The Quiet Sadism of the Powerless
By Heather BourbeauShe woke to news of another stalemate, more children dying on the border, mounting humanitarian crises overseas, and a small mass in her breast.
Photo Story: The Trumpeter’s Caress
By Natalie WuShe waits in the corner, haughty and lacquered. I always sit close, inhaling her delicate scent of beeswax polish.
Catching Rose Baxter in Room 9
By Sabrina HicksShe slid through her memories, trying to capture one, fireflies filling summer near a croaking pond...
Photo Story: Hydroponic Veggie
By Tamara StanleyIt is mostly summer now. Above me there are skyscrapers, McMansions, slums...
Ghost Texts
By Esther GulliBefore work, sitting in her crimson battered minivan, she reads his words again. Milk. Bananas. That bread I like.
Man of Sorrows
By Kim AddonizioNot enough to get crucified. You’ve got to be covered with red spots like an anti-vaxxer’s kid’s measles. Blood everywhere.
Mysteries of Sex
By Kim AddonizioThings were going well, so I risked slipping my hand down my pants. I seemed into it, so I continued on.
My Sister’s House
By Mary GrimmI didn’t want to see the rooms half empty, each dish packed, each rug rolled up.
How My Mother Lost Her Voice and Gave Me Mine
By Nancy LudmererIn 1931, my mother Helen was 9. A daredevil, she challenged boys at their games, ignored their hair pulling, their scrunchy faces.
Ain’t Gonna Stick
By Lauren KosaBy the time I met him, in my thirties, my expectations were properly tempered.
Because Some Doors Never Open
By Tommy DeanThere’s something about a baby-gate left unhinged. The way it lists to the right like a barn door left open for a pregnant stray cat.
Photo Story: Paper Moon
By Mir-Yashar SeyedbagheriAstride the swing ride, sky opens, vast, deep, lavender. I should be scared, suspended in the air. But I’m not.
Meaning Given, Meaning Found
By Santino PrinziWe walk along the wooden pathways of Red Seabeach, breathing China deep.Crimson reeds glow, waving from the wetland like something fabricated.
The Muscovy Duck
By Jeanette ToparBalanced on a half-submerged log, she grooms her fine white feathers as if they are a mink coat, as if she resides high in a penthouse apartment.
Sisters in a Hotel Twin Room, 1988
By Lucy GoldringI’m doing a bum waggle dance at the window. Loosey goosey in powder blue pajamas. See my gone-wrong-Bond-girl silhouette? No other ten year old is this funny.
Photo Story: We’re Not Speaking
By Francis J. TrautmanWhen I attempted to sneak back home near dawn, she was there on the porch in her orange wig, red nose, and white pancake makeup. She pointed at an invisible watch on her wrist and then drew the finger across her throat.
The Crayfish Seller
By Richard BerryA woman walks past my stall every afternoon in this spot at 4:15. Never 4:10 and never 4:20.
