poem and image by Laura Manardo
According to scientists, the butterfly koi do not feel pain,
do not linger on the pulled knuckle hairs
of their fathers. According to them, butterfly koi do not feel the zip
of the blade through the mouth, Continue Reading
by Kelsey Kimbler
Image: Jane Flett
As you look at Emily, the hunk of slimy meat that used to be Emily, while she lies in her coffin, I understand if you want to speculate about what happened to her. We, as her family, would prefer if you didn’t. It’s upsetting to us. She was so young, don’t you see? Now she’s gone. She’s gone forever and all we’re left with is the memory of her broken, twisted body. When her parents look back on her, this, this right here is what they’ll remember. You want us to sit here, at her goddamned funeral, and talk about how she died? How dare you. Continue Reading
by Heather Lee Rogers
The cat will only
eat ballerinas now
I brought home
just one tutu
and her blood lust
laid it down
like sunsets in soup cans Continue Reading
by Maximus Anthony Adarve
Vincent is right in front of me. I’m coming down, this is the fall. He puts his hand on my arm. Real soft. I’ve been feverishly scanning the restaurant we’re sitting in. So out of it. I listened to all of Rodeo by Travis Scott, and At. Long. Last. ASAP on the plane ride. I passed out. Woke up still high. I listened to what seemed like every single Red Hot Chili Peppers song. The plane started banking into a turn during the descent and I started sobbing. Continue Reading
by Mari Knudson
The story of your life is screamed across your face in all caps.
As for death,
You’ll be wormfood by March 15th, year unknown. Flesh broiling
under the Tuskegee sun, though I maintain
that it is still quite nice in the spring. Continue Reading
by Sharifa Petersen Tadini Rybolt
‘I was told I could sleep here,’ is what I eventually said to the guard, hat in hand, thoughts everywhere. ‘Yes, you see I work here and it’s very important I be here as much as possible right now, so I was told I could sleep here.’ I looked around, my eyes gliding smoothly over a couple of formalin-fixed brains I’d left on the desk. Continue Reading
by Caleb Echterling
A barbarian horde surged through the open doors of the Louvre. American tourists in flower-print shorts and plastic footwear moshed and elbowed to be the first patrons to set eyes on the Mona Lisa. Carvaggios and Raphaels whizzed past like so many cornfields. The first footfalls arrived at the wooden crowd-control barrier. A collective gasp blended with the clatter of a thousand iPhones hitting the floor. A little girl tugged on her mother’s Hard Rock Cafe tank top. “I see him, mommy, I see him. Waldo’s behind the smiling lady.” Continue Reading
by Ellie White
I open the bathroom door at work to find
a forest. Green slime coats the trees,
the rocks, the damp earth. Everything
chirps. At the knotted base of an oak
lays a shallow pit. White steam Continue Reading
by Charlotte Wührer
The inscription on the bench reads “No one loves you more than I, Petal.” It stands in a place where people walk past with their dogs, every minute at least three. It also, not without coincidence, stands in a place where five years ago Manon and Peter would still have jogged past it once a week together.
Continue Reading
by Norman Belanger
I go to meet her at the Greyhound station downtown. The New York bus is running 20 minutes late. Outside, it’s pouring rain, so I cool my heels, smoking cigarettes and slouching among the dim-eyed denizens of the old depot. I’m looking forward to seeing her again. It’s been a long time. Continue Reading