Issue 44
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Evidence for specters
by Joshua Unikel and Jason Francisco
Evidence for specters or, a trial of forgetting and the transport forced, 
At once shut in four cargo holds hundreds, into Greek history rusted and locked like, 
Secrets the memory of an Axis shut, a ship hidden 1800 meters beneath, 
The twentieth century a sentence of breathless British missiles off the island of, -
So Many Cats in the Car
art by Mahmoud Elmardi
by Catherine Hensley
Of course it was a Tuesday. It seems obvious in retrospect. Nothing good ever happens on a Tuesday. Mondays always greet you with their big Blank-Check Energy. There’s a whole new week ahead! You are going to accomplish so much! And then Tuesday rolls around, and it’s already gone to shit.
Still, it had been a pretty uneventful day, even by Tuesday standards. The sun was shining. Emails were sent. To-do lists were updated, modified, and procrastinated. A grocery run was squeezed in.
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The Continental
art by Isabelle Carrasso
by Andrew Eastwick
After his grandfather died, Clark inherited the Lincoln Continental. It hadn’t been left to him specifically; the will made no provision for the car. But no one else wanted to keep it. His relatives were preoccupied with the house and the furniture and what was left of the investments. So after a bit of wrangling with a faction of the family who wanted to sell the car, and a bit more wrangling with the DMV, the Continental was his.
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.over autumn.
art by Loralee Clark
by Lateef Wilson
i’ve decided i’ll use my last breath to just breathe—won’t be “god, please”-ing or pleasing god with no lazy last minute, i’m scared, just-in-case-of-heaven, i’m-sorry-for-living-my-fucking-life prayer, with my last little air—just taking it in, letting it out—then never again. there won’t be any want in that one, not even a next one like every other one.
i love them but. everything we did did everything to us.
i have to go home. i can’t keep grieving still living friends.
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If I am An Antelope
art by Nawmi Manaam
by Elizabeth Wagner
Nan goes to the grocery store every morning to buy frozen meals for lunch and dinner. Usually, she’s in and out in five minutes, tops. She walks past the self-checkout kiosks, down the popcorn/peanut aisle, over to the freezer section. She stays focused on her main criteria for each meal: under three dollars, at least two servings of vegetables, won’t stink up the break room at the clinic. Today, however, the popcorn/peanut aisle is full of stopped carts and people stand beside them,
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sieve.
art by Mahmoud Dimardi
by heather emmanuel
You need to talk about Eve. Okay. I need to talk about Eve. With someone who doesn’t know
anything about Eve. Because? I still sleep with Eve’s purple t-shirt under my pillow. Because
this is a process. Because Eve is dead and the only way to get comfortable with death is to talk
about it. Say it. D-E-A-D. Louder. The doctor shouts my name then asks for it anyway.
