[by Terry Sanville]
Albert Perkins let out a low moan as he slowly climbed the steps. “Damn knees,” he muttered and slumped into the first seat in back of the nickel-plated pole. The doors hissed shut and the bus driver momentarily twisted around, grinning.
“And a good afternoon to you, Mr. P. How’re gigs?” The driver released the air brake and swung the big vehicle into traffic.
“You know damn well I haven’t had a gig in years. You be sure to let me know when Swing music comes back around.” Continue reading Road to Orion
[by Jenny Blackford and Talie Helene]
Everyone wants to hear that opera,
the one that risks the Aesir
thundering down the roof—
The Old Gods Cross-Dressing. Continue reading Too Many Hipsters
[by Holly Schofield]
Mya’s sleeve twitches, then twitches again, her coat of protection wanting her to reach out and grab a handful of macaroni from the casserole dish. She almost gives in, not trusting there’s enough food for all six of them. The Garment Guild foster mother, Alice, doesn’t notice Mya’s arm tremors. Continue reading Twisted Threads
[by F. J. Bergman]
-After Of Geraniums and Self-Involved Wolves, Kelli Hoppmann, oil on panel, 2011
You hide in clouds of animate vapor, amid the dark
leafless branches. You have already almost forgotten
what your reflection used to look like. No sooner
have you compelled one anima into the absence
of the past than another moves to take her place Continue reading Sequestration
[by Sharon Kae Reamer]
She stared at her ballpoint pen on the conference table. The hum of voices was insistent, of the men-hammering-in-a-forge variety. She rotated the pen through an ever-widening spiral, picturing the equations defining the spiral in her head and their relation to other equations, other geometries, but always with the basic spiral body plan. Continue reading A Gift from Fibonacci
[by Lynne Sargent]
I met Daphne in the woods today.
She was clutching her stomach,
holding tight the things that were left to her. Continue reading Apologies from the Moon
[by J. J. Roth]
My name is Dannah Endlove, but this is not my story.
This story belongs to all the inhabitants of my home, the city-state Barosa. We have told and retold this tale countless times and passed it down to our children. One day, it will belong to the entire world. Continue reading Piper: A Song for Flute and Chorus
[by Deborah L. Davitt]
Building a proper pyre is hard these days—
it’s difficult to find myrrh at the store.
Dying every five hundred years, you’d think
I’d have gotten used to being prepared. Continue reading The Pyre
[by Travis Burnham]
Isolde sat, waiting into late evening while the candles burned low, when finally her boyfriend called to cancel. It was Valentine’s Day and she’d taken all afternoon to prepare her boyfriend’s favorite—boeuf bourguignon with a side of homemade egg noodles. It wasn’t the first time her boyfriend had cancelled. Jaw clenched, she quietly told him it was the last time. Tinny with distance, the boyfriend yelled, cursed. She hung up, then fought back bitter tears before chugging from the bottle of Malbec. Continue reading Life Unframed
[by Mari Ness]
The cold creeps softly into your bones.
You shiver against the wind,
grab a leaf huddled against the ground.
A slow burn, this leaf. Perhaps
water refusing to leave Continue reading Burning