by Sacha Bissonnette
I heard the screeches and saw the tire marks every week. Many drivers failed to use the roundabout properly. I tried to tell them to do something about it—and I don’t even drive. I know it’s a problem because my balcony’s right there. That’s where I drink my green tea. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Jose Hernandez Diaz
I realize she is no longer a little girl. No longer will she read
Where the Sidewalk Ends. She will find new books, new authors, Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Reynard Laverna
The wave crests, a great sunbeam descends and cuts the water in two and the waves drift separately, before thudding against the breakers and launching a light mist over me. The sun finishes its descent and its final rays hold the mist upwards and spread a glittering across the horizon, then drop the chilled water across my body. The dark starts with this film of cold, settling onto my bare arms and seeping through my shirt. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
by Ace Boggess
(question asked by Savannah Dudley)
Open the 2012 volume of Best American Poetry
& there inside its avocado cover
see my inmate number written in black sharpie
by a C.O. from the mailroom.
A reminder. There’s not much else.
I was never one to accumulate wealth. Continue reading
Filed under Poetry
by Paula Eglevsky
Kindness is a mark of faith, and whoever is not kind has no faith.
– Muhammad
Moya Tetushka’s house had a parlor that was always cold. The curtains rustled and the shadows in the room changed from dark to darker throughout the day. There were odds and ends in it; mismatched furniture, peacock feathers, and plastic ferns that seemed alive. The family used the parlor for special occasions like birthdays, when they stood around cakes made of carrots, or holidays, when napkins were folded into tulips. Fanny remembered being at her aunt’s house during Easter. She didn’t mind the curtains moving on their own, or how the rug had tea stains. Auntie Moya kept caramels in the parlor and Fanny ate them, kneeling on a sofa that looked like a chair mushed into a bed. Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 