Spoiled Fruit – by Jay McKenzie
I do not like the bird-boned cage she carries herself in these days, or the skin that grows thinner like old paper each time I see her.
Read More Spoiled Fruit – by Jay McKenzieI do not like the bird-boned cage she carries herself in these days, or the skin that grows thinner like old paper each time I see her.
Read More Spoiled Fruit – by Jay McKenzieThe ruins of my garden had been visible from the deck for some time, but I had not yet ventured outside. It was time to get out there and acknowledge the ravages of time and neglect, weep, and get to work, as my grandma used to say, to formulate a rebuilding plan. The flower and […]
Read More Bloom by Bloom, Step by Step – by Doris von TettenbornWe’ve become an island. Distant from the moon moving the tides,
the wind blowing rain in a slant song through the night.
The morning sun streams in through the hospital window. I watch its slow ascent up Kevin’s small frame. When it finally dances across his smoke-streaked face, he shoots up with a gasp. The handcuffs clang against the bedrails and yank him back down.
Read More Ties that Bind – by N.E. RuleA Saturday in June 1978, and the tang of clover floats through the air as Deb barrels down the path to your house in the sky blue Schwinn “Twin,” and you suck in your breath because you know the empty seat belongs to you…
Read More Pedal, Pedal, Pedal – by Ashley HarrisHidden in my right shoe’s hollow heel, a gold watch ticks.
Beneath my under-bodice, neatly stitched, my mother’s
turquoise ring. The water in the harbour coils, black ink
Read More Human Parcels – by Fiona ClarkI’ve hummed every song I can think of, twice, and almost chewed myself a new haircut.
Read More Road(kill) Trip – by Lindsey HarringtonWith her right hand at one o’clock on the steering wheel and left hand deep into a one-pound bag of Mister Bee potato chips, Aunt Mary Jo remarked, “We’ll just keep going until we get there.”
Read More Hiraeth – by Rhonda E CarperIn my day, pot and patchouli perfumed bedrooms and back seats.
Sandalwood incense bought by donation from dubious Hare Krishna monks
chanting on the corner.
“You’ve already searched me and found nothing,” Sam says.
Read More Tiny Smuggler – by N.E. Rule