.
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Kingdom Phylum Class by Kara McMullen
I’ll release it amongst my mother’s hollyhocks and tomato plants and watch it shudder away through the grass, feeling like some dark corner of myself is going with it. I’ll resume my search for something lethal.
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