Home     Current     Archive     Weblog     Editor     Submit   
                                     ISSN 1545-2824


    Shelter      by Gayle Brandeis
They give you a cot, thin, and a pillow, thinner. They give you one brown blanket that scratches, and a white sheet under that. That's all I got to my name, plus a jeans jacket and my work boots under the cot, plus the clothes on my back. Everything else burnt up.

My Lover's Moods      by David Winner
You can't dump a guy you've just begged not to leave you for at least x weeks, months, years. The x depends on several factors: how often you demand reassurance on cold windy nights for one.
     And I swear I've never done it on purpose, never banged on the window with my hand, never opened it a crack to allow in a painful wisp of cold, never encouraged the disruptive outside to wake my lover in order for her to beg for the reassurance that's so reassuring.

Coastal Distance      by Margo McCall
She's not afraid of being caught. Really, it would make things easier. Thinking about Heywood has made her no longer hungry; there's too much churning in the pit of her stomach. She's already shed ten pounds. All that sad fat clinging around her buttocks and thighs has melted away. It's an obvious clue, but Giles still hasn't caught on.

Braga      by Suhayl Saadi
The Old Rectory had been haunted since before it had been built. Everyone on Brusa knew this, and most people on the islands nearby, knew it, too. They had heard the stories at mother's knee, warning them to keep away, or threatening them with some dark figure drawn inevitably from the echoing, unvisited (yet in another sense, much-visited) halls of Brusa Rectory. It was what had drawn Frame to this place, after all.

Medio Street      by Kay Harris
Shortly before Jimmy came home, the Manager emptied the storage apartment next door, and new neighbors moved in. I never saw them. He was a bartender. She was his barmaid. Their hours were upside down from mine. For the first couple of nights, I didn't hear them. Then it started, and more nights than not, I'd have a repeat performance. At 2 A.M., they arrived home and he started speaking loudly to her. Soon, the conversation escalated. He was hollering. She was screaming. He accused her of coming on to customers—men she'd spent too long serving. She accused him of having a dirty mind. Before long, I'd hear crashes against the wall, and him yelling, "Don't you hit me, you slut."

Death By Peanut      by Michele Bigley
Imani looks at the years of dusty class pictures lined up in the oak cabinet. Third grade Imani with pink bows in her short poodle cut, front teeth missing as she smiles as if she just ate a bowl of Jelly Bellies. Next the Fifth Grade Pout, as her mother calls it, where her uncombed mop of nappy hair covers her eyes so all that is visible is her frown. The Dark Years of Junior High: black lipstick and braided hair with violet beads that used to click annoyingly on their frizzy ends. The desperate Mother Look of tenth grade, where her straight-permed hair is dyed an obscenely harsh red. And last year's. Black hair professionally pressed and woven with blond, her lips penciled in to look thicker, green contacts, and a half smile.


Notes on contributors
       Home     Current     Archive     Weblog     Editor     Submit