My Broken Brain, by Angie Ellis
Ode to a Bee on the Small of Your Back, by Partridge Boswell
by Cathy Herbert
The day he went into the hospital that last time, he told me he was not at all afraid of death. He did not believe in God.
by Matthew Sullivan
Jason has four children all born from different mothers. Child support will glean most of what he makes this fishing season. Does he know that? I won’t tell him.
by Janna Vought
It began / with the Stain. / The Stain, my Stain / red on a white bedspread / covered with bristles / of nylon thread.
by Carol Hamilton
Scarlatti’s sheet music lies / on the floor near the piano / and a catalog for later perusal / is sprawled in full color / near the computer.
by Steve Edwards
Last fall, after much consideration, my wife and I decided that we could no longer send our son to Sunshine Meadows Preschool.
by Laura Madeline Wiseman
I don’t know why death wants me or why death wakes me to press her bones against my backside. The ringing is incessant now. She has to know this.
by Evan Allgood
The proliferation of scarves, specs, pasty skin, and presexual tension gives the Association of Writers & Writing Programs conference a Hogwartsian feel, but with none of the magic.
by Tim Craven
I recall as kids when our obsession would / lead us into the thick backwoods / next to the decommissioned railway / line, our pockets stuffed with ribbons
by Michael C. Ahn
Even on weekends Mrs. Shelton wouldn’t leave my head. I thought of her on the bus, at my desk, and in my bed. I suspected my mother noticed me at times, gazing at or playing with my food.
by Victor Hugo (1802-1885)
translated by Jacqueline Michaud
The sun slept this evening in clouds of mounting gray / Tomorrow will bring the storm, and evening, and night