The first boy I ever had a schoolyard crush on was Cole. I misspelled his name as “Coal” for many months. In first grade, just before the dawn of electronic filing when everything was still written on cards and you actually had to think about the Dewey Decimal System, I took on library duty with Cole. We were tasked with completing the tedious work of shelving and organizing books at our primary school. You know, just boys bein’ boys in the library.
He was a little blond kid with curly hair. I wish I could remember more about him, but that was over 20 years ago and I’ve taken a lot of meds since then. I remember he was kind to me and that I felt safe and authentic around him.… ...continue reading
They buried me alive because I didn’t pay. I always thought that was very silly. So he didn’t get his money. Why did he have to bury me? It wasn’t like he even needed it. He had so much of it that it’s just hard to grasp why he went and did me in like that. He had three mansions. The one in England was pretty old and it had a name that ended in shire or ford or something like that. It was pretty in red brick and white windows and looked very European and made of chocolate. He also had another one in Miami that was white and all glass and was on an island where only Rolls-Royces and McLarens were parked—real good shit.… ...continue reading
I flee city, virus, loss, spin, re-compass, choose west. Forest, stream, sinuous, deep, I camp, rig rod, fish. Cast Gray Ghosts
to the far side, expect no strike. I begin to breathe, hope hope revives. Presume zip, nada, zilch, live frugally, on surprise.
I daydream I die, come back not old, not spent, eager to learn to fish again. The sun weighs down, light dives maroon from gold. Dusk swallows tamarack,
aspen, cedar, pine. Riffles gone to eddies swirl to black. I trace path back to tent, the remains of fire, accept dark coals, revel in the ebb.
So, this guy’s breaking my friend’s yo-yo, which has drawn considerable attention since we’ve been in the Maple Leaf Bar on Oak Street in New Orleans. We’re poor grad students. Won the tickets from our campus radio station. We nibbled on some homegrown psilocybin about an hour ago but agreed we felt nothing as we walked in the door.
I merely raise my eyebrows in disapproval when this guy says, “Oh MAN! No way that’s a yo-yo!” and holds his head in his hands as if he just discovered the earth was round. My friend is a kind soul and hands over the red butterfly.
I look at the guy, who’s straight out of the Beach Boys’ Endless Summer soundtrack, fucking my friend’s yo-yo up good.… ...continue reading
‘Where is God?’ he cried; ‘I’ll tell you! We have killed him—you and I!’ —Nietzsche, The Gay Science
“Botheration!”
Next to Ralph’s name on the duty roster were the letters DP&D—death: pickup and delivery. It was his least favorite work. “Dearly departed” souls are frequently unhappy when you arrive to pick them up. Regularly, there are timing or destination complaints.
“I’m not ready yet,” one might say.
“Sorry, but you have to come anyway; that’s the rule.” Or, “Hell? It doesn’t exist…does it?”
“Uhh…you’re in for a bit of a shock.”
Ralph walked to the DP&D office as slowly as possible. By the time he arrived, there was a long line of angels waiting. That’s good, he thought. It betters my chance of getting only one pickup.… ...continue reading
Brandi Spering is the Assistant CNF Editor at Schuylkill Valley Journal Online. Her first book, This I Can Tell You (Perennial Press, 2021), is a poetic memoir that examines the fragility of memory. Other works can be found in super/natural: art and fiction for the future, Forum Magazine, Superfroot Magazine, Artblog, and more.
In this episode of Cover to Cover with . . ., Editor-in-Chief Jordan Blum chats with Sperling about the creation and publication of her book, reconciling trauma, finding catharsis through creativity, and much more!
All the girls in Symor village reduced at least once a year.
Some reduced on their faces, others on their arms, and the braver ones on their legs.
They came to school with white scars running down sunken cheeks, bones visible beneath their diaphanous skin that bloomed with purples and yellows and greens. When school started, most of the girls were newly arm-reduced and flaunted colorful leather pouch-bags to hold the smooth stump where the once wrinkly, crusted elbow was now round and flawless as a baby’s skull.
The most popular girl was Jilia. Everyone in Symor agreed that she was jaw-droppingly beautiful—that is, if you had a jaw. When you saw her you couldn’t help but stare and wonder how she was so delightfully small.… ...continue reading
