Issue 16.1 – Fiction

I was there the summer Birdie disappeared. It was 1979 and incredibly hot. I remember how the pavement sizzled from baking in the sun and how the grass became crusty and brown. Betsy, the owner of the local diner, used to give us free ice cream that would melt as we ventured into the outdoor…

Issue 16.1 – Poetry

The first man and the first woman stood newly made   in a beautiful garden with trees of fruit and fire.   Yet their open hands reached first for one another.   Love, a mountain springing up between them two tectonic plates shifting together   thrust so tightly upward it felt like they were one…

Serial – Little River: Vol 2 – Ch 17

The sheets bunched against Josiah’s bare back felt slick and unfamiliar. As he opened his eyes, he felt a wave of nausea wash over him. These weren’t his sheets. This wasn’t his bed. He glanced over his shoulder to see Bethany still asleep, curled around her pillow, her dark hair obscuring her face. He eased…

Microwork – Salsa Brava

salsa brava she curls a stray strand round her ear, chin dips, eyes rise with a glint he smiles a chink, toes tapping in time inside leather slides steam rises from shared patatas young love spicing up over Spanish tapas Anne Casey is an Irish-Australian writer/literary editor with poems published internationally in newspapers, magazines, journals…

Issue 15.4 – Nonfiction

I was more interested in going to the homecoming dance than I was in Brad, the senior who invited me.  It was my first year of high school, tenth grade, and Brad was a good-looking trumpet player who sat first chair.  I had a perfect view of him from my vantage point in the percussion…

Issue 15.4 – Fiction

Grace was their miracle baby. Susan had picked Grace’s name because she felt sure, one-hundred percent, bone-deep sure, that she was a miracle. After four miscarriages in five years, Pete had wanted them to stop. The toll it was taking on them was too much, he’d said. The elation they’d felt the first time Susan…

Issue 15.4 – Poetry

  The grandmother ever at my shoulder What harm another little nub of butter? A pinch of sage would lift the whole thing   Navigating the gaps as nimbly now as she did In her dimly-lit kitchen with its three trip-up steps to sprinkle and stir Her jealous Jack Russell and me always lapping at…

Serial – Little River: Vol 2 – Ch 16

“And who are you?” Johnny Bowers asked with a smile. “You know who I am.” Brady’s smile faltered. “Don’t you?” Johnny’s smile broadened as he tilted his head to the side, “Sure I do.” “Dad?” Brady felt panic rise in his throat. “Do you know who I am?” “You’re Brady,” Johnny said with a hint…

Microwork – Draw Me a Vision of Tomorrow

Draw me a vision of tomorrow Where the paper is still clear, so No painted tears blotch memories. Draw it today. Ann Rosenthal lives in New Zealand. Her poetry is featured in NZ Poetry 2018 and multiple US journals, as well as in an upcoming national exhibition of women artists. She is currently homeless.

Issue 15.3 – Nonfiction

I volunteered at the Jewish Family Service for many years visiting lonely elderly people who could no longer get out.   When they called me for Marge they were looking for someone who liked to play Scrabble because Marge needed a partner.  I was an English teacher, so it looked like a good fit.  I could…