May 13, 2024: See Ya in June

Just a note to say thanks for reading all of our Winter and Spring work. We'll be quiet for the next few weeks, but will return in June with more new beautiful, weird, profane, achingly deep and sordid stories, poems, and essays. Stay tuned.

May 6, 2024: Fiction by Russell Thayer

The boys she had grown up with had been scared to death of her good looks and simmering anger. She’d held hands with old men during the Depression, but that had been the easiest part of putting on a show of bedroom affection for cash. She couldn’t remember the name of the last man she’d touched for fun.

May 2, 2024: Fiction by Alannah Guevara

You hear that siren? That must be the police going after a bad little girl who won’t stop crying. You wouldn’t want them to come after you too, would you?

April 29, 2024: Fiction by Francois Bereaud

I wanted to scream. Burn ‘em, freeze ‘em, immolate ‘em in acid. Inflict whatever you have to on me, but we are not partners in this endeavor.

April 25, 2024: Fiction by Patricia Q. Bidar

The 1970s came. Across our suburb, mutes were being lifted. Discarded. One mother, dressed in the J.C. Penney version of hippie garb, announced she didn't think this is what marriage would be like. One father fell in love with his son's mutton-chopped shop teacher.

April 22, 2024: Fiction by Joy Winters

After running out of knives, I charged across the small room and wrapped my hands around her neck. “You want to die? I gave you life, I can fucking take it from you!” I watched as the blood left her face, and for a second I questioned myself.

April 18, 2024: Fiction by Addison Zeller

He tipped a bottle of Jameson into a mug with a cat on it, spooned it around with the coffee, and handed it to me. The scent made me wince. “The American Cat” read the mug in pale blue cursive. The cat, plump and yellow, waved the flag with its tail as a bush full of oranges shone bountifully behind it.

April 11, 2024: Poetry by Anthony Gedell

True what they say/ You reap what you sow/ Just this constant sound of skin tearing from bone/ It’s all splitting at the seams

April 8, 2024: Fiction by Meagan Lucas

I’m sure I thwarted her plans. I’ve hidden everything. Good luck finding a stick of gum, or one of those gold butterscotch candies, or the funny pages from the lobby newspaper. I’ve got them, and no one is going to take them.

April 1, 2024: Fiction by Vicki Hendricks

Now the full-time job of old age was recognizing weaknesses and creating workarounds. Considering her mother’s vascular dementia and Tom’s father’s Alzheimer’s, they probably had only another good ten years. Their lives had been narrowed to the joint struggle for survival and preservation of assets for T.J.—or so she’d thought.