Review by Peter Mladinic A shipment of books has come into a bookstore. Time to unpack the boxes and shelve the books. One employee might put Poetry & Pigeons (Sheila-Na-Gig Editions, Russell, Kentucky) in the Poetry section, another, on the shelf for Literary Criticism. After all, this isn’t a book of poems. But then, it’s not
by Claudia Wysocky I beheld a stranger in the cracked mirror that once doubled as my best friend and worst enemy. Thin, sunken cheeks stared back at me, hollowed out by anorexia’s relentless grip. My ribs jutted out like a macabre xylophone, each bone a discordant note in the song of my life. I hated
by Diana Raab As a memoir writer, I do a great deal of reminiscing both on the page and in conversations with friends and family. Last year I entered my seventh decade and realized that I’ve created enough memories for a number of lifetimes. At this point in my history and the history of the
by Daniel Acosta, Jr. It was during my zero-period class in my senior year (that started at 7:30, rather than the usual 8:30 time for most of the students) with my English teacher, Mrs. Briggs, that I truly accepted my Mexican identity. My zero-period class had several exceptional students; I guess I was one of
by Graeme Richmond Mack “What are you running away from, Pat?” Carolynn asked, smiling, the contours of her face faintly lit by the sun spilling through the coffee shop window. I leaned forward and cupped my coffee mug with both hands. Every time I try to explain, I find myself telling a different story. I
by Marco Etheridge Sonny don’t see much these days, leastwise not looking forward. Tomorrow just blank space, like staring into an empty mirror. Backward, now that’s a different story. Too many yesterdays crowding Sonny’s head like to bust his skull wide open. Ten thousand memories screaming, clawing for revenge, or scalding him with hellfire. Yeah,
by Salvatore Difalco Glinski has had my number all night. Can’t make a move without him breathing down my neck, going over the top, calling my bluffs, or just toying with me like a cat with a mouse. Stacked me twice already and he’s eyeing my third stack like I’m just keeping it warm for
by Robert Boucheron The ferry left at dawn and plowed through choppy seas. I stood by the rail on deck, chilled by spray and tense with adventure. Experienced travelers sat on benches in the warm, well-lighted cabin. Sensible people, they read newspapers, sipped from bottles, and ate from wrappers food they had the foresight to
by Sergey Bolmat She was shopping online and saw that independence was on sale. It was so cheap she couldn’t believe her eyes. Maybe it was made in China, she thought, and then she thought that she had to check the seller’s location. And the delivery price, of course. The item could be cheap, but
By Naomi Bindman nestled in branches of rainbow egg laden trees a RESIST sign blooms Naomi BindmanNaomi Bindman has published in Mothering, So to Speak, Friends Journal, Consilience, Import Sky, Honeyguide, Synchroniciti, First Literary Review—East, South Florida Poetry Journal, Lightwood Magazine, El Portal Literary Journal and on Her Own Words podcast. She was a finalist in the DiBiase Poetry Contest, won Dogwood Journal’s Creative