by James Kangas Rickey’s Blues Finally, it was laughable–how he left you in the theater like that,like a partnerless glove after he’d sat through fiveminutes of the movie, itching for a brewto suck down, a worked-up claque at his favorite dive.Magnet-eyed as he was, the littlemetal molecules in your body had jerkedyou across the […]
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by Scott C. Holstad They closed the transient5th Avenue Motel and nowwhere will they go?The single mother withher two daughterseating cockroaches fromthe floor, hell, where willthe rats and roaches go?The city thinks it’sa drug infested blight,but Jack Neeley knowsits secret history, likelyonce a grand buildingnear Knoxville’s 4thand Gill district.They came from allover to stay for
by J. J. Steinfeld They connected online a bells-and-whistles dating service billed as ardour everlasting and companionship eternal she the world’s largest supermodel he the world’s smallest bodybuilder photographs exchanged touched up, enhanced even in their superlative incarnations that is, largest and smallest. Of the numerous headshots an expert on faces might say he was
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by Gerard Sarnat I’d never in eighty years done it this way that is, in old house, one floor hot and second not thus we now can avail ourselves of weather fits
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by Michael Mintrom I saw the four horsemen of the apocalypse drinking coffee on Church Street. Different from the paintings. No swords, no arrows, no scythe. No flamboyant sweeping above hay fields, smashed barns, chaos, death. Just old timers reminiscing about the rodeo. Their horse floats parked on vacant lots. Strange license plates. I knew
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by Diana Raab Silence redux Unlike others in my past, your being is not one which hangs or hovers over me, but you permeate and effuse my ethers, making a mark like leaky fountain pens we shared during our second coffee, as we licked our tongues to chocolate covered ginger crystals, glowing
Silence Redux // Flat tire therapy // Future Writer Read More »
by Paul Hostovsky Gray Day It’s the almost that I love about a gray day like today. In weather like this, I almost feel a kind of joy: the heavy sky, the feeling in the air of imminent release. I feel like I could almost cry. Cry as I haven’t since I was a boy.
Gray Day // Letters From Camp Read More »