This Is Just How I Sound

by Patricia Callan

like I was born
in boiling oil,
my mother
a window–
painted shut,
my whisper
a yawn set
to music; you
hear me lazy.
Your hinged
jaw rusts open.

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Winnie

by Karl Luntta

He sat on a fallen palm tree on the beach, dazed, the pain in his ankle peaking, maybe turning the corner. He’d already begun to think of it as a foreign thing, not part of his body, no danger to him, nothing to worry about. At least he’d begun to will it so. Out here in the middle of nowhere, no doctor, nurse, no clinic on the island, things could go south quickly, and with little flourish.

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Australia

by Steven Beauchamp

Arcing out of the black Pacific sky
like a falling star banking due south
over Brisbane just as the sun rose
on the other side of the world,
we saw the primeval canvas of Australia
spread out toward Sydney in a swirling vision
of rolling eucalyptus mountains,
black snakes of water slithering
into valleys of fire.  Then the deep blue
and gray rocks of the harbor lapping
fields with row upon row of runways
planted with planes.

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The Night You Lost Your Pension

by Joshua James Jordan

The basketball hoops are folded up into the gymnasium ceiling to make room for half of a rusty airplane serving as the centerpiece for the homecoming dance. The shop class had brought it in piece by piece, and the lights strung through it change from purple to blue to green to—now you know where the budget for your raise went. You’re only chaperoning as a punishment after that bitchy assistant principal caught you teaching class while hungover, but, hell, it was a Friday, and you’d used up all your sick leave already, and the substitutes are all idiots anyway.

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In Fall’s Attic

by Deborah Doolittle

That it should come to this
opposite of bliss. This more than
mellow recognizance of things past
their prime, outmoded, out
of date, out of style, fashion, service,
and long past usefulness. Left sitting,
standing, or rolled up onto one side,
our collective sighs are not from
contentment. Once we were the stuff
from which dreams were made of.
Our day dreams and our nightmares
share the same theme.

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