Tag: spring 2025
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Biscuits and Gravy
by Eve Odom Gravy. Beautiful, velvet, mushroom colored gravy, made from the grease of fried pork, and if you don’t have that Crisco will work in a pinch, sprinkled with flour, salt and pepper, and browned to just the right moment. Milk is then added and cooked down to a luxurious viscosity, not too thick,…
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The Last Note of the Sea
by Sheema Kalbasi The girl had been watching The Little Mermaid when the first sound came. It was not thunder. It was the shriek of metal tearing through the air. The television flickered, then the electricity vanished. The room sank into silence. The cartoon ocean froze mid-motion, and Ariel’s song ended just before she reached…
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In the Woods Somewhere
by Sabrina Canepa At first, I thought the smell could’ve been the week-old microwave dinner, something with corn and peas and brined liquid, stewing in the garbage. I thought it could’ve been the garbage in general, sitting next to the side gate, as it had for over a week. The city…
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Dumped
by Mark Brazaitis The first time one of Adrienne’s boyfriends ended the night in a dumpster was an accident. His name was Rupert, and besides his talent for riding a unicycle while wearing a Cat-in-the-Hat hat and his ability to speak spontaneously in rhyme, a quality Adrienne at first found charming, he wasn’t good…
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Lightning Bugs in January
by Derek Updegraff She imagined Harry, Hermione, and the rest of the gang squealing as the flames colored the gray sky. Her mom had said, “Toss them in. Go on, Becca. Toss them in.” So she tossed them in seconds ago, not hesitating because she knew better than to defy her mom. Her hands stung…
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Ampoule
by Angie Macri Race through the language, a circuit of lawslike men hunting for brides, rosein their teeth. Girls line up in white, bits of bonefitted as hourglass. The sand runsuntil it’s done. They cast their fathers’ names asideand take the new, covered by the title, Mrs.now. They never have to use their own name…
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Ask Me and I’ll Tell You
by Annie Przypyszny about the woman who lives in an open grave. She’s not crazy. She’s versed in Edith Wharton, Emily Post, the final poems of Keats. Her Anne Klein dress is only slightly soiled, only a tad moth- nibbled. The oak leaves in her hair appear intentional. She adorns her rich brown walls with…
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Logan
by Nick Visconti Here is the river no one owns, claimedby runoff sediments innervatingfloodplains. I look north and see jets,international, kipping above the clouds,banking on ground-level trust, the pilotshave eyes good enough to count seeds,the absurd amount of seeds lemons house,or the thread counts of a motel’s bed sheets.I’m here to search, and it only…