THE NEXT JUDY GARLAND • by Kenneth Pobo
Mom often said I’d grow up to be the next Judy Garland. I only knew Judy as Dorothy in The Wizard of Oz. A boy, I didn’t know how I’d transform into Judy. My dad said my mom was nuts,… Continue Reading
Literary
IMPRINT • by Sarah L. Yoon
I had hoped for an easy Saturday, but our toddler started yelling at 5am again. My husband Hyun and I dragged through the morning, playing a groggy game of bumper cars in the kitchen as coffee dribbled into the carafe.… Continue Reading
WARMTH • by Kristine Gill
On the morning Bill Somers put his dog down, I was not on my porch. Most mornings I sit with tea in hand watching as the sun crests Bolduc Hill and the cool night air takes on a warm, heavy… Continue Reading
SPIDERS IN THE BATHTUB • by Marie McCloskey
“Pam!” The thud of his fist on the bathroom door makes me cringe. So many times those knuckles have met my jawline. “Unlock this door or I’ll break it down,” he shouts. I pull the shower curtain over the tub.… Continue Reading
SMEARED MEMORY • by C.R. Beideman
A hospital, I think. The adjustable bed. The linen coarse like construction paper. The florescent light reflecting off linoleum in the hallway. The over burnished sheen of an old floor that gets the chemicals every night, chemicals that release memory.… Continue Reading
WHAT’S THERE TO EAT IN THIS JOINT? • by Tracy Pitts
Jack’s still waiting around for his wife, Frances, to hurry on up and pay for their groceries already so he can have his supper. Ain’t that why we come here in the first place? She’s still talking to that goddamn… Continue Reading
BIGGER LIES ARE COMING • by Ted Lietz
From across the street, Phil watched the wind blow Stanley’s few downy, white hairs horizontal. It yanked open his union-logoed jacket and flapped the sides like the wings of a flightless bird. Stanley’s son — Bobby? Billy? Barry? Something like… Continue Reading
LOVE AND THE ART OF TELEGRAPHY • by Christopher Owen
I just turned fifty: the same age as my estranged father when he died. Such a thing gets a man to pondering the details of his life. Such thoughts made me get busy, first by cleaning up my dingy old… Continue Reading
BREATH OF FIRE • by Ian Duncan
Hikaru squats on his ankles in the mouth of the furnace. Moisture steams from his body. Sweat distills into salt stains on his shirt. A square of fabric is tied around his head and tucked into a roll in lieu… Continue Reading
DUCKPOND DAYS • by Rosalie Kempthorne
They tell me off for her these days. Because she’s big for her age. Mirror-image, polar opposite of what my grandmother told my mother. I don’t overfeed her. She just is what she is. But I know what they mean.… Continue Reading