Tag: prose

Issue Five July 2017

Table of Contents Connolly Ryan — “The Concerns That Concern You” Patrick Bower — “Tidal Pool” Jalayna Walton — “Sabbatical” Finn Padden — “Seadew” Ron Singer — “An Afternoon in Central Park’s North End” Nicole Marie Mancuso — “Bloom” A.M. Oron — “Happiness for the Hedon”, “Calamity Jane and Mary” John Grey — “At Jeremy’s Wake” Fariel Shafee — “Rooted”, “Contemplation” Sherry Luo — “Chiaroscuro”, “Mel”, “I, Night”, “Glass Tumulus”, “Drifter” Tom Gumbert — “The Filler: A Senectitude Story” Russ Khomutoff — “Materiality and Time”, “The Tarnished Mirror” Yasmeen Tajiddin — “The Forest at Dusk” Bruce McRae — “The Self” Alex Topalis — “Throve” Kelly Neal — “hubris babble” with art by Donna Neal Donna Neal —…

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“An Afternoon in Central Park’s North End” by Ron Singer

An Afternoon in Central Park’s North End In the Conservatory Garden: (A cheerful young woman): “Did you see those e-mails!” (A businessman with a heavy Spanish accent): “People should have the right to…” Surprisingly for October, several buds stand up boldly on a low branch of a still-leafy tree. Then, I see more buds, on other branches. When leaves fall off a limb, the tree substitutes new buds, which will wait until spring to flower. Although I think of the figures in the storied fountain as “The Three Gracies,” or “Flying Buttresses,” the actual title of this lifelike sculpture is…

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“The Filler: A Senectitude Story” by Tom Gumbert

The Filler: A Senectitude Story   The atmosphere is electric. Young starlets with luminescent skin and high voltage smiles bedazzle, while the matronly veterans, robbed of their youth, counter with figure flattering Versace dresses and Harry Winston diamonds. Industry demigods sporting iconic fallal, wave to adoring fans in the balcony. Cameras, red eyes glowing, pan the crowd, capturing the glitz and glamour, beaming it to the media devices of an adoring world.      “Are you comfortable?”      My eyes turn to the cherub hovering above me, resplendently dressed in white. “If you need anything,” she hands me a…

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“The Forest at Dusk” by Yasmeen Tajiddin

The Forest at Dusk              The sun begins to crouch behind the trees as a man trudges down a forest path. With him, a once sobbing woman lies limp on his pale shoulders. Less than a mile ahead, the same man is walking down the path; although, then, he is a boy about to spill into adulthood (and he does not like it).            The man grasps the woman’s waist as if she can feel his cold, calloused hands, and he walks straight down the middle of the road with desperate…

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“Universe” by Nicole Moon

U·ni·verse (n.) i. They say the universe first became thirteen billion years ago when everything the cosmos came to be, collided with itself. Long before my bones married your bones, you and I, we used to be nothing more than lost atoms, looking for a place to call home. Between us, the first time our paths crossed was long before the ribcage of my skeleton became the prison of my heart and before your teeth sunk into my skin. We danced together long before we were embodied beings and long before I could fathom upon abstract concepts, let alone feel…

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“You’d Think I Was Boy Crazy” and “The Inside of my Mouth is Covered in Sores” by Amelia Kester

You’d Think I Was Boy Crazy Aside from the stones, the coins in his mouth. None of the boys I write about are real. He lies back on a messy bed and puts his hands up, over, makes a cat’s cradle with a yo-yo. He’s never slept. He’s drooling mint. He has never seen the ocean and I can make him do whatever I want. He has arms for lacing over chests. You’d think I was boy crazy. I’m busy. I’m climbing up the mountain. I pick up little pieces of fire I find as I walk along the trail…

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“The Train” by Michael Neal Morris

The Train      Almost always, the train track was deserted. In Winter, the rails seemed to draw the eye to the barrenness of the season. In Summer, the rust shone to any passersby, as if to say, “I carry heat too.” During the Autumn, the tracks were the one place where one could not find leaves. Only in Spring could one see any signs of life, and that was the occasional tuft of grass where the wind may have deposited an errant seed.      Maybe a couple times a month a train came through town, never stopping even…

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“The Eighth Floor” by Tucker French

The Eighth Floor       There was a time in his life where everything appeared bright. With each passing day, that unappreciated clarity was swallowed slowly but surely by an encroaching darkness. The point where he could no longer see crept up on his heavy head, despite the signs being clear as day. A dangerous, dreary disinterest devoured all moments of pleasure. He would instead lose himself out of the lone window on the eighth floor where he was constantly surrounded by a crowd of consciousness. For a few brief bits of escapism, the boy could see the shimmer…

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