He Was Beautiful by Ron Moore

When tragedy strikes we become sleuths. We reconstruct events to establish the belief that it should have been us, it could have been us, it was our fault or we caused their death somehow. The days pass into weeks, the weeks years until the memory fades and details dim.

The Cancer Fairy by Judith Swann

It was a small dark body, like a mouse. Unemployed, it still drove the car, pushing the TV out the passenger-side door, yellow chyme and bile the color of grass, like...

Two Poems by Jacqueline Jules

Avocado Secret When the widow wrote how her husband once said she was like a perfectly ripe avocado, I wanted to rush right out and buy one. Examine its tough exterior, creamy innards, solid core. Learn its...

Kitchen Fire by Kate Horowitz

In the photo of the kitchen fire, We are dressed for Christmas: Me in a flammable hand-me-down jacket, Her in her costume jewelry And her Edward Scissorhands t-shirt.   The scene is blurred...

[POEM] I Too Would Be a Stone by Gregory Luce

“The stone sinks, slow, unperturbed To the river bottom Where the fishes come to knock on it And listen.” – Charles Simic I too would be a stone if only I could harden myself enough I...