• Lorette C. Luzajic ~ A Crown for Jean-Michel Basquiat

    1. Haunt

    I paint ghosts, Basquiat told at least one col­lec­tor who remem­bered it after. The client thought he was smart, dri­ven, cre­ative, and so what if he was moody. To Repel Ghosts, the artist scrib­bled once in oil stick, and young –more

  • Gary Fincke ~ The Theories for Ball Lightning

    Mr. Smink, each time we met, told us the his­to­ry of the high school band, which boys had faint­ed in Memorial Day parades, which girls had soloed to applause dur­ing end-of-the-school-year con­certs. Once, after we smeared anoth­er try at “Camptown Races” –more

  • Ann Hillesland ~ Bears

    She dreams of bears. Her par­ents’ snores become growls. The bears’ nut­ty, grassy scent hangs heavy in the night air. Their big, fur­ry bod­ies warm her cot in the kitchen.

    –more

  • Yasmina Din Madden ~ Night

    That night we are jump­ing on the twin beds in our room. Everything is flow­ers in our room, climb­ing up the wall­pa­per, creep­ing over our bed­spreads. We hear our moth­er call us to come and say good­bye to our father. My par­ents’ room is dim, and my –more

  • Curtis Smith ~ This Rising

    The back­yard oak, branch­es that lad­der to the clouds. A cere­al aisle’s bright col­ors, your mother—for a moment—lost, and you for­get how to breathe. The blind man across the alley who knows your name. A red-haired boy who mocks your words. The –more

  • Dale Cottingham ~ Meditation in an Office Tower

    Thrusting one creased pant leg in front of the other,
    can­ter-leav­ing ankles, knees, thighs, my leather shoes
    clack­ing slate as I amble toward and away,
    in one motion. Steel, sheets of glass, ruddy-tinted,
    the high-ceilinged –more

  • William Doreski ~ Five Poems

    A Struck Moose

    A struck moose slumps in the grass.
    A cop pre­pares to shoot it.
    Thick hairy men are quarreling
    over the rack. We pass by
    this tableau with a shudder.
    Although this acci­dent occurred
    while we were eat­ing break­fast
    –more

  • Mary Grimm ~ 17 Things That Were in the Front Room of the Old House, Some of Which No Longer Exist, and Some Which Remain in Changed Circumstances

    1. The hard­back book, The Old Man and the Boy, by Robert Ruark – red and white cov­er, set on an end table by the rock­er in the front room, next to a brass lamp with a parch­ment lamp­shade imprint­ed with maple leaves.

    2. The rock­er, the Boston rock­er, –more

  • Sara Dobbie ~ The Art of Learning to Dance

    1. When you are a small child tell every­one in your fam­i­ly that you absolute­ly must have a pair of tap shoes, because the mag­i­cal click­ing sound you heard when you watched Singin’ in the Rain filled you with a great pas­sion that you don’t –more

  • Mikki Aronoff ~ Three Micros

    Campaign

    Mother’s stone qui­et as she smooths and straight­ens and tugs at the lace table­cloth. Her lips tight­en as she sets, then resets, the cut­lery. First she does x, then paus­es. Then she undoes x. Then she tries y and undoes –more

  • Lucinda Kempe ~ Two Micro Poems

    The Jews of Łódź and Warthegau

    Here there is no why.” If This is a Man, Primo Levi
    Moonlit quar­ry. Cratered shaped sky.
    How long has it been since cried? Perception’s fool.
    Nose wipes on stripped shirt sleeve.
    “Onwards to life,” rumi­nate, “a –more

  • Dmitry Blizniuk ~ Three Poems

    A Thinking Reed

    It’s a rainy morn­ing with a sweet odor of petrol –
    like a gob­let with wet screw bolts and lin­den pollen in it.
    We have nowhere to hur­ry: no one is wait­ing for mankind.
    Good and evil dis­solve in each oth­er, like a knife in acid,
    –more

  • Uchimura Kaho (内村佳保) ~ Autumn

    At the cor­ner of a small path as nar­row as a porch
    A grave­yard of cry­ing fire­flies spread silently
    At the end of a long tun­nel where sum­mer is leaving
    An umbrel­la is thrown away at a desert­ed station
    An origa­mi crane in a trea­sure –more

  • Robert Fromberg ~ In Which I Admire and Gently Probe Mr. Richard Deming’s First Novelization of The Mod Squad

    Let this rhetor­i­cal exam­i­na­tion of a woe­ful­ly over­looked lit­er­ary mas­ter, work­ing with the most crit­i­cal of mate­ri­als, begin with a sim­ple state­ment: The first nov­el in The Mod Squad series, based on the pop­u­lar tele­vi­sion show, is titled The Greek –more

  • Nathanael O’Reilly ~ Five Poems

    Santa Maria Maggiore

    Soldiers with machine guns stand guard out­side the Basilica,
    check vis­i­tors’ bags for weapons. Pilgrims and tourists arch
    necks back to gaze upon majes­tic ornate ceil­ings inlayed
    with gold. Forty flut­ed mar­ble columns ges­ture towards
    –more

  • Andrea Lynn Koohi ~ Going Down

    On floor six the ele­va­tor doors opened and I saw that a man was already inside. I looked around for signs say­ing two was too many, but he moved to the side so I fig­ured it was fine. I tucked myself into the oppo­site side and we rode down togeth­er like –more

  • Steve Passey ~ Three Pieces

    Fair of Eye and Fiery-Souled

    The heart only loves once and it only longs for one alone. When that is gone all that fol­lows is epi­taph, love made from mem­o­ry of love, love made from what was good about love, love restrained at the edge of that lim­it­less fall. No one looks into –more

  • Francine Witte ~ Spaghettiville

    It starts when his moth­er tells him he’d be hap­py liv­ing there. That she’s tired of mak­ing the same thing for din­ner every night.

    It con­tin­ues how he wakes up, stringy strands of pas­ta curled up around his chest, his legs, and else­where. He likes –more

  • Michael Malan ~ Four Microfictions

    Protestors

    On cable news, pro­tes­tors are talk­ing to reporters, com­plain­ing about how much mon­ey the rich have stashed away in their stock port­fo­lios. “I work at Walmart,” says a young man from Kentucky. “I make $10.75 an hour.” A woman is hold­ing –more