an independent creative arts journal
By Rebecca Ferlotti
Posted on
—for antwerp
where cobblestones crunch toes
and elevators plateau:
basement resale lamp shop,
mudslide bikes, traveling
piano…
window display decorator
fumbles hulk-green
zippo.
bags of bottles chime
as we cross underwater
to the wooden robot.
we’re already mixing tequila and vodka. tonight
we’re hoping for the best.
Note: This piece was originally published in the now-defunct The Carroll Review in 2015.…
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By Ran Diego Russell
Posted on
When the bus lost contact with the pavement, it was still traveling the path of the road, but in the wrong lane. And uncomfortably aloft.
As we sailed forward like a low-flying plane, I hoped I might drift toward the windshield with enough intention and elbow room to at least guard my head with my forearms. But I was not alone floating above the seats toward the front of the bus. The full load of passengers was gliding airborne through the pasturelands lining the Pan-Am Highway—and perhaps a few knots faster than the bus itself. There would be no clean landing.
The driver, moored to his seat by virtue of bracing himself with the steering wheel, was madly stomping on the brake pedal, a wild grip paling his knuckles.…
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By Renee Tawa
Posted on
The back door slammed shut. The woman looked up from her laptop and ran her fingers through her short gray hair. Her sister?
She plodded downstairs in scruffy slippers, one hand gripping the oak handrail, the other clutching drugstore reading glasses. It wasn’t her sister.
It was the boy.
#
The boy’s mother had knocked on her door two years ago. They had just moved in next door. Her boy had tripped on a maple seedpod and scraped his hand. Did she have a Band-Aid?
The woman grabbed a bandage from the bathroom and handed it to the mother. The boy was studying his sneakers. He looked lost in an oversized Eeyore sweatshirt.
His mother brushed the boy’s black curls away from his big eyes. She explained that the boy did not like talking to people other than her.…
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By Joshua Pantano
Posted on
The man with the white hat sat half-awake at the bar, neck deep in a bottle of whiskey. When he came in, he boasted about killing a Texas Ranger. Over and over again, he said, He shoulda never crossed my path! I got ‘im with five shots. As people became sick of him, they bought him one drink after another. Soon enough, he could barely see what was in front of him.
The bartender checked his pocket watch. It read 11:56.
Somewhere out in the desert, a hand that shouldn’t have moved touched a hole in a head that shouldn’t have been awake. The hand circled the rim of the hole over and over again and clenched into a rotten fist.
With a shaky hand, the man with the white hat pressed a shot to his lips.…
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By Joslin K. Floyd
Posted on
I want to turn sixteen again
Cry and rip my hair out and
fantasize
of leaving a brain matter portrait on my mother’s wall
I want to feel full again
I hate this empty
I hate this light
I am perpetually in a hospital,
prodded
By doctors who do not pretend to care
Initials in my side, memorializing love I
never felt
This light is harsh
It cuts me
Leaves nothing to the imagination
I may not escape it
I may not turn back to when I was
so young,
Free…
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By J.M.C. Kane
Posted on
When the creek dried to a trickle, my brother started walking the spine like he was looking for something he’d lost. He’d come back with junk in his pockets: a rusted hinge, a fisherman’s lure, a child’s shoe, just the one.
He stopped coming back for supper. Ma left his plate on the table until the gravy skinned over.
I found his boots by his bed. Caked mud was falling off in shapes. The laces were still tied. The insoles held the shape of his feet.
The sheriff asked if he left a note. He didn’t. The riverbed didn’t, either.
By Skyler Sharpell
Posted on
“Okay, that should be everything.” I said to myself, pulling my dark hair out of my face and rushing to tie up my worn boots. Resting my backpack on my shoulders, I felt the pressure of 50 pounds of overbearing force weigh me down all at once. Even just standing with it was tiring, and the equally as heavy duffle bag wasn’t doing my arm any favors. I took a deep breath and told myself the drive and the hike up the hill would be quick, and I hopefully wouldn’t be carrying this dead weight for long. Roughly tossing my bags in the trunk of my beaten old BMW, I slammed it closed and entered the driver’s seat. I really should clean the inside of my car next, I noted to myself.…
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