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Showing results for 2017

December 7, 2017 | Nonfiction

Winter in Guayaquil

Jean Ferruzola

That winter my mother takes me to her country, a little place on the equator I had not yet seen.

December 6, 2017 | Poetry

2 Poems

Ethan Chua

the night of the attack

mother did you hear them
they had tongues like lightning
and forked through the forest
shooting the heads off sparrows.

mother did you see their
bonfires

December 5, 2017 | Fiction

Power Lines

Ben Loory

The man keeps thinking about the power lines—the ones that are strung over his house.

Sometimes at night, he can hear them up there, buzzing.

It's hard to sleep with all the

December 4, 2017 |

Hinterland Transmissions: A Day In Dust Bunny City

Steve Anwyll

I don't like most people. And have been jealous of Bud for ages. With reason.

December 1, 2017 | Poetry

The rabbit's bones

Hannah Allen

Subtraction, division,

rabbit bones, rabbit lives

November 30, 2017 | Fiction

Fingerbone

Melanie Ritzenthaler

They never seemed to notice me, not even when I rolled up my uniform skirt, like the other girls did, and walked the stairs in front of them.

November 29, 2017 | Poetry

Three Poems

Jess Rizkallah

sometimes i wake up in empty fields, waiting for the aliens to take me. they haven’t yet,  but any day now, i’m sure.

November 28, 2017 | Fiction

A Man Protects His Home

David Gerow

I’m in the parking lot, I’ve got Sarah’s prescription, Sarah’s my wife, and I see him.

Osama bin Laden.

November 27, 2017 | Fiction

Dog

Brian Phillip Whalen

“Violent dog,” I said, passing the leash to Karen.

“Just toothy,” Karen said, blotting her knuckle with gauze.  “He’ll live alone.”

November 24, 2017 | Fiction

North of Eden

Sarah Harris Wallman

We went to the college up north to get away from our families, but we didn’t leave behind our need for something like a domestic bond. 

November 22, 2017 | Poetry

Three Poems

Bryce Berkowitz

And somehow I’m supposed to get dressed in the morning / when most days arrive like a gold chain tangled in black chest hair.

November 21, 2017 | Fiction

The Drive-Thru

Ashira Shirali

Aaina’s mom collects shiny things like a magpie. The one time Aaina sneaked me into her house, I walked past rows of gold photo frames, silver handicraft elephants and raindrop chandeliers.

November 20, 2017 | Poetry

Two Poems

Lindsey Warren

 Please, I need those thick markers from the craft store, you know, the ones that color far away from each other; you turn the corner into golden golden golden any night

November 17, 2017 | Poetry

Four Poems

Erica Bernheim

You will etch your name in the most lunar dust. This world / may be large enough for none of us, saddest darling.

November 17, 2017 | Fiction

Dreams About Water

Duncan Whitmire

“I saw you by the river last night,” Amy says, her eyes still closed and half-covered by strands of almond-brown hair. “Why didn’t you follow me?” 

November 16, 2017 | Fiction

Men Decide They Want Something

Michelle Ross

They laid out their sweat-stained clothing while the geyser was quiet, placid. They backed away and waited for her to erupt. 

There was no doubt in Bea’s mind that they referred to the geyser as “she.” 

November 15, 2017 | Poetry

Four Poems

Hieu Minh Nguyen

 It’s simple, really. / You, like the other yous / are gone,            returned to the God of metals.

November 14, 2017 |

Too Tired for Sunshine

Tara Wray

 

Too Tired For Sunshine is a photobook by Hobart's own Tara Wray, to published by Yoffy Press in March 2018.

From the publisher: "In Too Tired for Sunshine, Tara Wray confronts depression by

November 13, 2017 | Poetry

Three Poems

Jane Huffman

After being hospitalized in 1968 / for an aortic aneurysm, Rothko’s doctor / prescribed that he only paint and draw / on mediums less than three feet tall.

November 10, 2017 | Poetry

Jacques’s Garden

Anna Kelley

And what is essential for me to believe is that / the plants themselves were changed by Joan, / that bathing with her in the light and fragrance

November 9, 2017 | Poetry

Four Poems

Brionne Janae

spirits in the trees / hush love hush love / go’on fly home

November 8, 2017 | Fiction

The Great Iowa State Fair Haiku Contest

Gary Britson

I am glad to report that the Great Iowa State Fair Haiku Contest was a roaring success. 

November 7, 2017 |

Near to the Wild Heart of Life

Sean West

On this poorly planned excursion I had a bucket of coffee and exactly one CD – my brother’s copy of Death Cab’s then brand new Narrow Stairs.

November 6, 2017 | Poetry

Two Poems

Liz N. Clift

 how you came with shadows, / but not darkness, like the other person I love, / the type of darkness that lays like a quilt.

November 3, 2017 | Poetry

Four Poems

Mitchell Glazier

It’s bronzy August and I need this to be all over. / Most of my poems are shaped like crows, / so what’s eating you?

November 2, 2017 | Poetry

Three Poems

Talia Flores

A man spills a red solo cup down my shirt like hands. Hands bury in my skin. The speakers bury in my skin. I have never felt farther from the sky, or from my own spit.

November 1, 2017 | Poetry

Two Poems

Muriel Leung

The pinwheels of my mourning, having moved to a windless town.

Rarely do I think of death while gnawing the bottom of a vanilla cone.

October 31, 2017 | Fiction

Halloween II

Elizabeth Ellen

I smile into the mirror. There is lipstick on my front teeth. I don’t rub it off.

October 30, 2017 | Fiction

Halloween

Elizabeth Ellen

I have trouble sleeping in open spaces, I tell Saul. There is a blanket on the floor of my closet.

October 27, 2017 | Poetry

Four Poems

Erin Taylor

every great sadness has occurred because someone / decided fate with their bare hands.