My morning run GoFunds my soul.
A nighthawk calls from a roadside bush
quieting my muddled brain.
An owl hoots from a distant woods
drawing me into the present, in time to spot
a deer emerging from a cornfield,
a rabbit racing down the side of the road.
Fog settles in, providing inner calm.
Physically spent, spiritually rejuvenated,
I can now try to face the morning newspaper so that
the confluence of headlines becomes palatable.
U.S. to spend 1.8 billion on nukes
Experts offer tips on avoiding injuries
while conducting your fall clean-up
9,000 Syrian civilians killed in the last year
When is too early to decorate for autumn?
National Guard called out to end Lakota ceremonies
surrounding pipeline protest
But disbelief, sadness, and anger build,
and then are assuaged by working with animals at the rehab center
and penning letters to Congress.…
...continue reading
Writer and photographer Michael Dickel has work in several print and online publications. He co-edited Voices Israel Volume 36 (2010), and was managing editor for arc-23 and -24. His most recent book, The Palm Reading after The Toad’s Garden, came out in 2016. Previous books are: War Surrounds Us, Midwest / Mid-East, and The World Behind It, Chaos… He has taught at colleges and universities in both Israel and the U.S.
– Michael Dickel…
...continue reading
Barricading himself and a hostage in the Super 8 was not the best decision Tommy had ever made, but he couldn’t face the cops who waited in the pouring rain. He couldn’t face anything outside, couldn’t even face the mirror. He had screwed it all up; he had spun and dodged and dickered with responsibilities all his life, his father’s shadow hooping his hopes and dreams. He was so afraid of being like the old man he didn’t have a chance of becoming anybody else. “Baby, don’t peek through the blinds,” he said. “I can’t let you out. I need you. You’re all I’ve got.”
“What are you going to do?” Michelle wanted to know, and her voice blended with the thunder and lightning. At first, she had shaken all over and cried when he wouldn’t let her leave.…
...continue reading
Garner adjusted his mask, pulling the Plastiskin(TM) tight against his throat. He flashed two fingers to his clone who stood at the end of the hall. He wanted to make sure Garner2 knew to wait a couple of minutes before knocking on the door.
His clone answered with a smile.
Garner was glad he’d programmed the clone to smile like a normal person. Lexa never liked how uneasy his own smiles were and now he could see why. Watching Garner2, he felt a sense of warmth. If he wanted to smile like that, he’d have to learn to do it the old-fashioned way: practice. No way would he install a personality chip in his own head. There were limits to his love and the risk of unleashing a computer virus in his brain was one of them.…
...continue reading
Books of humorous essays can be hit or miss. Too often, the collection lacks cohesion or the humor can feel cloying. Scaachi Koul’s debut, One Day We’ll All Be Dead and None of This Will Matter, is the rare collection in which none of the essays feel expendable. Rather, each one is well-crafted and thoroughly entertaining, balancing keen insight with effortless, acerbic wit.
Koul’s essays largely center around her identity and how it was shaped by her upbringing in Calgary as a child of Indian immigrants, the racism (both subtle and overt) she’s experienced growing up in a predominantly white neighborhood, and the sexism embedded in both Western and Indian cultures. Her experiences feeling like an outsider undoubtedly helped influence her perspective, which is uniquely her own.…
...continue reading
Her particular kind of witchcraft only worked when she lived on the run. It was a hiding magic. She pulled veils over the house and rooms she entered, leaving Uber drivers and pizza delivery boys stranded on the street.
“Oh sorry, I think I missed your house,” friends would say, pulling up to her front door.
She charmed the mail slot to delete her letters. A spell twisted the creaks in the stairs into traps. She sat under a large, one-way window, watching the dogs outside. She drank warm tea and broth and swept soft snow off the steps, sprinkling it with salt. At night, familiars traced the yard.…
...continue reading
Three out of nine days, writing for William Talbot was a joy. The other six days his time would be better-spent fishing. This typically gorgeous morning in the colonial city of San Miguel de Allende, Central Mexico, where the air strokes the skin like a lover, started out one of the joy days. But then the telephone rang. A low down bedroom whisper asked for him by name. He thought she might be one of his students. “We need to meet right away. You have information I’ve got to have.”
Couldn’t be about her grade. After the university back home refused to give him tenure he quit and came down here to teach tourists, hoping to connect for romance. He did not give grades. “What information?”…
...continue reading