by Scott Ortolano
The shadows cast by the tall trees seemed to mock them with the illusion of coolness in the simmering Florida afternoon. A constant drone of singing cicadas, or what his Uncle Rupp called a swamp chorus, was only broken here and there by the rustle of lizards startled into saw palmettos by this pair of mid-afternoon intruders. Nothing else stirred—or would for hours. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by M. Anne Kala`i
I.
Mother didn’t teach me how to garden.
She taught me to pack up a house
after the water turned off,
then the lights. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Michael Brasier
Her toys—every little figurine and stuffed animal I bought—rest in a cardboard box collecting dust, not touched since her last visit three months ago. While watching The Twilight Zone, once her and her mother’s evening tradition, I find five small socks—cheetah patterned, sweat-hardened sock calluses—under the recliner. She hated the way socks felt and would sneak off without them. Continue reading
Filed under Nonfiction
by Kalani Padilla
The cabbages will survive at 24 degrees fahrenheit
whether they tolerate or desire the frost
is their secret.
Filed under Poetry
by Isaac Rankin
Before the nurse can draw back the bay curtain, you cup your hand and yell at a whisper, Your beard makes you look like Jesus! It’s not you but the valium talking, winding it’s way through your veins, preparing your body for a microscopic speck soon to sail for a distant shore.
Filed under Nonfiction
Hawaii Pacific Review 