"My life, I realize suddenly, is July. Childhood is June, and old age is August,
but here it is, July, and my life, this year, is July inside of July."
Rick Bass
but here it is, July, and my life, this year, is July inside of July."
Rick Bass
CELEBRATING 5 YEARS AS A LITERARY JOURNAL
SUMMER THEMED ISSUE WILL OPEN ON JULY 1, 2019: ALL THINGS ANNE (GREEN GABLES)
CONGRATULATIONS TO JOE BAUMANN FOR HIS STORY HERE WHICH WILL BE INCLUDED IN THE 2019 BEST SMALL FICTIONS ANTHOLOGY!
SUMMER THEMED ISSUE WILL OPEN ON JULY 1, 2019: ALL THINGS ANNE (GREEN GABLES)
CONGRATULATIONS TO JOE BAUMANN FOR HIS STORY HERE WHICH WILL BE INCLUDED IN THE 2019 BEST SMALL FICTIONS ANTHOLOGY!
"Underneath" by Denny E. Marshall
2019 Christine Prose Poetry Award winner
HAIBUN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
AMANDA MOORE
Though she knows better the girl still says nightmere a relic of early language when she also said fleamingos and girled cheese. Nightmere as if to belittle: merely at night, merely a vision and not some charging mare galloping through dreams to tear and divot the fragile terrain of sleep. She holds onto this verbal tic and I my mother’s ear, which hears her steps outside our room past 2 am, her tall 13-year-old body filling the doorframe and a whimper of explanation: nightmere. And so she log rolls between us stiff at first, no longer familiar with the sensation of family bed, sleeping between the two bodies that made hers. Soon she curls toward fetal, her body’s twitches a metronome to better dreams, her mind shifting to work that can’t be done in the waking world and she rolls toward me, slings an arm around my waist and sighs.
How rare these days to
be her comfort—I can’t sleep
from such delight.
HAIBUN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NIGHT
AMANDA MOORE
Though she knows better the girl still says nightmere a relic of early language when she also said fleamingos and girled cheese. Nightmere as if to belittle: merely at night, merely a vision and not some charging mare galloping through dreams to tear and divot the fragile terrain of sleep. She holds onto this verbal tic and I my mother’s ear, which hears her steps outside our room past 2 am, her tall 13-year-old body filling the doorframe and a whimper of explanation: nightmere. And so she log rolls between us stiff at first, no longer familiar with the sensation of family bed, sleeping between the two bodies that made hers. Soon she curls toward fetal, her body’s twitches a metronome to better dreams, her mind shifting to work that can’t be done in the waking world and she rolls toward me, slings an arm around my waist and sighs.
How rare these days to
be her comfort—I can’t sleep
from such delight.
JULY
NONFICTION & PROSE POETRY
(CREATIVE NONFICTION)
ARCHIPELAGO
PAUL DRESMAN
1. On a Greek bus, stopped at night, a roadside in Arcadia, a blind man was led with his bouzouki case down the aisle by hand.
Maybe it happened, as he said, or it was subject to the invented romances of port taverns,
a succession of singers, a prince here, an empress with thoughtful fingers. I always thought of him as paradoxical: lost, as we all really are, but perceptive.
Continue reading.
ARCHIPELAGO
PAUL DRESMAN
1. On a Greek bus, stopped at night, a roadside in Arcadia, a blind man was led with his bouzouki case down the aisle by hand.
Maybe it happened, as he said, or it was subject to the invented romances of port taverns,
a succession of singers, a prince here, an empress with thoughtful fingers. I always thought of him as paradoxical: lost, as we all really are, but perceptive.
Continue reading.
(CREATIVE NONFICTION)
BETWEEN TRAINS
(A Reminiscence of Travels in My Youth)
NORMA FELSENTHAL GERBER
The sun shone fiercely in the South of France. It illuminated a beach of pebbles. I walked on it; my feet bled. I swam in the sea of indelible ink; it stamped itself upon my soul; I drowned.
Continue reading.
BETWEEN TRAINS
(A Reminiscence of Travels in My Youth)
NORMA FELSENTHAL GERBER
The sun shone fiercely in the South of France. It illuminated a beach of pebbles. I walked on it; my feet bled. I swam in the sea of indelible ink; it stamped itself upon my soul; I drowned.
Continue reading.
JUNE
FICTION
BRAGGING ABOUT PAIN
BRODIE LOWE
A man came up on me one day. Right out of the woods. I felt like he’d been there waiting for me the whole time. Or I happened to cross his path. Either way, it was something I didn’t have any control over.
Continue reading.
THE DOOR CALLED DEATH
KAY BEN-AVRAHAM
One of the gods' stories tells of a young man, a stone-mason, who sought the summer.
Continue reading.
KAY BEN-AVRAHAM
One of the gods' stories tells of a young man, a stone-mason, who sought the summer.
Continue reading.
SNOWFALL
CODY LOWE
He ripped through the front yard in a human cannonball explosion of alacrity, powdery white kicked up behind. Plowed the knee-deep snow like agricultural machinery, breaking past the black tree line and threading through famished limbs whose wooden fingers reached out for fear of shivering to death.
Continue reading.
CODY LOWE
He ripped through the front yard in a human cannonball explosion of alacrity, powdery white kicked up behind. Plowed the knee-deep snow like agricultural machinery, breaking past the black tree line and threading through famished limbs whose wooden fingers reached out for fear of shivering to death.
Continue reading.
