by William Falo With gear packed and a rifle strapped to my back, I headed to mountain lion country in the snow-covered hills. It wasn’t long before my muscles ached. Dark clouds formed on the horizon after I huffed and puffed up the first hill. The approaching storm looked worse than they predicted. At the summit of the hill, I Read More
Tag: sept 30 2019
candy floss
by Tianna G. Hansen hip bones become butter beneath your tongue // melted, salty veins are rope lassoed to the rhythm of my // heartbeat //i mold to the contour of your hands // whipped sugar & creamcandy floss between your teeth // inhaled, sweet what will remain once you’ve had your fill — a hungering, vacant hole where you used to // Read More
To me you are,
by Narmadhaa Sivaraja (N) Have you ever washed a coffee plunger? The jug is the easy part. The filter, however, is a wet mess of clingy dregs that’ve made their way into the tiniest of pores, overstaying their welcome like guests who’d muddied your carpets, who’d forgotten what cleanup meant, or how to spot the puddles of molten wax on Read More
in a Jacksonville hotel
by Haley Morgan McKinnon this morning I wake up and I am strongerthere is sunlight through the window and I open my mouth to drink itmay it turn into new breath in my lungs I fluff the pillows that I almost tore apart last night in the grip of my grief like a snakeclutching the life from its prey except Read More
Uncle
by Ross Jeffery The carpet’s rough. Its bristly nibs bite into my skin. Can’t breathe, my father splayed out on top of me, his full weight baring down, choking the oxygen from my lungs. Muscles burn, cramp throttles my calf, a snake coiling around a tree trunk. But still he pushes me to the carpet. Sweat covers us. We are Read More