They’re no longer doodles on the inside of a Judy Blume book, or the symbol before I signed my name on notes (folded in my best friend’s palm). I swear I left mine on a bus to Heathrow—back in ‘06, stuck between the blue seats, next to a 50 pence piece. Or maybe…
Issue 16.4 – Poetry
For Lori My parents’ antique store was a place of mystery, filled with ancient transients– though well-groomed– wearing their past glory and future dreams in their faded brocade and gleaming wood. My sister and I romped over scuffed floors, and behind curio cabinets, explorers, curators of treasures— the chair that was really a…
Serial – Little River: Vol 2 – Ch 20
“What’s wrong with you?” Brittany punched her brother in the shoulder as she stepped past his knees and plopped down on the couch beside him. “Nothing,” Brady murmured, not looking up from his phone. “Right.” Brady could almost hear his sister’s eyes rolling. He was not in the mood to deal with her sarcasm. She…
Microwork – “Anthropocene” & “Paradiso”
Anthropocene Georgia clay runs red like blood in crucifixes carved in uneven ground which will grow crops, groaning as all earth groans, under the burden of feeding man. Paradiso She was Eve again–naked in a garden with a man. And there was not a fruit tree in sight. Sarah Gane Burton is a freelance writer…
Issue 16.3 – Nonfiction
It’s football season again. I love football. Born and raised. Something about how the air inside a stadium suspends everyone’s voices while the quarterback, the quintessential warrior, calls out those mysterious numbers just before the ball is snapped along the line of scrimmage. “Twenty-four! Forty-eight! Sixty-one. Hut!” A prophecy from Zeus himself, his baritone voice…
Issue 16.3 – Fiction
There’s change in my pocket. It jangles while I walk heavy against my leg. The dog is at home; too yappy to walk with me this morning. I left the chaos of the house behind. I needed this walk. Calm. Soothing. Quiet. I’ll never tire of these views. The smell of the sea. The salt…
Issue 16.3 – Poetry
To the men who do not catcall me from alleyway caves as I walk home from my ten hour shift alone. To the men who tell me I work harder than anyone they’ve seen. Not “harder than any man,” not “for a woman, your work is pristine.” To the men who give me a…
Serial – Little River: Vol 2 – Ch 19
The sound of a truck door slamming shut alerted Lexi to Brady’s arrival. She hurriedly checked her appearance in the mirror. Tight jeans and a fitted, turquoise sweater that set off her blue eyes perfectly was her go-to, casual date outfit. She looked great, and she knew it. Her long, black hair swung loose against…
Microwork – Here the word is park
Here the word is park, not a parking space. Emigration is an endless series of noticing Not who you are or were, but how Life seeps difference. Parked here, for now. Ann Rosenthal lives in New Zealand. Her poetry is featured in NZ Poetry 2018 and multiple US journals, as well as in an upcoming…
Issue 16.2 – Fiction
Tic, tic, tic. Like fireworks. Like a shower of hail on a rooftop. Like fingernails parading on glass. Like the sound of tires on gravel. The boy was almost soothed by the sound as his eyelashes flickered in the darkness. “Shh,” his mother gently assuaged. Her hands were cool on his forehead. He turned on…
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