Photo Story: Valentine
By Christy BrothersMom packs us into the car. Billy and Jasmine sleep. I sit up front chewing the corners of my nails until they bleed.
Canadensis
By Corinne SilverThey arrived silently, swiftly during the night and stood present by morning. They flocked the fields, parking lots, and manmade suburban ponds. They were big.
Her Mother, My Mother
By Hema NatarajuHer mother never wore a sari, my mother never did not. Her mother drove a Mustang, my mother walked everywhere, even though I hated being picked up last.
After attending an anti-war protest in Hyde Park
By Sam PayneA fatality on the line at Acton stops the trains leaving Paddington and we stare at the departure boards, eyes still stinging from the tear gas.
Out of Why
By Bryan StarchmanIt was Day 172 of sheltering in place and Karen was going to kill her family.
The week our landlord kicks us out
By Frankie McMillanNo rescue anywhere so we huddle around a fire under the railway bridge. Bennie says he knows where to score free chicken and he scrolls the Poultry Rehoming page.
In Case You Missed It
By Kim MagowanThere was a window when one could grocery shop without a mask. There was a window after my mother stopped chemo when she felt better, gained a few pounds. The color returned to her face.
Photo Story: Rigs Full O’ Pigs
By Lisa H. OwensThe squealing of hogs was enough to make his ears bleed. He’d driven all night … Rigs Full O’ Pigs. He liked the sound of that.
Foreclosure
By Alice HatcherThey ordered beef bourguignon and an expensive bottle of cabernet, something extravagant to celebrate the closing.
In Which the Dwarves Enroll in the Comatose Princess Exchange Program
By Katelyn MoormanThough the girl had died, she didn’t rot, so the dwarves kept watch over her body. First she was in a glass covering out front, but they thought that gaudy...
Other Families’ Photos
By Rich GravelinThe antique mall reeks of nicotine-stained cotton and cold cream. I hunt vintage cufflinks; he buys other families’ photos. Groups of redheads are his Grail.
Portrait of the Artist Lost in Target
By Ryan GriffithWhere are you Andy Warhol, in all these acres of antiseptics and ointments? Are you hiding under the racks of slacks like a petulant child too cool for his mother?
Spring Again
By Jess D. TaylorMy second March without a backyard, and while yes, I miss things about the last place we rented together (especially the thick grass where the girls ran circles), our first rental is what I keep conjuring.
