The Day of Our Meeting
I dreamed of the day, In the dead of winter, A dreary day, When I’d step off the train And see you there- The day
I dreamed of the day, In the dead of winter, A dreary day, When I’d step off the train And see you there- The day
Meet me in the mountains Of Oregon (Washington’s been having too many fires). It won’t be hard to find me- Just look for the earthship,
Tomorrow is that glint in your best friends’ eye, When he proposes a daring plan. Tomorrow is that rainbow glinting in the sky, Reminding you
I can feel the evening sun, warm on my face, but the chill of the wind coaxes me to pull my coat tighter around me.
Bloated clouds float above the prison, obscuring the sun. I linger outside the narrow cell window, which is no more than a barred gap in
It’s been 6 months, 13 days and 4 hours since I last weighed myself. I hid the scales in a plastic bag under some books
I miss your coffee-covered breath, Early in the morning. It made me hungrier than death For a thrill without a warning. I miss your sweet
When Frances had to speak publicly, her legs shook. As a kid, she had grown faster up than she had out and she had felt
*synth beats* bright plastic blue screen green screen *auto-tune screams* chunky glasses tuned-in apathy *boy band* drive fast die young pretty corpse *twangy guitar*
While he sleeps I catalogue his body. When he is awake I keep my distance. While he dreams I touch and map in a
My first real breath of air smells of pine and woodsmoke. It comes to me on a cool breeze, mid-afternoon, a sunny day that
A dream of a 1920s quasi-candid shot of Debby Harry, mingling graciously among a grandiose Studio 54 scene. Spray the lens of my life with
___The featured image accompanying this piece, entitled ‘Spectrum’, has been used with the permission of artist, Robert Alan, a mixed media artist from New York
he swears that the desert is laughing, mocking him with the distant wail of the wind, the hoot of an owl. each spray of dry
There were times when it seemed like all the beauty was sucked out of my life. This was one of them. It was cold and
You wake up. Are you dead? You don’t know where you are. Look around. There is a wide dirt road framed by tall, dark pine
Carl didn’t know the code. The timer was ticking, the bomb was going to blow, but he had no idea how to shut the thing
It was Saturday. And I love Saturdays. My friend Libby’s dad takes her to church on Saturdays. And Polly’s dad takes her to museums. And
An independent literary magazine for contemporary fiction, thought, and opinion about popular culture, society, and everything on the periphery.