David Gilbert ~ A Life in Photos


She demand­ed an expla­na­tion.  At the photographer’s request, she stood next to him and smiled at the cam­era until it flashed but she was not in the pho­to.  The pho­tog­ra­pher was adamant that some­thing was wrong with her not his cam­era.  He took anoth­er pho­tograph with her hold­ing a stuffed bear. Then he took her by the arm — as if incom­pe­tent —  and showed her the bear float­ing in the cen­ter

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Craig Fishbane ~ The New Kids

It was not sur­pris­ing that Tomás and Julio were hav­ing anoth­er argu­ment. Ever since Shukura had left last mon­th, most of the stu­dents were on edge. All of our chil­dren from Egypt and Bangladesh were now gone and no one was sure which group would be next. I had bro­ken up two fights in the school­yard in the past week alone as my remain­ing ESL stu­dents tried to sort out their places in the peck­ing

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Gary Percesepe ~ Transition

January 2, 2017

I was telling Joelle I was almost fin­ished read­ing her mem­oirs. I’d been read­ing them side by side, an odd way to read, sort of like an old two-columned Ashbery poem, or an obscure pas­sage from Derrida’s Glas. Derrida was some­thing else entire­ly. We’d see each oth­er on the con­fer­ence cir­cuit, which I can no longer abide. He sent me a let­ter once, writ­ten in French. Which I trea­sured

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Lucinda Kempe ~ Platooning

The damn cat has dis­ap­peared again. Truth is, I’d turned the hose on him as I was clean­ing the cat box out­side dur­ing a spell of warmer weath­er.

Get the fuck out Orayo,” I’d bel­lowed.

I clean the cats’ box­es, vac­u­um their lit­ter off the floor, buy them high-end cat food made by Wellness and have weaned them off kib­ble, which bloats their guts. Just call me a patho­log­i­cal care­tak­er — maid

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Charles Rafferty ~ The Light Made Everything Harder to See

Tommy was on his way to the 7-Eleven to buy con­doms. He had offered to use Saran Wrap and a rub­ber band, but Sheila wasn’t game. They had just met and they had both been drink­ing, but appar­ent­ly not enough. Tommy felt relieved when she sug­gest­ed the errand. It would give him time to think, to fig­ure out what he would say to Melissa, his girl­friend of two years, when he saw her the fol­low­ing day.


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Randall Brown & Pamela Painter ~ Two Pieces


Her orange dress and the but­ter­fly hat and the edge of woods. She is say­ing she built a fort and I am yelling out my win­dow that I’m not allowed out today.

Bella,” my moth­er yells from where she is patch­ing Dad’s work shirts in the kitchen,  “Get away from that win­dow and back to clean­ing up your room—all those pinecones and snake skins are prob­a­bly crawl­ing with worms.”

We are only allowed

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Joan Wilking ~ Neuropathy Trilogy


Push the right but­ton and my toes go numb, some­times at home, some­times in the car while wait­ing at a stop sign. I wish I had x-ray eyes to look inside my leg, to mag­ni­fy the dis­con­nect­ed nerve end­ings, to las­so them back into posi­tion, into sub­mis­sion.

It’s ear­ly September and my ennui is epic. Temps ris­ing into the mid 90s my smart­phone says. I can feel my pulse pound­ing under the sheen

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Glen Pourciau ~ Stretcher

Early evening on a Friday, wine and cheese time at the inn where we checked in only an hour ago, and we’re seat­ed just out­side the door to the serv­ing area, wrought-iron table and chairs on the edge of a court­yard, a foun­tain bab­bling with­in earshot.  We’re armed with glass­es of local wine, mine a red blend called Raving Lunatic and Lionel’s a Syrah called Intimate Betrayer, well into our

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Tamara Burross-Grisanti ~ Four Stories

Broken Cakes

Autumn is my bur­den. My morn­ings come mid-after­noon. I crawl out of bed by the light between the pur­ple vel­vet cur­tains from my failed sec­ond-mar­riage bed­room. I take a swig of vod­ka to wet my cracked lips, light a cig­a­ret­te on the fumes of my next breath.

My eldest daugh­ter is vis­it­ing. She got sick match­ing shots with me last night. I held her hair over the toi­let I have not cleaned in months

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Sheldon Lee Compton ~ After Watching Ido Mizrahy’s Film Gored — July 9, 2015

I couldn’t real­ly say why I hadn’t killed the bull. Not right away, when every­one kept ask­ing. I struck at it sev­er­al times in the exact spot I should, but I could not sink the blade. I couldn’t say to my friends inside the vehi­cle what had hap­pened, after the bull­fight, but I knew. I knew exact­ly what had hap­pened. It was the bull’s tear that par­a­lyzed me. Although my body seemed to move

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Sandra Kolankiewicz ~ Two Poems

Before the Desert

  Before the desert, I shook trees for you, beat bush­es, trav­eled far and wide, high and low, both inside and out through the course of unfor­tu­nate con­se­quences, the def­i­n­i­tion of matu­ri­ty that I final­ly rec­og­nize my sense of self as an illu­sion.  I was in the same mind as she who is doing some­thing she will lat­er regret.  When you hang

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Gail Louise Siegel ~ As Vulnerable As We Are

2013-01-20 13.41.52Far above: a jet descends. As if pulled by an invis­i­ble hand behind a mag­net­ic game board.

Gods play with car and boat and plane-shaped pawns from the oth­er side.

Throw the die, and tokens scoot along. Go to jail or plum­met down to hell.

Twin engi­nes nestle again­st the plane’s body, naked as tes­ti­cles.


Gail Louise Siegel’s work appears in places from Ascent to Wigleaf

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Hillary Fifield ~ Nice to Meet You

I wake and search for my phone beneath my pil­low where I store it night­ly. Glare from the win­dow cov­ers the screen. I drop under the sheets, blan­ket, and duvet. I’m held as if embraced, but it’s only my hair that smells like skin and cot­ton.

My Instagram pho­to has twelve new likes.

My Facebook post has thir­ty-two likes and four peo­ple love it. Often, I will take a video from some­one else that

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Mary Lannon ~ All the Stray Cats of the World

Oprah will die! Oprah will die! Oprah will die! you think as you pump gas at Gas on the Go on Thanksgiving Day. You mean to send her no bad kar­ma, of course. It’s mere­ly a fact. Still, it seems more shock­ing than oth­er deaths. Oprah will die! Oprah will die! Oprah will die! you feel like shout­ing it to the world, wak­ing its cit­i­zens from their zom­bie-like stu­por. That would do it, you think—Oprah’s

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