The Arrest, in all its surreal narrative trappings, supercars, and Hollywood theatrics, wants to know if words can save us in a dystopia.
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In December 2014, I had just completed my first semester of a creative writing MFA in Boston and was home for the holiday break. Mileage may vary for those in MFAs—and elsewhere,
Playing Hide ‘N Seek with My Father’s Ghost the blue-sky gleams [______________________]from behind the oak tree [__________________________]like it’s fed by the stream [__________________] on the day my father dies we
The scarecrow thawed & we readied it for the garden.I wanted to rub the purple botches on the Dahlia’ssoft white petals. A robin oblivious to me stoodon earth as soft as bread
save for the shitty under-aged tattoos, you’d never know i was once sixteen— your dad’s hot tub a gumbo of gumption and too-cool girls cash crumpled and rediscovered under the passenger seat,
You tried to color my hair at the kitchen sink the night we moved in together: a big man wielding a little brush with surprising delicacy, applying blond dye in practiced streaks.
I see a photograph of a human heart entirely drained of blood, its surface translucent. The aortic valve and pericardium membrane encapsulating the heart are a pale, pinkish beige just shy of
Having For So Long Been My Mother’sLive-In Caregiver I could call the doctor, make oatmeal,buy vitamins, change batteries,and dim the blinds all day long.I could service your concentrator,clean your nebulizer,or do something
Timothy Nolan (he/him/his) is a writer and visual artist living in Palm Springs, California with his husband and their rescue dog, Scout. He has exhibited extensively for three decades and his work
because there’s something I should tell you,⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀but you’ll need to come to me. I reachand the rock of me stays,⠀⠀⠀⠀ just here where I’m mortared— ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀ I must, then, own my arms,
I come home sad so I slice potatoes thin and fry them with oil and onions, keeping watch to flip at the perfect time, right when they crisp up golden. I remember