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Fiction
Nonfiction
Poetry
Cafe
Flash
Resources
Death Poems
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.
A Supposedly Funded Thing I’ll Never Do Again: An AWP Survival Guide
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.
Eyes of the Day
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
Mrs. Shelton
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.
Nightfall
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
Pornography and Poetry
by Isabella David
“Nymph, in thy orisons be all my sins remembr’d” has always seemed to me the most perfect pickup line, although it didn’t work so well on Ophelia.
History
by Cezarija Abartis
The Medici coat of arms, with its shield and crown, hung on a pole on the sidewalk here and everywhere throughout the city, still asserting ownership.
My Patent Leather Shoes
by Konstantina Sozou-Kyrkou
I feel my stomach bubble all day today. It’s my birthday and godfather will be here in a minute or so. He’s promised to bring me a pair of new leather shoes.
Backspace
by Tracy Harris
We used typewriters decades ago, and carbon paper and different colors of white-out. If we made a mistake we could correct not just the original letter but each carbon copy as well, in the correct color.
Things I Did Not Learn From Dead White Male Authors
by Jennifer Zobair
I have loved books by white, male authors. I have stayed up all night with them, avoided studying for the bar exam with them, sought refuge from broken hearts or unrealized dreams with them.
It all began around a campfire…
Beautiful language
is meant to be heard as well as read, and in fact words were vocalized eons before they were ever committed to clay or parchment. Storytelling began around campfires. We seek prose and poetry that continue the tradition.
Contributor Spotlight:
Love and Hot Chicken
by Mary Liza Hartong
Open Contests
by Stephen Parrish, with the editors of The Lascaux Review