by GINAMC |
03/16/2023 · 7:33 am
by Desmond Everest Fuller
To our left, the neighbors we never see keep an immaculate lawn. Grass that’s beveled. A resentful neatness in their flowerbeds, while dandelions strangle our yard in yellow.
At the old green house to our right, the rhododendrons and the camellias receive tender care. In five years, we barely receive eye-contact. The fence between our yards is decomposing. We have, on occasion, wondered about shame. Continue reading →
by Ellery Beck
I am sick of walking on the sidewalk with cicadas as they sing their last songs. I’m back on the way to class, late—was sitting with a raven, she seemed like she couldn’t fly. How could you expect me not to stay? The big leaves, the ones that swallow my hands when I hold them, are starting to fall. Continue reading →
by Hayley Notter
I found a sandwich bag of white powder in Will’s nightstand. Straddling him, sundress on the floor, I wasn’t reaching into his drawer for a condom (we would break up before I had the chance to offer up my virginity). I don’t remember what I was reaching for. Continue reading →
by Nancy Stricklen-Juneau
My mom’s 13th birthday gift was a kitten. Gray and white striped, she named it “Tabi”.
Tabi is important to this story, because, of all the things my mom was forced to leave behind, her name, her belongings, her friends, Tabi was what she remembered, even as an old woman, when dementia’s eraser wiped out most of her mind. Continue reading →
by Neil Connelly
Summoned 1100 miles north to witness my mother’s end, I spend the flights fixated on her last words. In my fiction classes, I mocked the movie scenes where loved ones passed with trite cliches. I’m proud of you. I’m ready to go. I love you. Yet now, how I yearned for such hackneyed words. Continue reading →