Apologia in Absentia

By JC Reilly
It was not my intention to purloin your glass eye: I saw it on the nightstand as you dozed, my little cyclops. Iris green as the North Atlantic, pupil black as cuttlefish ink.

Truth Is

By Cherie Hunter Day
I take a crow as a wife. She is faithful to the task. There are many words in her language for want. She has no tact but at least she’s truthful.


By Gary Moshimer
Dad had his Post-it notes in the funeral home. He liked the rainbow colors. He refused to accept her death, this child of his. He stuck them on as though she were sleeping. No one stopped him.

Photo Story: The Great Candled Ball

By Marshall Singleton
The world turns and the effigies we build to venerate ourselves rot to the ground, and we breathe a small entropic sigh, and we wring our filthy little mitts and say ...


By Jacqueline Doyle
She said: We're going to be late. He said: We've got plenty of time. She said: Do you even know what time it is? He said: Soon enough. She said: You always do this.


By David Galef
Seventeen women from ages twenty to fifty-seven wore the same red dress to the Westbury Country Club dance. Kelsey got fired by the boss who canned her sister Stacey, ten years and two states apart.

Key Skates

By Janice Lynch Schuster
Saturday at the roller rink, waiting for a chance to skate with the boy you want to hold your hand. A love song plays, there’s a disco ball.

In and Out of Place

By Corey Mesler
Another new year, they tell me. Trees laden with drippings, Pollock oaks. I venture onto the carpeted lawn with only a number two pencil.

Orchard City

By Leah Browning
When they were kids, this was all farmland. They married and bought a house early on...

That Girl 

By Heather Beecher Hawk
My first real boyfriend, Alan, was a year older. We dated the summer after I graduated from high school.

Photo Story: The Postcard

By Arleane Ralph
Contractors discovered the postcard upon pulling out the kitchen cabinetry. It sat for days on a switch box until the drywallers came.

The Postman

By Elisa Jay
I’m surprised to see the postman’s face at last. The wrinkles parenthesizing his lips and eyes are soft...