Issue #6
Spring Flowers by Cori Jones

One day when she was looking for something in the medicine cabinet, she found a stick of eyeliner on the top shelf. It lay against the back, one of his old prescription bottles almost hiding it.

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One-Shop Style by Kayla Thomas

The sales people tell me what I need is a statement coat, that in a Sea Of Neutrals this red coat will be an Outfit-Maker, A Diamond In The Rough.

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The Last Orgasm by Nin Andrews

What you have long suspected is true. I know. It happened to me on April 11, 2013, a Sunday. My husband served me coffee and croissants in bed. Ada, the terrier, joined us and snuggled beneath the covers.

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Back Then and Now by David James

Back then we used to dance slowly to Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me” on your parquet floors, whispering about planting our vegetable garden, planning to seed the lawn with centipede grass, promising to count all the red cars that came down the street.

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Where You Left Her by Paul Asta

She lived three blocks over. Four houses down. Played the violin for the past sixteen years and hated it. Earlier she had asked you if you could curl your lips Chicago Style and you tried desperately to imagine what exactly that would look like.

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We Might Be in New York Already by Maggie Su

We are making mountains out of molehills again, we tell ourselves the morning after. But the night before, in the alleyway behind the gay bar beneath a KFC, we breathe in air like it might slip, sands through an hourglass.

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Ash by Margaret Bentley

One. My husband wonders why at 48, I have begun to smoke from time to time. It is difficult to explain, so I do not try.

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Get Your Authentic Stardust Here by JP Relph

The night the sky cracked, I was sprawled on the hood of my car beside that good-for-nothing boy, naming constellations, ignoring his fingers on my neck.

Bog Iron by Shane Larkin

We make stops on the way to our bog plot to look at the little skeletons. Dad tells me about them. Curlews and skylarks in dancing poses. Tiny skulls.

Amelia Earhart Knew Seven Latin Words for Fire by Joe Kapitan

Ignis, the flaming wreckage, bubbling rubber, liquified cloth, her skin charred and blistering, acrid smoke, the tiny thunders of survival’s kicks

Fulfilling by Fiona McKay

Kate is not ‘imagining it’. There are small tufts of pale fluff on her neck, and no, it’s not ‘just a tissue in the washing machine’ as John suggests. There’s nothing drifting off his shirts, nothing clinging to Ella’s favourite black top, Josh’s Minecraft t-shirts. It’s more solid than tissue, just on her clothes. And only she can see it.

The Storyteller of Aleppo by Donna Obeid

In the barren cold camp, you wear a dusty cape and top hat, wave my cane as if it were a wand and tell me your dream-stories, one after the next, your words spun and tossed like tethers into the air.