by Christina Dalcher She keeps pieces of past and would-be lovers in jelly jars, crowded on dusty shelves in the root cellar under her front porch. Johnny’s tongue floating in a brine…
by Justin Holliday At the coffee shop I see him turning the page of a book. I don’t read the title but stare at his forearm, adorned with ink vines snaking up to his bicep. His black …
by Steve Carr Sunlight sparkled on the glass jar that lay on its side in white sand. Inside it, Itsy opened her bright blue eyes, yawned, and stretched. The jar was long enough for he…
by Bear Kosik They wore pre-Goth clothes, were confused by hair care products, and hung out in the Gilman coffee shop. They were pretty pleased they weren’t in Iowa, but not completel…
by Richard Knights A man named Skops poured me into his own mouth. I burnt all the way down. I took the fervour that made his pupils shrink and the whites grow, I took his single deep…
By its nature, a self-help book is written by someone who thinks they know what to do and read by someone who doesn’t; there hasn’t been a better setup for the pompous to fleece the credulous since Rome stopped selling indulgences. via Pocket
Painted Grassy Mire, by Nicasio Andres Reed | Shimmer
Heat like a hand at her throat then a breeze kicked up from Lake Borgne to swat Winnie sweetly across the face. One of those breezes every hour. A muddy, warm thing that got her through the day. What would life be without a breeze off the lake? Noth…