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Cutting. Rolling. Coaxing her clawed fingers, ravaged by arthritis. Once they held whisper-thin needles, stitched intricate tapestries, bathed her six children. Today, her hands can barely roll the meatballs, barely get the tray into the oven. But they will. It’s her birthday, and once again the house will be full. Sar
She gathers her family around her. Parents, siblings, uncles, aunts—even an old boyfriend or two. Candles extinguished, she pours sweet tea, cuts wedges of cake. Opens gifts and cards, reading every greeting aloud. Relishing their company, their considerate silence. They always mocked her interest in taxidermy. Nobody’
I drape a blanket over my head, instantly transforming into all of the TV monsters that I love: the vengeful creatures, fathomless and mercurial. When I take the blanket away, I revert back to the monster that I have become. My parents don’t know this yet, but they will. Soon. John Harrison studied cultural anthropolog
The clock moved forward, and my Casio didn’t. I told the agent I couldn’t miss the funeral, but the next flight was tomorrow. On the way to the coffee shop, I saw cherry trees blooming. On members’ night, I stood alone in front of the Van Gogh. She would’ve understood. Sergii Pershyn is a Ukrainian-American … Continue
Before the light shifted, mother, you played piano under the stage lights. Before the light shifted, you faded, ghost skin, hallucinations, loud whispers in your head. Before the light shifted, we waited-waited for medications to make you whole. We waited, for the next chapter, our new beginning to the end. Angela Carl
Tell me about the faces that blur, names that disappear. Recall the half-smile of a crush with a moon-shaped scar near her temple. Childhood street names are preserved as passwords. Most memories nestle in imagined palaces, wherein the architecture always shifts. You tell me about presence and its unrelenting beauty. J
Her text read, i left it out on the porch, in a silver adidas bag. No explanation. No apology for last night. No reply when I asked to meet her. Just this dead drop of our relationship. I opened it when I got home. It was some other guy’s sweatshirt. Jim Parisi lives in Occupied … Continue reading JIM PARISI: Personal
The story of the week for September 14 to 18 is… Barren by Cynthia Chrisman
I left my apartment door ajar for her. Mom sat with her coat on, behind her newspaper, on the only piece of furniture in the barren living room. She wouldn’t look up. I stacked the last box of dishes by the exit. I hoped to bolt before Larry returned home. Cynthia Chrisman, a semi-retired homeopath … Continue reading C
She stood watching as the paramedics worked to revive the unconscious man. Loading him onto the gurney and into the ambulance, they took off, sirens blaring. As the crowd dissipated, she noticed discarded gloves left behind, empty of the hands that worked to save him. He was somebody’s boy. Once. Ashley Holloway writes
The day the sky fell, I was puttering around, whittling down the to-do list. Dang thing went right through me – stung like all hell! I pinned it back up best I could, but it’s leaking cumulonimbus. Birds keep slipping off it. I’ll have to call the handyman. He always overcharges. Joe Pearson is a … Continue reading JOE
Mother Nature is flipping channels. A new season airs. Nights grow cooler; the trees display a familiar tinge of color. “My favorite season,” I exclaim—as I do the first weeks of every season. It’s not the colors that excite, but the chance to travel yet again through the memories. Carol Huebsch Reeves loves the fun, …
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