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Richard Hartwell
Looking down the length of a hospital bed, Coming out of anesthesia, a Carnaby Street Angel appears as a mod-clad apparition in High-heeled, knee-length Walking Boots of White plastic, balanced by a wide white belt Cinched between a red velvet miniskirt and Some sort of short-waisted toreador jacket. Bleached-blonde, ratted hair framing her face; Frosted…
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John Dorroh
Eclipsed When the moon passed between your face & the sun, I shadowed myself under pebbles along the creek where fish shadowed sand grains that shadowed things smaller than themselves. It wasn’t meant as a contest which leaves its victims listless, unable to hook beauty in the eye & marvel graciously at an invisible star…
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Chris Bernstorf
Doing This The needle punctuated the air, a relentless gavel handing down sentences, the craft-store-bought fate punching white nylon futures through the presser foot and into dead canvas my mother’d scrapped from old projects gone wrong. This was her first attempt at the sewing machine after the doctors finally cauterized the last retinal bleeds and…
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M.S. Rooney
On the car radio, I hear an update on the Caldor Fire, but instead of images of exploding trees, melting cars, lives and homes destroyed, my mind sees a childhood path, a wooded bank on the South Fork of the American River, a forest alive with deer, squirrels, snakes, jays, trout-filled pools, cousins in jeans…
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James Owens
They are preparing to flee the city. It is the fifth year of the war, and she is three. A stiff pose, held. A tiny white dress. Mended lace foams at her throat. Her father scowls through his beard And grips her against his chest Like a valise full of her mother’s bones. James Owens’s…