Online Issues
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Pacifier and Museum Trips
photo curtesy of the author
by Arthur Mandal
Pacifier
I have a memory of my father burning one in front of me as a child. It drips plastic fire between us, onto the ground, and I’m screaming insanely as a ball of burning yellow flame grows bigger and then gradually smaller from the pinched fingers of his hand.
Every so often, the lesson would be recollected and re-articulated, something along the lines of: “We all need to have our metaphorical pacifiers burnt in front of us now and again.” Even when I was fifteen,
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Goodbye from the Edge of the World
art by Richard Hanus
by Angie McCullagh
Half hidden by the filmy curtain, I watch a man wheel a human-shaped bag from the house across the street, the gurney rattling over exposed concrete. With hands shrink-wrapped in blue Latex, he shoves the gurney into the back of a station wagon and lowers the tailgate with a muted thunk.
Redheaded triplets live with their two mothers in that house.
I text my neighbor Carla to ask if she knows who died but she doesn’t answer.
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Almost
art by Marc Angel
from Siiigns by Samuel Hamen
Translated from the Luxembourgish by Rob MyattIt wasn’t always easy growing up the son of government employees. Most people can’t imagine what it’s like. Or they don’t want to imagine, as is my right, mind your own beeswax, they shout, talking about us like that, you moron. But, I respond, taking this opportunity to write back to them, it’s just as much my right to counter your narrative. Either way, while most of them say it’s about their rights,
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VOCABULARY TEST
image curtesy of the Public Domain Review
by Steven Mellor
a car is to . . . a. start a fire with, b. eat on, c. take pictures with, d. ride in, e. draw with
She circled a. and said absolutely. I said, you don’t want to lose a point. She said
she didn’t want the point and was sure about her answer. And I knew right then
I’d go anywhere she wanted to go.
poor means having very little . . . a. -
One Last Supper Together
art by Helen Hofling
by Marie Anne Arreola
The door is ajar, and it doesn’t occur to me to knock; it is my house, after all.
The gunshot sounds like toast popping—quick, obvious, almost polite.
A child holds the weapon, his arms trembling like new branches trying to bluff the wind. I set a hand on his shoulder and ask if he’s okay. He tells me dinner’s ready.
On the table waits a plate without a fork, a hunger waiting for instructions.
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Money, and 31 Tonight
art curtesy of the author
by Elizabeth Schoettle
Money
I wish I could draw fairies. That is what I should do today. Go to the art store, buy markers and try to draw some fairies. A purple winged fairy I’d make come to life then have her make me small so we could fly all over the world eating fairy food. There’s nothing left. Stop wasting time; but what do voices sound like, real voices? I don’t know, but I do love the color of this orange shirt I’m wearing.
