by Collette Grace
My mother’s nightgowns are thick, heavy to the touch, swamping me when she leans down to kiss me goodnight. Well-loved fabric built to last the abuse of a thousand bedtimes, coated in the ghosts of her grandmother’s perfumes. Continue reading
Filed under Fiction
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 