The Frozen Sky – by Rebecca Harrison

The Frozen Sky Marilla walked in blue shadows. Before her, the glacier towered in chill heights. The air felt like waiting wind. The snow breathed silence. She huddled into her furs. The blue glaciers were once skies, but when coldness had cloaked the world, they’d frozen and sank. She picked up a small piece of…

Through the Veil – by THOMAS ELSON

Through the Veil by Thomas Elson         Katherine was born in an isolated section of an isolated state where creeks were called rivers and foothills called mountains, where the letter “r” held its rightful position in the word Washington, and the final syllables of the word Arkansas were pronounced exactly the same as the state…

The Cookie Jar – by MICHAEL MORRIS

The Cookie Jar   Little Bill constantly snatched his grandmother’s homemade treats. Every day after school, he went to his grandparents’ house, and did his homework at the kitchen table while his grandmother fed him two cookies and a glass of milk. He was never allowed more than this, but too often he could not…

Chance / Woman – by THOM YOUNG

Chance   he gave his only son so that a wretch may become a treasure he gave his last dime to play A2 on the jukebox again and again for there was something left a magic a chance one more time to get up and kick life in the teeth.   Woman   if you…

Owed to Continuation of Species – by PETER BRACKING

  owed to continuation of species   banks you gotta hand it to ’em (and you do you certainly do) banks would slice off your testes rip out your tubes if it were not for their ever grasping need (banks) to claim your first born and any and all subsequent birthings *** Peter Bracking tells…

Poetry – from MEGAN MEALOR

Ripening   mother was our madness   and our curves even her silhouettes were silver           mother could grow marigolds                               in November   she was our snake charmer   our static cling   (Previously published in the Mother’s Day 2014 issue of Broad!)     Little Punk   The wrathful kid with…

Days on Lawndale – by MATTHEW J. LAWLER

Days on Lawndale   Oh those days on Lawndale, The summer sweet weed smell and 40 ounce behemoth breath left its mark upon me like a flame searing flesh. I was in the present moment more attentive than ever, Now reflective upon feeling a certain fire of uncertainty, A vivid emptiness internally.   Identity was…

Butoh / Barbarians – by CARRIE REDWAY

Butoh   I saw a Butoh dancer once snap her back in mid-step jerk her neck to the side I gasped it was surreal but part of the dance.   My spine is an old witch’s crooked cane.   I am afraid that I might lean too far and like a leather belt, crack– vertebrae…

Grandpa’s Hands – by TIM TIPTON

Grandpa’s Hands   Grandpa’s hands were kind, old, tan from the hot sun They told more than his face did about life and where he had traveled in his eighty years. His hands were masterful in finding lost gems, making fishing lures and carving something out of wood to last forever. His hands always open,…

Motherhood Part II – by E.N. LOIZIS

Motherhood – Part II   This is your body soft like a pillow like the place she would want to lay her head and dream how easy to make her smile with the fullness of your curves   This is your body its scars make up a map she reads like Braille this is where…