Stories

Twenty First Century-and-then-some Transcendentalism – Connor Davis

It’s all so beautiful but I am as separate as a ghost. 6 o’clock mid September brilliance. A gentle breeze. Sweet air. Warmness. Coolness. Sky clay blue and the hint of a tinge of white orange. Neighbor to the left is smoking. The smell cuts through both airs. I think about peeking over the fence and asking if he feels it too but I know he would never admit he did if he did.

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Art

Golden Age – Jonathan Hine

*

 

 

she became immortalized

 

 

in the darkened room

immaterial commentary would not

be stilled,

muffled whispers streamed the

empty space cloaked in psychic wounds,

a running drain led through ceiling

& walls that exercised an

elusive & debasing

influence

filling surrounding space with

the black hue of malice,

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Art

Ricardo López & Christine Chubbuck – Sierra Armor

You are a camera
I am Ricardo.

I speak to mirrors,
too. The paint is
Green & target-red,
swirled onto
my baby head,
until I’m some creature
I create

It’s searing
On some funny face
With my eyelids flipped
inside out, I could
show you
Who I am.
I’m the Velazquez
Venus As a
Boy,

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Stories

speedy and dumb (or infinitely numb) – Elizabeth V Aldrich

i snuck out of bed, i couldn’t retire into myself any longer. it’d become inhospitable; cloying bedwarmth as remonstrating disconsolate and forbidding as anything else. so i got out, i tried to let the cobwebs of sleep in my brain be. they’re the only kind of company i know, you know, and when they glitter i can almost dream i’m home. but no.

i limped to the shower and pulled myself to a stand,

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