by Helena Pantsis
Uncle Dick took a swig of the whiskey, then passed it along to Dad. We felt the house tremble above us. Jeremy stood tall at a corner by the far side of the stairs, reaching his hand up to the crack in the door we’d attempted to stuff with loose packing foam and tape.
“I can feel a breeze,” he said. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Glen Armstrong
She held it behind her back, and the lights dimmed. The world wore orthopedic shoes. What was missing seduced; what was left sedated.
Filed under Poetry
by Greg Walklin
They were waiting for us. Branches and leaves shifted in the wind, like the ashes were dancing or swaying to a hymn of praise. Because it was nearly noon, none of the Beatrice Home for Disabled Adult’s brick buildings cast shadows. Below the lot where we parked, the valley of soybeans and corn swelled and sighed. My parents opened the car door for Beatrice. Much later, when I entered college, the University campus would strike me as familiar, in a way I could not describe, but I would eventually realize that Avery Hall reminded me of the Home. Continue reading
by Jianqing Zheng
—Dorothea Lange’s Filipinos Cutting Lettuce, Salina, California, June 1935
While the burning sun
snaps its long fire whips
like a grim foreman
sitting astride a horse,
the farmhands bend
their bodies and cut
lettuce row after row. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Christine Kwon
I carry a wilting tulip
I pack a champagne glass
I try to trap the runt of the litter
I trace the green tendril growing from my chest
I am remembering my mother Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
Hawaii Pacific Review 