Mornings I practiced being blind, because I wanted to be ready for it. Shoes were easy. Getting grape jelly onto a peanut butter sandwich was hard. Smell the apple. Lunch! But where was that recycled plastic bag? (more…)
the only food that doesn’t spoil is honey. this might not mean much to you but it does to me or once did. time is infiltrating you in ways I’m sure you don’t understand. softening you like dying pudding. (more…)
We’re not going to own the yacht—it belongs to a Russian billionaire or a Chinese inventor or an Internet entrepreneur who loves to share his generosity with people in no way in need of generosity. (more…)
He comes shuffling out of the bedroom, stops, and puts a hand on the wall.
“I overslept,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
I tell him it’s okay, that he is healing, after all. (more…)
Stage #1: Basic
The Cliché has no idea where to begin. He toots his own horn but to no applause. He cries but is viewed as “normal.” No, he wants to say. I weep for the womb. I long for home. Where have I come from? Who are these strange beings? “I’m Cynthia,” Cynthia says, stripping off his diaper. “Did baby go poo?” The Cliché weeps though he knows not what for: already he has no idea if this is a condition of nature or nurture, of spirit or flesh. (more…)
Poetry, creative nonfiction, and fiction/prose poetry submissions are now open. Check out our new category triptychs! The submission period closes December 15, 2108; submit here.
09/17 • Nance Van Winckel
09/24 • Wendy Barker