She was moving from a 10 by 15 into a 5 by 9, downsizing whatever she’d packed into plastic boxes with seals that popped when I lifted them like they were filled with effervescent secrets, household remains, until she’d decided to make the pile smaller so she gave stuff away — not the piano, it was her husband’s, he played — to people who kept…
Brave Michael Dragonhead by Dave Shattuck
i. From the bridge a dozen boys drop paper boats into the river. Small as the cupped hands of mothers, the boats drift and spin in the current, plummet over the falls, and are gone into the New Year. ii. Above the city rooftops, like flower petals burning, fireworks return to earth. Below, down every street, Drums echo off glass and steel of the old…
Monochrome by Cory Saul
During the two weeks they were in the cabin, Andi painted everything grayscale. The lampshades were salt and pepper and the rotting floors were charcoal. She made murals of black on white brick. They sat on flaking used furniture that looked and felt like concrete. Every morning, when Shot brought in wood for the fire, Andi sprayed it down until all the pieces turned to…
Separation by Jeremy Windham
I Dad shouts at my mother from the driveway, his truck hiccups then roars away from us and I kick a rock to the grass with my bare foot. We stand in our garage long after he is gone. Mom covers her mouth with one hand and uses the other to press my sister and I into her heaving chest until the lights flicker out…
Marcus by Katie McGinnis
Marcus was a poet. A man pumped so full of lithium that his arms had swollen into sausages. So fat that I could hardly find his eyes. According to him, to his eyes, the world draped around the sky like a curtain. And who’s to say it doesn’t? That was his point. Marcus was also a philosopher. The man spoke nothing but poetry. Words didn’t…