THE DESERT SAYS the father’s dead it’s a hole we’re standing on, a grain of death, the grain of His death white in the Son praised white the only time. Remembering money is the medicine the judge said others were to take, a dead brother slayne in stammering name of my father’s dark kentucky I made, the tally thrown down to create. Continue reading “Cross Fictions by Garett Strickland”
Corinne shrunk herself to bird size, just hatched.
Cupped on a leaf, she floated down from a tree branch delicately. Her mind rocked back and forth, rocking the leaf back and forth. This was something she did sometimes when she needed to calm down, more relaxing than counting to ten. In her vision, a centipede dropped into the leaf, the comfort cut off completely. Continue reading “Crevice by Trina Young”
My father took me down to the stream and tore my denim dress. The sun tinkled on the water while I tasted it, all fish scales and mud. He stepped along the downy bank, between high scarlet grasses, broken from the wind. Eyes veined. His neck contorted with the strain of watching me float, tendons rigid. Continue reading “A Pulser Sunsetting by Rebecca Grandsen”