Steve Klepetar Bread My grandfather tore his bread, sloshed it around brown gravy, bent over his plate, but my grandmother buttered hers with light, demure dabs, and If I could find their graves, I’d pour out red libations, feel their bodies buried deep in mine. Steve Klepetar has taught one of his granddaughters to do […]
Read MoreJames A. Clark Paper Fortune Teller If I could fold myself back on myself again and again, if I could turn the whole thing over and fold it backward, backward, back to the beginning, I’d write your name under every flap and every day I’d tell myself This is my fortune. James A. Clark earned […]
Read MoreJames A. Clark We Hear Every day, ever-changing: baby wails, toddler screeches, dish shatters, husband shouts, wife shrieks, children whoop, teenage music, Pomp and Circumstance, party laughter, midnight movie, Amazing Grace, ticking clock, ticking clock, ticking clock. James A. Clark earned his BFA in Creative Writing at Stephen F. Austin State University and is currently […]
Read MoreJames A. Clark While She’s Tending Bar Bono comes through the speakers singing about mysterious ways as she mixes her many potions with careless liquid grace, and I think she’s perfect— until I catch her from the corner of my eye, sweet-talking some suit, putting on a phony Southern Belle, bird-dogging the tip jar, and […]
Read MoreJ. Paul Dutterer Jacques’s Box In every music box everywhere there is a little man playing a miniscule piano (the same song always, the same tinny little ditty) to the delight of the very young and the truly old until at night with box closed the little man can finally let his fingers fly over […]
Read MoreJohn Hawkhead Morning practice, the harpist plucks strings of sunlight. John Hawkhead is a writer from the South West of England whose book ‘Small Shadows’ is available from Alba publishing.
Read MoreSarah Dickenson Snyder Newsworthy An alligator just killed a woman in South Carolina out for walk just as I was today, the loop giving me two views of waves of mountains and the mist rising from the White River below, just out on a dirt road, the sound of stone on stone, three deer bending […]
Read MoreRomana Iorga Room with a View All I can see out the window is your absence trimming the landscape. Originally from Chisinau, Moldova, Romana Iorga is a Romanian-American poet living in Switzerland, where she spends her days mingling with words, dogs, and children, not necessarily in that order.
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