by Michael C. Roberts Mr. Benson looked at me down the dinner table with a face, not like I had ever gotten before. I knew the look was different. It was not a look adults give to kids. Not a corrective look like from my third-grade teacher, peering over her glasses, when I talked without raising my hand; not bemused censuring from my father when I farted in church causing my older brother to snicker; not proud like my mother when I recited memorized poetry; not the tearfully sad look when …
by Natalie Mead The tent is gray and orange—gray like the color of my face after a long bout of vomiting, or of my favorite wire-free bra after years of abuse and few washes. The orange is the sturdy International Orange of the Golden Gate Bridge. This is the same orange my friend Vivian wants to paint her house. The light coming through my living room window makes the gray tent fabric glow yellow, like the rotten-banana bruises in the crooks of my elbows. My husband Cory set up the …
by Menasheh Fogel Sophie pulls away from the door, breathing hard, trying to decide what to do. She peers again through the peephole. The man is still standing there. The automatic hall light flicks off, yet she can make him out in the fading light from the small window above the stairwell. He appears perfectly normal, maybe a bit nondescript. He breathes motionlessly, gazing forward down the stairs. She wonders what he could possibly want, what he might be thinking. She remembers …
by Luke Fegenbush “I don’t know why I do the things I do. It feels like an accident, but I’m just the way I am. People hate it. I don’t want to impress anyone. I just want to be and I can’t even do that.” His knees were up by his chest in a defensive gesture, with his shoes on the coffee table, nudging the box of tissues aside. The boy's name was Jace and, due to him being twenty-something, I afforded him a little self-loathing before I stepped in. I let the evening’s late-spring …
by Lewis Scott The Drive There I rolled the windows down and drove toward the trailhead. The breeze carried in the sounds of birds, leaves, and distant traffic. Each familiar sight, sound, and smell filled me with bittersweet nostalgia as I embarked on this journey. 4,400 Steps The first 4,400 steps were the hardest. Each step was a battle against myself, a conscious decision I had to make over and over again. As the sun rose higher, the heat intensified. With every step, the …
To the Film Industry in Crisis, Frank O’Hara by Luca Fois In times of crisis, we must all decide again and again whom we loveand I choose you, everchanging body. I choose again my tongue, shoutingwhen my water bottle pretends to fall on the floor and my friend laughs at my shrills,and thrilled by the news of a published poem, I choose my wiggly muffin tops,and leave behind the comments you threw at me while I jiggled upstairs.I choose my wrinkles underneath my eyes, crumpled for all the …