Fiction
Poetry
Lascaux is Burning
The first art Was not art, Rather, a color line shot through the dark, No more expression Than a plea for explanation. The grandest monuments
Lucy Holden
Fiction
After the Earthquake
At first, the dreams were jagged and bewildering, like migraine lightning or a Dali canvas.
Carl Boon
Short Story
At the Beach
It was difficult getting everything together but she wanted to do it for Yacov. The jaundice had left her weak, drained, and the enervating
Edmund Jonah
Short Story
Wednesday
It’ll be a Wednesday. It’ll be cloudy outside. There will be fog creeping over the ravine and remnants of an early-morning rain still drifting
Dorcy Jaffray
Fiction
This is What You Do
I stood in my kitchen, hands slightly palsied as I poured myself a glass of water from the sink.
Warren P. Genesis
Fiction
The Bricks are Shrieking
Cal Jacobs sat in an uncomfortable rolling chair made of plastic and polyester, staring out the tenth floor window of his high-rise.
L. Hugo Mackie