Prose & Poetry
the thing about circular journeys. by Talia Hope Levy
& things ring abstract and constructed on this voyage, making me wonder more than ever if I do create my reality after all.
American Diorama by Tom Schabarum
Slowly, we ventured out in our Airstream trailer, the silvery hull a mirror of America…
Flâneuse by Carrie Cooperider
I notice the people with missing teeth and the women with makeup that’s too much but not enough to cover the bruises. I notice the limpers and the lispers, I see the valet with the mullet hauling the elderly patron aftward from the back of her sedan toward the entrance of the restaurant.
My Mother Sleeps with Rabbit Angstrom by Liz Ziemska
In retaliation for my abandonment, I liberated my grandmother’s beloved parakeets from their cage on the balcony. I watched as they fluttered onto the leafy branches of the cottonwood tree across the street, jealous of their ability to go anyplace they liked.
What I Paid For by Lorraine Hanlon Comanor
The head judge summons me to a bunker-like lounge, reminding me that Oberstdorf was once a Wehrmacht training ground.
A Simple Walk by Donnetrice Allison
I’m panicking.
My heart is beating out of my chest.
I’m thinking of TRAYVON,
AHMAUD,
TAMIR,
MIKE.
To the Woman at the Base of the Giant Western Red Cedar by Jennifer Fliss
I hope I’m not being intrusive when I ask this, but why were you crying? I know I was a stranger and who would want to air their grievances like so much drying laundry, to a stranger?
Apple Week by Anna Fernandes
Oh. Pipped pea pod. Lately lemon. Now, apple. Next, you will be avocado if we get that far.
Memory Palace by David Orr
I once was encouraged to build a place
that would hold every idea
I needed to retrieve
Something elephantine
that would stand
for ages
The Light by Ann Goethals
“…And then there’s the sponge. Rank. Smelly. I have treated it with respect, drying it nightly in the dishrack, even microwaving away the microbes to prevent the rotting smell as my sister taught me. Yet here it is, punching me with its rottingness.”
Nostalgia by Sara Kempfer
At home, Cassy barely got the door open before her cat, Toby, was weaving between her legs. “Dude you’re going to kill me. The doc says it will be suffocating. Won’t he be surprised when it’s you?”
Thorns by Dawn Tasaka Steffler
People said it was safer here, away from the cities. Less shelling. But being far away means you eventually run out of things, like gasoline and medicine.
