by T. E. Cowell
I was having a smoke out on my balcony when I heard someone knocking so loudly, with such force that I nearly dropped my cigarette in alarm. The knocking stopped just as abruptly as it started, and I rested my cigarette on the side of my ashtray. I was about to go inside to see who was there when the knocking started up again, and I realized now that it wasn’t my door being knocked on but my neighbor’s. Then I heard, “Police! Open the door!” Continue reading
by Sara Backer
During the war, my grandmother mailed springerle
to American soldiers in Germany. They could survive
the trip, their cookie lifespan equal to three hundred human years.
Two days to beat, to chill, to roll, to stamp, to bake their sugar,
flour, and eggs. She used a wooden mold of six pictures
carved by my great-grandfather in Dresden.
by Kathleen Janeschek
When I stop to touch another’s skin,
my fingers curve around their limbs and
push down into silky fat woven into muscle
into meat upon bone into the texture of vessels
charting course between the ridges Continue reading
by Erin Carlyle
We set a girl to burn,
and in the ruin of her body we
stamp our feet—cake the mud
and ash. We set her to burn,
and we’ve been taught to hold
the tongue of ourselves, to kill Continue reading
by Sean Lause
Fever hangs in the willows.
The man with the cocksure eye
awaits you down this road.
Trees spell their leaves in syllables of fear.
A black ghost and a white ghost
dance a mystery through your past. Continue reading