By: Eugen Oniscu When I was twenty years old, I had formed a rather unusual habit: I would borrow a book from the library and go to my father’s grave, where a large cherry tree grew and a bench stood…

By: William Kitcher Olivia’s hours at the hospital were cut back, and Ignacio didn’t get the raise he was expecting, so they decided to rent out their spare bedroom. They were in their early forties and saving for a house…

By: Dan Bavister Dreaming the Wreck She worries not that the water mayReflect her gaze – she only caresFor the deep cool of swaying water weeds,Of shells all marbled in the coursing flow,The many gardens of the tide pools. A…

   By: Frank J. Albert      Abner Snopes in William Faulkner’s “Barn Burning” is stolidly self-justified in his refusal to belong to any community. He is the hero of his own story – the story that plays out in his own…

By: Eliza Mimski I am one of those people who keeps a daily journal of sorts. That’s me–I’m 79 now– and I’ve been doing this for as long as I can remember. From the moment I wake up in the…

By: James Aitchison (untitled) dipping his pen in mother’s milkthe baby wrote about stormy heavensand a weasel in a pieabout pink remembered hillsfinite and romanticwithout periphrases or inversionsuntil he lost every scrap of sincerityand the pathos of objectsa mystic babythe…

By James Aitchison The country around South Australia’s Flinders Ranges is unforgiving.  It is also deceptive. Some years there’s enough grass to support thousands of sheep; in others, the pastures become an arid wasteland.  Boom and bust, boom and bust…

By: Black Edward The June cold had settled properly over Glen Norah. It crept through jackets and sat quietly in your bones. Along Kunzekweguta Road, the usual smell of burst sewage floated above the potholes and open drains. Most people…

By: Selena The Message I Never Sent I open your nameand let it stay unspoken.The cursor waits like it knows me,patient with everything I avoid.Every sentence I try to buildcollapses before becoming real.So I leave it unfinished,a silence shaped like…

By: James L Johnson Pedaling non-stop since nine this morninglunch on a rocky shorea shallow rocky section of the Lehigh Riverwhere a mile norththe Aquashicola Creekoffers its tribute to the greater flow. I dip my cloth headband in cold water,…