By Gene Murray
A cigarette tossed from a moving car bounces off the road like a solitary fireworks rocket. This brief event, the length of a spark, pulls me back fifty years. I am a small boy leaning on his leg. He is smoking, I am young, darkness can still be conquered. Only for that spark. Only for that spark. History is looking at a museum through a keyhole, and
memory is a discarded cigarette in the driveway of an essence.
Again, I’m left waiting. It’s the third time someone forgot to pick me up at school this month. Mom will blame Dad and Dad will blame Mom. I blame them both. Living half my life with one and half with another. In other words, all of my life without someone.
They say it will get better. They say they just have to work out a better schedule. Ever since the separation I am told just give it time and the kinks will get worked out. I know better. This is the new norm. I’m done waiting. I’ll just walk home.
By Alanna Pass
THESE LINES
from my pencil
anchor me to this earth
like a kite on a string.
These lines
form words on these pages
giving shape to my thoughts
running wild in my head.
These lines that form words
are lassoed into sentences, then paragraphs
a calm order brought from the spiraling chaos.
My soul is tamed
At least for a while
From the simple act of writing.
By Jade M. Wong
A chilly breeze plucked a white petal off the tulip sitting at the open window.
He loves me.
A second plucked petal floated with the breeze before coming to a rest on the damp soil.
He loves me not.
The flowerpot trembled as a stronger wind blew in, sending petals fluttering in the air.
He broke my heart.
A giant gust rushed in, flinging the flowerpot across the room, shattering the clay and showering the floor with soil.
So I’ll break everything he’s got.
By José Cañusí
They say at the core of every man lay an empty vessel.
Pedro fills his with money. José fills his with religion. Ernesto pours alcohol into his.
Claudio stuffs his core with self-admiration.
Turns out Pedro’s vessel is too small to hold all his money, so he gives his leftover cash to José, who always exudes the type of inner peace Pedro so covets. (Plus, he can get a tax write-off.)
José secretly craves Ernesto’s decadence.
Meanwhile, Claudio assumes they all envy him. (He’s right, of course.)
This Lady has lost her way.
She is an immigrant: a French girl, originally.
She welcomed others, lighting the way to a better life.
She watched, twice, with pride as the boys sailed off to rescue her homeland. She counted them back; too many never returned.
She wept as she watched the towers burn and fall. They were immigrants, like her. How could they?
She grew angry and suspicious.
Lately she has lost her way. The light has gone dark. She no longer welcomes the wretched refuse.
Only for a time. Maybe just for a few years. Maybe just four.
Bio: Bob Krenzel writes historical fiction in his spare time. A 24-year Army veteran, he served in the Balkans, Iraq, and Afghanistan.
phones in our pockets
sweatshop blood on our fingers
Siri, don’t you care?
