The bottle of Jameson shattered into fine green needles and sprayed across the Connellys’ white kitchen floor. Conversations went so quiet that Thomas’s whispered “shit” could be heard across the room. […]Read More Prose: “Deidre” by Heather Rutherford
Owen stood in the boxing ring in the back of Bichelmayer’s Meat Market, using the edge of a turnbuckle to press the swollen flesh away from his eye. Breath came ragged through his teeth and exhalation whistled through a crack in his nose. His hearing, gone, blasted by the cacophony of the crowd. […]Read More Prose: “Welterweight” by Nick Avalos
Oh no. Oh no.
How did she forget about this?
Yes, the Cape Cod Bryerson Family Reunion Weekend always sneaks up on you like a cardigan-wearing endangered leopard, but this time, when it’s really important, she forgets? […]
In the moments before he fell asleep with his foot on the gas, driving a tractor-trailer with no trailer, sometime in late July, 2001, and thirty-four miles from his exit on the I-98, Dea came to think about a time just after his infancy, when he’d visited his great aunt’s farm. […]Read More Prose: “It’s later than you think” By June Villers
The silence a crushed space, you stood, cast
eyes to rocky ground beneath you. Fingers
in pockets a familiar anchor—you twisted,
bent, found the smooth, flat stone, considered […]
How unlikely that we should be here at all
Our presence but a brief raven’s call
Across the valley of this desert place
The worn rocks bearing an indifferent face […]
Poem Written by a Robot Roses and gladiators. I serve the purpose of serving you. The weather is reasonable. Czar Nicholas the II dug knives to Albuquerque . To whom recalibrates the brother of gregarious neighbors? Mary had a little lamb, little lamb… a blue outhouse reinstated the right timetable. I joke; I joke. The […]Read More Poetry: “Poem Written by a Robot” by Peter Bethanis
I’ve never written a poem like this.
No cupid’s ever held my quiver
I’ve never felt the butterflies
That oft called “delicious” shiver
The emperors vacationed at Balackla,
its palaces with springs
known for their fish
swimming in holy water […]
Ten last photos and the distance. He wore frayed khakis and a knit tie, the least formality for his work which he was sure he remembered. He must have had a coat but he found himself in inappropriate sandals, or worse, barefoot. He could only recognize himself from recollection, or maybe in the reflection of […]Read More Prose: “Ten Last Photos and the distance.” by Kevin Danko