by Terek Hopkins
She was in the fourth grade when she had her first panic attack. There was a storm outside, thunder clapping at the windows, lightning dancing panic above the earth. She thought, This is what it must be like to die.
The attack started in her mind, but quickly made its way down her throat and into her chest. It grabbed a hold of her lungs and it squeezed until her breath was something that she could only catch through a singular, concentrated effort.
by Hannah Allen
As a child, I thought I was God.
So when dark and humid air lay into us
at a gas station in Havana, Arkansas
near the base of Mount Magazine
as my father stood outside
to pump fuel, raised his fists, and sang
angry hymns to God, I thought he
was speaking to me. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Daryl Muranaka
Beneath the tree
he digs a hole
wide and deep
to bury the hina dolls
packed carefully, gently,
into their wooden boxes
as if they were
the very baby
they belong to.
by Nancy Ford Dugan
They came in the night and took our values.
Someone (in the mailroom? from the cleaning service?) stripped all the plexiglass stands on each desk of the teal-blue sheet of paper that proudly listed all our corporate values.
Filed under Fiction
by D.S. Maolalai
You’ve seen it before.
They say a lot of writers
begin
with something like it,
because they are looking
at starting
on a white page,
and I believe them,
because most writers
are nothing
if not suggestible.
Filed under Poetry
