Sunday

Jun 4, 2014

by Lee Martin
A porch swing sways, and the chains in the eyehooks screwed into the rafters let out their lazy creaks as if this is a day of rest for them, too. Or nearly so.

Puddles Like Pillows

May 15, 2014

by Suzanne Conboy-Hill
Things began disappearing round about March. Just little things—a newspaper left on a bench, or a sandwich wrapper—and not blown away or tumbled into a corner, just gone.

Threnody for Paul Morphy

May 7, 2014

by Brian Glaser
The flowers are everywhere, pungent and bright. / It could be autumn, eighteen-fifty-seven.

Columbus Road

May 1, 2014

by David Buchanan
It got to the point that I just didn’t want the other guys to even see her. Sharing—a tent, a cockpit, a shower—gets old during a deployment, and I wished she would stay away.

Counting

Apr 26, 2014

by Jodi Barnes
Often she dreams she doesn’t get into her dead boyfriend’s car. She dances solo in her stupor and calls her mother who’d promised, “I’ll pick you up; no questions asked.”