Plastic Jesus – by Peter Jordan

Floors lay on the sofa taking the occasional hit off the pipe. He looked out through the fly screen. Directly across the street was a little Mexican kid riding his tricycle in a small back yard. He knew the kid’s parents; the father worked laboring, the mother waitressed in the Sunrise Diner. The parents were…

Blown Pixie Dust / There’s Something Amiss – by Josh Dale

Blown Pixie Dust Silver and Gold They say are precious metals but I am titanium horizontally intact and this velvet pavement: guacamole on a blue-marbled plate. You know how Plato points up and Aristotle forward? Like Gods we reach out. Like Gods do we vocate. As do the dust of cosmic ancients: Breath in. Pixie…

Everything Red for the Queen – by Michael Lee Johnson

Everything is red in the kingdom of the queen. Matador hat with barnacles, witch white hair to the shoulders, tickling the breast. In her eyes are the blood shot of many vampires; in her heart the daggers of many soldiers. Five inky fingers cross her throat like an ill-fitted necklace. Her dress is like heart…

Haircut – by Norman Belanger

“Cut it all off,” I say. “Yes,” he nods, as he lays the drape over me. He hums and tightens the snap collar around my neck. “My hair doesn’t grow out well,” I say, hearing my voice that sounds small inside the overly bright place. I keep talking, just to talk, as I settle into…

April Letter From The Editor, Nicole Ford Thomas

Hello, denizens of Sick Lit! I have a green folder in a box in my closet. The folder, the kind that can be bought every August for a dime in the Back-To-School sales, has seen better days. The worn, ripped construction paper holds something very important to me: the poems and stories I wrote when…

Poetry collection by Emily Kleaver

Magnets how desperately the earth tugs us to itself as I am growing branches out of my mouth you’ll have seen better I can lend you chalk and when it only hurts your stomach more I’m tearing ribs out covered in stone my spine drawing past my stomach to rest flat against yours pulling my…

The Empress of Middagh Street – by Steve Slavin

1 Before we begin, you need to know that I’m not the most reliable narrator. I’m old, my memory is not as good as it once was, and the story that I’m about to tell you began very long ago. On the bright side, I may be the only person alive who remembers what happened…

In the Solitary Confinement of My Mind – by John Yohe

In the solitary confinement of my mind   In the solitary confinement of my mind I sit on the cement floor cross-legged breathing softly keeping my back straight   In the solitary confinement of my mind I listen to music on a radio I’m given for good behavior and pace for hours wall to wall…

For the Love of the Chase – by David R. Ford

Nowt much to do round here. Boring. ‘Gan play out,’ me parents say, ‘Where? we can’t in the street anymore, man,’. Old gadgies dinnit like the look of us, forget they were kids once. Can’t blame them, it was about a million years ago. We run around beside their gardens, kick the ball near their…

The Rothmans Job – by Mitchell Toews

A STORM LIKE THIS was rare. Snowflakes blocked out sky and sun and moon and stars. The flakes – as big as baby fists – had been falling for three days. Light and dry, they flew, then settled, then flew again – whipped by a dodgy north wind. At night, the tops of buildings disappeared…

Disaster Relief – by Caleb Echterling

A National Weather Service are-you-crazy-for-the-love-of-God-get-inside warning coughed from the idling trucks’ tinny speakers. Twilight darkness captured the noon sky. Hailstones fell from the sky like ticker tape at a Yankees’ championship parade. Molten lava provided emergency track lighting along the roadway shoulder. Highbeams twinkled from the stalled National Guard convoy. Soldiers – ripped from their…

Oreo – by Kristine Brown

“No, it’s not candy.” Ms. Shoestack giggled as my eyes grew big. Four rubber moulds, all a pastel shade. I thought of the bubblegum on sale at the Sanrio store, Hello Kitty and friends dancing across boxes of blinding tin. “She’s always holding her crayons in a fist. I know it’s not part of the…