Not For Profit/For Prophecy



Forever, The Little Girl – Kristine Brown

Forever, the Little Girl

Vomiting in a cubicle space was definitely unpalatable and embarrassing. It was a repeated incident, despite the last projection occurring eight months ago. My boss remembered, so when I waddled up to her in my pencil skirt and tights, unaware that I would be moaning, convulsing, and caught under covers a week earlier than expected (and not on a fortunate weekend, mind you), she nodded for me to go, reminding me, “You’ve got sick leave.” Continue reading “Forever, The Little Girl – Kristine Brown”

Three poems by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda

¿A Dónde Vas?

She asked watching me
float farther away through
the Great Lakes as I crossed
rivers in Mississippi… Rios
Grande, passing through oceans
Atlantic, in France it was all
about the Seine even the Salton
could see… I would drift further
inside every time with every wave
hoping with each low and high
tide, I could finally find the current
flow of my own rio. Although
I would sail alone, I felt her stirring
aviso’s as I rowed, I always paddled
deeper rippling to create surges
of poems skin pruned, frio waves
her treasured reminders always
carry me sailing towards
home. Continue reading “Three poems by Adrian Ernesto Cepeda”

To Return by Fernando Sdrigotti

My clothes smelled of fried food — a stench without a clear origin. And the lights of the boulevard stabbed my eyes, bouncing off the glass in Pig’s taxi — the windows, the mirrors. Lights and the stench of fried food.

“I missed that…” I said.
“I asked if you tried virtual sex,” repeated Diego. Continue reading “To Return by Fernando Sdrigotti”

Bomb Nostalgic by Mauricio Montiel Figueiras

The silence that covers the Nevada desert on this reddish afternoon in 1951 can only be classified as geologic. Layers of stillness have accumulated like mineral strata, forming a desolate mountain range that raises across the wasteland. Even the sky is somewhat mineral: the thin creases of clouds make one think of streaks at the bottom of a blue deposit, the kind that yield only to the sun’s radiant picks. The air possesses an earth-colored quality that stings the eye and obliges ceremonial blinking; a ceremony that Doug Ferguson has practiced since 1947, when he crossed the anonymous doors of Lookout Mountain Studios for the first time to sign a contract and exchange a good salary for absolute secrecy. Continue reading “Bomb Nostalgic by Mauricio Montiel Figueiras”

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