For Seven Days – Dan Klen
Tuesday, December 18, 2012 14:08 — 0 Comments
He stayed at the guesthouse on the other side of the poppy field. She watched him walk down the dirt path in the early mornings, after she had cut and fried potatoes for her father and younger brother. She watched from the corner of the barn, from behind the cypress tree—dying from a boring longhorn beetle. He would go to the edge of the farm, near the creek. Setting up an easel in the shade, he would paint.
Scenes From The Reverse Metamorphosis – Robert Yune
Tuesday, December 11, 2012 12:41 — 0 Comments
I One morning, a beetle turned into a man. The setting: an observation room in the corner of a basement laboratory. Two unpainted concrete walls, one with a large circular window. The other two made of shatterproof glass, with a glass door.
The Departure – Michael W. Shurgot
Tuesday, December 4, 2012 12:43 — 0 Comments
The crimson cars of the Night Scotsman slumbered under the tarred canopy of Kings Cross Station. Far ahead on track # 13, nearly invisible in the November fog, the sleek, sensuous 4-6-0 Black 5 locomotive panted patiently, hissing white smoke from its six drivers while, as if obeying its own internal rhythm, belching steam and soot that mingled with the fog to thicken the fetid air. Baggage handlers hastily rolled carts full of luggage, handbags, purses and hat boxes down the platform toward the waiting cars, where they unloaded their cargo onto the sleeping cars and first and second class […]
Sneaking – Treg Isaacson
Tuesday, November 20, 2012 12:32 — 1 Comment
Clare and I couldn’t leave after we’d dropped him off so we drove around campus and parked in a lot, hiked a small trail overlooking the practice fields. We pushed through trees, looking out for poison oak, often sliding backwards one step for every two we took up the leaf-strewn hill in our flip-flops, so that we could peek over a fence during his first day with the other boys. I told her we couldn’t stay too long, that we couldn’t let anyone see us, that the other players would tease him. I made her leave before she was ready. […]
Brand New Pearly Whites – T.C. Jones
Tuesday, November 6, 2012 12:41 — 0 Comments
Can #1 His mouth is dry, always dry. Gritty, lacking the needed saliva, like eating sand. Jerry Donaldson, a fierce and lonely middle aged man with pallid bloodshot eyes and the creased face of a factory worker, shifts his rusty pick-up truck into park and almost forgets to take the keys from the ignition as he rushes to open the door. The Wal-Mart parking lot is deserted in the late hours of the sultry summer night except for a handful of vehicles near the entrance and an obese woman, well over two hundred pounds, pushing her cart and wearing a […]
Estrogen – Olusola Akinwale
Monday, October 29, 2012 13:16 — 2 Comments
Lami Marcus wasn’t the cutest girl in Calabar City, but Sammy Duke panted for her as the deer pants for water, regardless of the distance between them. He spent most of his time in the US where he had gone for a degree in International Affairs. Brown-eyed Sammy was tall, dark and heartbreakingly handsome.
Customs In Customs – Bradford Philen
Tuesday, October 23, 2012 12:52 — 2 Comments
After arriving to the Jomo Kenyatta International Airport in Nairobi, we all met by baggage claim. It was a large room that better suited the aura of a past decade. Fluorescent bulbs dimmed the air tepid and the red brick walls were cold. Dawn, the color of honey, crept through the front windowpanes of the airport terminal. The morning light was just past Customs. Life was just past Customs.Â
Two Stories – Paul Vega
Tuesday, October 9, 2012 13:28 — 1 Comment
Pinch Point The salmon fell so fast the blood tank overflowed and whoever was nearest had to toss them back in. I was the one sorting, smashing the foot pedal down as hard as I could to keep up.
The Fabulists – Devin Walsh
Tuesday, October 2, 2012 12:42 — 1 Comment
The ridiculous version: driving away from the Laundromat one day, she was mesmerized by the sway of his Toyota’s truck nuts, followed him home and, when confronted, confessed to as much.
The answer isn't poetry, but rather language
- Richard Kenney
