August 2018

The Leaf Blower

The Leaf Blower

Gusts crept from under the peeling, lower edges of Earth’s wallpaper, crawling out as potpourri of debris.
The Night of the Train

The Night of the Train

To some, a train might signify adventure, or romance, or industry. What does it mean to a soldier fresh from Vietnam?
Mobile

Mobile

Swilling coffee on the roof of a Motel 6, sleepy, thinking of ham and biscuits and another cup.
Animal Mother

Animal Mother

You love and give, and want it all, expecting nothing in return. Your kind’s love is as full of the angels’ as ours lacks of kindness.
Sam and Joe

Sam and Joe

A dog is man’s best friend—until a little girl happens along who needs a best friend more.
The Dead Aren’t Quaint

The Dead Aren’t Quaint

I gathered a bottle of roses and wore a rayon red dress and sat in the oldest cemetery I could find.
If It Were Not So

If It Were Not So

As kids, we jumped on grandpa’s sinkhole, plywood-lined, dandruff-sporing bed and wore his chamber pot as a hat.
For Rachel—

For Rachel—

For Rachel Wetzsteon, a poet who left the week I said good-bye to Manhattan, committing suicide just as I drove off.
Chilindrinas

Chilindrinas

Down the hill I ran, rushed not by gravity’s trail, but the scent of kilned yeast and lard cutting clean through wet dirt air.
A Normal Life

A Normal Life

In a city as vast and changing as New York, can you ever recapture the past? Can you ever get away from it?
Du Monde

Du Monde

“Who won?” Mom texted. Mexico was playing Brazil in the World Cup’s last of 16. I didn’t have the heart to reply.

Upcoming

  • Kids on Division Street
    an essay by Sarah Riccio
  • Guided by Voices
    a story by David Rothman
  • The Lost Works of Pablo Müller-Wessely
    a story by P.J. Blumenthal
  • Irene
    a story by Dave Gregory
  • A Paper Clip
    a story by Siamak Vossoughi
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