by Kelly Konya
When he speaks of mindfulness and writes it off— / prayer is better suited but for what?— / I can tell he believes it, fathoms it clearly.
We discovered the joy of Roy White’s poetry at our sister magazine, The Lascaux Review, where his piece “Improv” snatched the air from our lungs.
Until you perceive the extreme loneliness of flannel, / And rub your hands on the paint smacked brick walls
by Michael Fryd
He was startled when he looked up to center his tie and saw nothing: no face, hair, chest, hands, shirt, tie—no George.
by Catherine Deiley
Mid-October wrapped its orange arms around southeast Pennsylvania, and the sweaty hallways of Oley Valley High School, where Cassidy Angstadt waded through the start of her freshman year.
by RC deWinter
your mother’s gardenias still bloom / on the blue porch with the faded bench
Word counts, book sales, even romance: the only astrological guide a writer needs.
by Alan Swyer
Thanks to a combination of persistence, conniving, and luck, I was in a privileged position in Paris: writing the Paris section of a travel guide.
by Peter J. Stavros
It’s that thing that wakes you at three in the morning, with a gasp and a startle.
The brains sat in the circle, surrounded by string. I can’t tell you what they were thinking, being one of them.
by Angela Kubinec
Look in any bookstore. You will see the evidence of what I call “widespread anti-depressant failure.”
by Mark Fitzpatrick
spike-heels scuffed from the journey through night, / sway down the bitterness of this street
I have three sets of china that I did not select, having received them from women who lived before me.
by Deirdre Fagan
I read it in the paper, the news about the 87-year-old man who went to bed with a bump on his head and never awoke again.
by Kent Oswald
A comic masterpiece? Shouldn’t there be an absolute measurement for that term?