It was alright to meet you that first night is an understatement what Analogy exams are worth a whole lot of nearly nothing is to overstatement. Really: What could be more radically ideal than the whole forsaken universe being
Chalk lines stretch across eroding black top, pandemonium is tasting soot in the mouth, names become ash when memories are buried. The earth can’t save the hum of voices, the way Pompeii can cradle a body from extinction, I’ve learned home is where death is least likely I cannot live here.
A screenplay for a short film Adapted from the one-act play BOXCAR EXT. AN ABANDONED TRAIN YARD; A SMALL AMERICAN TOWN – NIGHT The night is providing a false sense of calm. The hour is late. Beyond a quiet, remote gas station is a cemetery for trains. Stillness blankets the train yard. Empty, rusted rail cars litter the space, discarded and long forgotten. Beyond the perimeter of a broken chain-link fence, the landscape is sparse and the horizon is endless. … READ MORE…
The tall grass grows at the northern edge of the peninsula where rodents scuttle like electricity. Mom says, “There is evil out there: monsters, thieves, gamblers, and people who aim to gain from your failure. But there are no badges of honor for staying home. The way a brush must leave the pallet to make something great, you must leave.
When you study acting as a biracial girl in the South, you will never portray Scarlett O’Hara, only ever Mammy because your program head does not think “protagonist” when she sees a mulatto. You are an accessory, like the dogwoods that dot a plantation.
by Seth Copeland, Publishing Editor Sydney Vance, Senior Poetry Editor Werewolf Viejo By David Aristi Gold been beaten outta me by Every passing year, lo que queda Funciona despacio — what’s left Works slowly. The beastly things I miss, but in war, South Central, or in Juarez Juárez La Jodida Or think Aleppo, those goat & sheep sins would be laughable Today Confieso porque me he vuelto demasiado viejo para presidió — I confess because I just turned too old … READ MORE…
When we think of love, we see big, romantic gestures, flowers, and long kisses in the rain, but it’s so much more than that. Mab Jones, poet and writer, reminds us in her poem “Millionaire” that love is a collection of simple moments, quirks, and affectionate interaction.