Sally J. Johnson You are the first person to see the beauty in a firefly without jarring it to watch it die. I buried calico quilts in the ground, for weeks and months after you died so you’d have something warm and home to sleep in. Can I still tell you the things I am… More

At a Co-op in Austin

Jameson Fitzpatrick All week I’ve been drinking in the morning instead of reading the news. Now a pretty shorthaired girl says we’ll be bombing Libya by tomorrow— but tonight there’s a rumor of fireworks, and a burly blond’s chosen my waist to wrap a bulging arm around. He’s a tank of a man, with thick,… More

The Babysitter

Jameson Fitzpatrick Years later, I ride my bike past his house and he’s washing his car in the driveway, the garden hose coiled at his feet, suds running up his arms. (Is his shirt off, or do I imagine that later, in the shower?) I’m surprised at how handsome he is. I’m eleven now, which… More

Wherever You Are Calling From

Pamela Gross Loud in my ear, the boom of waves against breakwater, gusts that finger some storm-strung windharp as you hold your phone’s receiver out the hotel window to share a gale blowing strong, late at night, off the North Sea of Aberdeen. Wakened, wool-eyed, from sleep, I hear your voice: lost along a highway… More

A Firm Manshake (or a case of turbulence)

Bogar Alonso Shear the wool off sky and man quiver s exposed to the mandible of monstrosities. From above, any pinnacle looks small. Staring down the chute of possibility what is determined is that culture is nothing more than fuzz on a peach. Look heavenward to little specks of source material – that no king… More

Field Guide

Pamela Gross It said, Study the map. I did. I accepted the dare of the rugged terrain. Careful, always, not to crush the tender, abundant mosses adorning some stones much as wool dresses the boulder-stolid backs of sheep. The surface was mostly steep slope, cliff-face, and scree; often, hard to find footholds. Above, grew small… More