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Death Never Dies
By Liesel Sloan
April 3, 1978 — This is what is clear to me:
A classroom full of giggling, awkward 11 year olds facing an equally anxious, and definitely not amused teacher, on the first day of the first time Baltimore County required Co-Ed Sex Education. Something forgotten, per usual, allowed me a brief escape to my locker. Our classroom was located last on the left of a single long hallway and…
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Death Never Dies
By Liesel Sloan
April 3, 1978 — This is what is clear to me:
A classroom full of giggling, awkward 11-year-olds facing an equally anxious, and definitely not amused teacher, on the first day of the first time Baltimore County required Co-Ed Sex Education. Something forgotten, per usual, allowed me a brief escape to my locker. Our classroom was located last on the left of a single long hallway and…
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This Is How We Say I Love You
This Is How We Say I Love You
By Cat Taylor Not-quite-yet hungover, sprawled on couches, beanbags, beds, pronounced like “drink some water,” and “we’ll go to Waffle House in the morning.” We’ve never stopped wearing our hearts on our sleeves still sewing them back on where our parents would have stuffed them in a drawer somewhere When someone uses the wrong pronouns – on purpose That someone doesn’t get invited anymore and…
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Soup
By Maddie Fay
maybe it’s the way i was raised or maybe it’s my cancer rising but i only ever feed myself well when i am feeding someone else. i mean, my love language is soup. which is why my whole house smells like curry, garlic, and ginger, why over the course of a couple of days i spent twelve of the hours i had meant to spend sleeping pressing blocks of tofu, individually sauteing seven…
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Riddles
By Jack Walsh
The late afternoon sun hung low beyond the city walls, and the glare obscured the enormous thing crouched in the shadow of the gates – a thing that had suddenly become very shouty.
An inhuman voice bellowed, the force of it sending a cloud of dust blowing past the man on the road. “Step forward!” The traveller did not feel inclined to do so.
“I said step. Forward.”
The man…
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fearless
By Jeremy Maxwell
for Amy Tecosky
“Let’s go to Nike,” Sydney says, and starts putting on her shoes. She doesn’t bother with socks because the stick-poke on her leg is not even an hour old, much too fresh for fabric. Fraggle is already getting ready to do another one on somebody else, laying all the shit out on the table and taking giant slugs of whiskey straight out of the bottle. Yesterday he…
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Don’t Lift a Finger By Tawny Powell Mark was a drunk, though he wouldn't admit it. Instead, he said, "I don't really drink," which I know means he can't because he already told me he's a writer.
Trouble and The Good Girl
By Lena Kotler-Wallace
I was born a Good Girl. In sweet, pinafored dresses, hair tied neatly with a ribbon, hanging down straight and shining to the small of my back – because I brushed it every night 100 times like someone from somewhere once said to. I was precocious, but not in that obnoxious way, so as not to challenge the adults around me. Like a good Southern child my “pleases and thank…
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Worn Thin
By E. Wilson Young
White with “guest” written on their front in calligraphy and framed by embroidered leaves like early spring shoots poking up from beneath snow, the napkins blanketed the backseat as though deposited by a freak storm.
My friend Maggie was the first person to notice them. Happening to glance behind her as I was driving us from my place to My Parents’ Basement, she said, “Oh. You…
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the only monster here is me
the only monster here is me
By Jeremy Maxwell
The monster is laid out on the front steps like the end of the world, like the party was yesterday and here he is, Mephistopheles, askew against the bricks and forcing everyone to go around. It smells like sulfur and piss on the stoop, puke on his shirt and spilled beer soaking into his hair. He won’t know how he got here, but this is where he’ll find himself, if he ever wakes…
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Remnants of a Smoldering Fire
Remnants of a Smoldering Fire
By Cat Taylor
Twirling in my grandmother’s kitchen To the sound of bluegrass And the smell of something vaguely Apple Cinnamon I declare myself A princess She whirled around Hand on hip Looked at me And said sharply that NO, In this family, we are witches And I called myself a Good Witch And I wonder If I had been a bit older And she a bit more tired If she would have told me how Redundant that is
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Dogs Rolling in Carrion
Dogs Rolling in Carrion
By Anthony Elmore
After months of toting cinderblocks, sweeping lots, gutting fish, my boss asked me a life-changing question. “You got a pair of brown pants?”
I put myself through college through a mix of student loans, petty theft, and temp jobs, back when that was actually possible. I worked as a dishwasher, a bricklayer, a fish cleaner, a flavored ice vendor, and a janitor, and that was in…
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Still Life with Mason Jars
Still Life with Mason Jars
By Shannon M. Turner
Every time I go home to visit my grandmother, certain things occur.
My grandmother asks if I’m dating.
She bemoans the state of the world, despite the fact that all the people she prefers are currently in power.
At least one painfully long silence descends. I would rather watch even Wheel of Fortune or Jeopardy! than talk about the topic she has chosen (which is usually…
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any kind of home
any kind of home
By Jeremy Maxwell
They’ll tell you the Panhandle is part of Florida, any map or GPS will say the same, but anybody that lives around here knows it’s just more Alabama, and it’ll stay that way for the next fifty or sixty miles. It stretches out in either direction and it doesn’t much matter if you’re headed east or west, it’s all just loblolly pines and the slow creep of kudzu tearing everything…
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Cycles
cycles
stories have their cycles like phases of the moon or signs of the zodiac.
history is doomed to repeat and repeat and repeat and repeat itself
until it shifts.
a new cycle begins.
headless heads of state cry wolf on top of melted ice cap ice floats
with no food to eat no subjects to govern.
–
maybe there’s a cycle you’re feeling in your own life. In your own art, or in the world around you.
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For Sale: One Uterus, Never Used
For Sale: One Uterus, Never Used
By Rykie Belles
FOR SALE: ONE UTERUS, NEVER USED
Well, wait, how are we defining the use of a uterus? To clarify, it has never been occupied by a sentient being that Seller is aware of. There was some question a year or so ago, but that turned out to be nothing. Probably. Most pregnancies end before the individual in question even knows they’re pregnant, though, so who can really say?
Anyway!
It’…
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A Love Letter from My Dead Name
A Love Letter from My Dead Name
By Jordyn King
Dear Jordyn, It is June 29th. My 23rd birthday, and your first. And though you know who I am I have no idea who you are just yet; That’s okay, though. Part of the beauty of shedding an identity is the ability to craft a new one, and I have a guess about the beautiful person you’ll become. Now, I have some things to ask you, but first and foremost, I want to congratulate us or… you.
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