Non-Contest Submissions: “Desire” (Issue 75) UPDATE: We have re-opened non-contest submissions for fiction, nonfiction and poetry for the next two weeks, until Saturday, November 10th, 2018. Submit! Contest Submissions: “Desire” (Issue 75) Submission Period: September 24th – November 5th Finalist Judges: Jo Ann Beard – Nonfiction Contest Nicole Walker – Flash Prose
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I wake up in a room that I have never seen empty.It takes my body more than a few minutes to un-ampersand.It feels like remembering snow in the absence of snow. Like running the tonguearound the teeth
I picture perfectthe moon’sabrasions,orange over Malibuthat night. Ocean blue and crestingin Dad’s blurry footagebehind his father,face paintedlentigo. This was yearsbefore his fall, beforehe only spoke in no’sand wa’s. His skullintact and helmet-free,his
LITANY WITH CHERRY BLOSSOMS Seppuku summer, and you cut my hair so shortI pretend I am the boymy parents want me to bethough I wish I could be nobodyas you sweep the
I believe in the sun even when it is not shining, I believe in love even when I cannot feel it, I believe in god even when he is silent -written on
Ars Poetica with Inheritance & Refuse the neighbors’ son looksabout forty. he’s standingbeneath the oaks in their backyard, bellowing, justsay you’ll never give it to me,meaning the house in which the three of themnow
Landscape Standing on the Circle K bat bridge, I’m lonelyin that selfish way. My car, parked in the lot,smokes from the hood when I push forty-fiveand my phone is busted. I have
Tell her. Watch her facedrain until she’s nothing but a mangled star, dammedlight. She didn’t raise you like this. She doesn’t knowthe tenderness of being a mirror along a lake’s calm.Blue into
BurningFor Mamoni Raisom Goswami When they lifted you up to the pyre, you were all red. Lips painted, eyebrows seething, skinwrapped in the crimson of your mother’s mekhela sador. Your face crinkled
Homecoming On shattering glass water slips
Last, um, my friend Sam let me come over. Sit in the sun, aim my face at the sky. Shootin’ the whatever on the porch, while he ducked under his self-made tarp tent. There