by Abigail Lee
Read More »wooden beads tangled and tagged
sweet-smelling baby doll with pink dotted brows
Art Deco cat with a bug in one eye
Tag: Words
April in Summer
by Hachi Chuku
April Elizabeth Randall was the kind of girl that you just couldn’t help yourself being endeared to. Her delicate saccharine features complemented her sanguine personality so that you couldn’t frown at her for longer than a few seconds. When she turned to walk away, you dreamt of the moment in which your paths might cross again. I met her at the library in my hometown of Manhattan, Kansas when the leaves were still a brilliant green; not yet blushing from the promise of winter. I had a job working at the library on the campus of Kansas State, a work study position that allowed me to have my nose in a book when I wasn’t manning the shelves or doing sudoku puzzles.
She walked up to me carefully, wearing an orange tube top and high waisted flared jeans and asked me gently where she could find books on houseplant keeping.
Read More »bare
by Sonia Nicholson
at the door leave the dirt the bitter pine out back dear let me hold
your pretty feet on my lap (yes, Pretty) please i don’t mind the cold
2 poems
by Randall Amster
Read More »almost impossible to hold inside
for another interval of lost light so
you pour some rage all over the page
only to immediately feel the need to clean it up
It’s My First Time
by Moe McCarty
It’s my first time, and I didn’t know any better.
I’ve counted my mistakes as though if I could only improve the math, they’d wash away into the gutters.
Read More »2 poems
by Reese Bentzinger
Read More »threads of yarn spilling
from one’s mouth, echoing
my sweater’s unraveling
loss.
Seven Minutes
A Short Play
by Ben Macnair
SETTING: A train platform early morning. Two benches sit parallel to the tracks. The sound of distant trains and occasional station announcements fills the air.
CHARACTERS:
BARRY – 55, wearing a slightly wrinkled business suit, briefcase at his feet
IRIS – 80, elegantly dressed in dated clothing, holding a small bouquet of flowers
Atlas and Her Burden
Home Made
by Brian Christopher Giddens
When I was a kid, I dreamed of being adopted. By the Happy Hollisters. Mr. and Mrs. Hollister already had five kids; what’s one more? My dad ran off before my legs grew long enough to follow. Mom loved him, which made her hate him for leaving her behind. She soothed her rage with whiskey, directing daily dramas from the kitchen of our split-level house, at war with a new man. I’d lie low in my bedroom, sprawled on my twin bed with its JCPenney sky blue polyester bedspread, devouring all the Happy Hollister books in the series. And when I finished, I’d read them again.
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