by Tova Feldmanstern
i imagine the crumbling of a cookie or a cracker
into parts so small that birds flock to eat them
all at once, a community of birds, each delighted Continue reading
Author Archives: kwintersteen
undone
Filed under Poetry
Once
by Sandra Salinas Newton
I once looked forward
To waking up
Turning to find you
Sometimes awake
And watching me uncurl from sleep
Your hand stealing its way
To my hip
A quiet morning now bursting
To promise of a dazzling hour. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Tinnitus
by Gregory Tarsiscis Janetka
It was late afternoon when I entered the bar. The sun was still high and shone through the small square windows, hitting the rough white walls and reflecting throughout. The place was inside an old hotel dating from the 30s. Perhaps even earlier. It was unclear if its current incarnation was a rare find to casually gloat about on social media or a setting within which to sneak the other woman in order to partake in dirty filthy things amidst blindingly fresh white linens. Maybe both. It smelled of wisteria and the nouveau riche. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
The Graduation Present
by J.G. Alderburke
When Viola opened her eyes, her husband was gone. She let her arm flop across his side of the bed and sighed. She supposed he could be in the shower or downstairs somewhere but the house sounded too quiet for that. Viola dressed and wandered into the kitchen. She filled two mugs with coffee then walked to the front window. Her husband was on the lawn digging at something Viola couldn’t see. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
Christmas Eve Skeleton
by Mike Schoeffel
She is 28 weeks pregnant when she overdoses in the backseat of a rusty Honda Accord. Heroin, of course. It’s always heroin. Bad batch going around. Happens every couple of months. No overdose calls, no overdose calls, then BOOM: three in one shift. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
Hawaii Pacific Review 