haven’t showered in maybe three days, it doesn’t matter, i’m in la which means i’m going to be the least fuckable person anywhere i go, there’s a van that takes people from the airport to a fancy marriot, i’m not staying at the marriot, i’m staying at an airbnb in historic filipinotown, but i’m not one to turn down a free ride, the driver can tell i don’t belong, i only have a backpack, worn-out red canvas with “bastard” written across in faded sharpie, no one sits next to me, i check uber to see how much i’m saving, not as much as i’d hoped, i redownload tinder, i’m going to be the least fuckable person anywhere i go here but the novelty of an east coast butch with a bunch of shitty stick-n-pokes will get me somewhere, i want to be used, i lose most of the day stumbling around little tokyo stuffing my face with dairy-rich desserts, all things considered—yes, all things considered—i am, unequivocally—
– Rachel Stempel…
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Mary was sitting across from me, her fingers touching the top of her water glass, the sides coated with condensation. Not using a coaster. Not that it mattered, the table topped with pocks.
“Is it going to snow?” she asked. “I know you can’t say for sure, but have you heard if it will?”
I finished chewing my scrambled eggs and poked at my hash browns. “Not supposed to,” I said.
“You what?”
Louder, I said, “Not supposed to.”
She drank from her water glass. “I have a long trip ahead of me.”
“It won’t snow.” The hash browns were perfect; golden with a hint of butter and the crispness factor was optimal. “What time are you leaving?”
In the booth behind Mary were an elderly couple, the kind of people who likely came to this place frequently, maybe every morning.…
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You almost walked by me as you’d done many times before. What made you ask me for a dollar this time? Why did I stop to consider your blasé request? I was fickle with my handouts to the countless panhandlers in downtown Oakland. There was no pattern to my altruism, but I always carried a single dollar in my front pocket for the perfect, albeit erratic, tug on my conscience to dole it out.
You were one of the faces in the throng that was questionable; were you another unlucky destitute soul or a street hustler eager to swindle an easy handout into a bigger take? You had smooth black skin and indecipherable clothes: a tan jacket that could be second hand, dark baller sweatpants you might’ve snagged from a lost and found, and a grungy white and red ball cap with its tags still attached.…
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There is a long, barren highway connecting the coastal town of San Marco to the farmland. In the morning, trucks full of produce, dead animals and supplies travel south, bringing provisions to the city’s restaurants and markets. There is a gap in the highway’s guardrails where an unpaved path runs through. Kissing that unpaved path, on a slim stretch of grass, is the home of Mrs. Archimedes.
I used to work in San Marco washing dishes at a seafood shack. The fishermen would sell their haul to the owner and spend the day trading stories at weathered picnic tables, trying to entice me with drinks and company when I came out to clear their plates. They’d offer to show me the nightlife after work, and I’d stay in the kitchen until they lost their patience.…
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What am I now
but an old man,
who loves only
the wind,
the wind…
giving birth the word
wend…
the wending
wind.
I hear it
in the shadows
where it promises
that whatever bends
resides inside
the mind.
With a one letter
difference
the wind
is the mind…
The wind,
which arrives
without warning.
The mind,
which blows
it away.
– Michael Sofranko…
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The first signs—paper lasted longer, printer cartridges didn’t fade, prelabeled files remained empty. It’s nothing, I thought. Every writer has such times. Word output isn’t everything. I’ve been thinking hard lately—that’s work too.
The next sign, only slightly more distracting, was the intermittent ache in my right arm. Had I slept on it the wrong way? Lugged that last heavy bag of groceries too far?
Then at my desk, I reached up toward the bookshelf and felt a sharp pang. Must have turned too quickly. But the pain wasn’t bad enough to seek treatment and became almost natural. I ignored the apparent coincidence that my arm hurt only when I reached to the bookshelf.
The discomfort increased, but I kept dismissing it and concentrated on more cerebral matters.…
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The life cycle of the salmon is a common topic in schools around Washington state. Karen learned about their fatal migration growing up in the Skagit Valley, around the same time her husband Jake studied their Columbia River struggles in Vancouver. Karen remembered painting the salmon species of her choice in fourth grade. She’d painted a sockeye, with its distinctive humped back, garish red sides and hooked jaw. The final product resembled an exaggerated caricature more than the actual creature. Her mother had hung it on the refrigerator for a season before relegating it to a box in the attic with other touchstone school projects, essays, awards and other art projects. Karen wondered if her sockeye was still there.
For Jake, these annual studies of the salmon included multiple field trips to the Bonneville Dam fish ladder and the hatcheries along the Columbia’s tributaries.…
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