Paul Lisicky

Four More Stories


These three AM robins who go qui­et by six as if all that singing sends them back to sleep!

And the sounds dur­ing day­light: car noise, jet noise, deliv­ery trucks, and the ship horn from the riv­er. Why is it that her yard was qui­eter once, and she could actu­al­ly hear an entire episode of her favorite pro­gram with­out sim­ply watch­ing mouths mov­ing on the screen?

Questions like these –more

Terese Svoboda


The hus­band isn’t breath­ing beside me or else the bright snow falling at that angle against the wind­shield oblit­er­at­ing his chest heave and forc­ing his eyes closed is just how I see it—

Paul Lisicky

Four Stories


Whenever he felt dead to his paint­ing, Theodore went shop­ping. Not down the street, but out where the grass strips still bub­bled and oozed. Ten min­utes atop the brown­fields and Theodore would feel alive again, he’d need to rush home. His can­vass­es, once stalled, had nerve, torque, solu­tions.

Avital Gad-Cykman


She wakes to the sound of beat­ing wings and a bit­ter wind formed by dark­ness. She is late, still tied to a dream about miss­ing him at a bus sta­tion, then at a train sta­tion and then at an air­port.

Solid-rock is how she wants him. This is not about sex. It’s not about beau­ty or the late-night con­ver­sa­tions they used to have long ago. No.  It’s about famil­iar­i­ty, about putting her cheek –more