Fiction
Fiction
After the Earthquake
At first, the dreams were jagged and bewildering, like migraine lightning or a Dali canvas.
Carl Boon
Short Story
No Man’s Land
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
Eileen Herbert-Goodall
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
Poetry
Hello I am a Star
Sky sky sky sky stars Stars and stars and stars HELLO STARS I love you Blink blink blink twinkle Sky, my home I am
Lucy Holden
Short Story
Lichtenberg Figures
The skin is the largest organ of the human body. It insulates and protects. It contains all we are. Fluids, muscles, tissues and bones, shuddering
Jonathan Green
Fiction
What I Can No Longer See
“I’m thankful I’m not a horse,” Marla says, as she reaches for the saltine sleeve inside her tote bag.
Amy Lerman