submitted by Jen Kohan, Minneapolis, MN

The first time I saw him, he was nearly gasping for air. To my right in the street behind me I heard his footfalls before I ever saw him. When I first knew that the sound was chasing me, I slowed my steps near the streetlight, and turned. He was spent. Forehead dewy with sweat, he rested his hands, like paws, on his hips and exhaled.

“That was a long jog.” Heavy breath. He was still in shadow then, but I felt the lamplight approaching him as he moved toward me.

The navy sweat suit matched the midnight pavement and softened his large frame, his chest a barrel. The navy baseball cap hugged his head low, and the bill cast the shadow more deeply over his face. The light still could not reach his eyes.

The last layer, that last tier of shadow fell from tinted lenses in square, wire eyeglass frames. The tennis shoes worn. Out of fashion.

Something wasn’t right. I started to back up, out of the fallen streetlight. Read more »

submitted by Scott Durfee, Saint Petersburg, FL

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submitted by Julie Levine

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submitted by Roxene Rockwell, Los Angeles, CA

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submitted by Kimberly Yarbrough Carpenter, Monroe, LA

Wake up little one
If you don’t come
Then I’ll take the baby.

Be quiet, lie still
Papa has work for you
The nighttime is when I pick

The freshest of fruit

Busted cherries bleed red
Stains the teeth
Stains the sheets

Block the ringing pain
It’s Thanksgiving again
The turkey’s huge

Dessert is you.

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submitted by Carly Swenson, Montana

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submitted by Martin Velez, Mechanicsburg, PA

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submitted by Kathy C.

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submitted by Yona Levy Grosman, Moshav Ein-Habsor, Israel

A little girl of six
Who learned to read
Only A and B
And in Arabic, perhaps, this reads differently,
A little girl only six years old
Was murdered,
Ssssss…
Murdered by her father and her mother
In the name of family honor
Whose spirit
Had already been murdered
At the hands of foreign
Rapists
A little girl of only six
Murdered,
Ssssss…
Murdered
Time
After
Time
A little girl of six.
Little girl
Of
Shhhhhsix…

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submitted by Linda Ravenswood, Los Angeles, CA

he sat there telling her some of the truth during the self congratulatory part of the constantly running, invisible documentary of his life presumably filmed by the angels and the ghost of ingmar bergman. the continuity was amazing except for those times when the machine was on the fritz. whole sections of the time he’d lived in idaho were missing, and most of his daughter’s pubescence — and there was that one section during his second marriage that had someone’s entire thumb in the lens. he absolutely never thought of those times though, so it was really a blessing in disguise. trouble was one day, one of the lost sections showed up on the front porch, when his girlfriend was home and dressed for company. she said, how the hell are you ? and showed the section around the house. the lost section said it was comfortable waiting for him in the living room, and, drinking tea out of the girlfriend’s china, told her all about the rape and the photos, about the big n slutty porn and something about tax evasion. the section was calm and pulled no punches. after a while though, he said he couldn’t wait any longer and stiffly stood and walked out of the house. when her boyfriend came home, all he said to the news of the return of the lost chapters was that if she’d really loved him, she wouldn’t have brought it up. later that night he shoved her awake in the lamplight and with it tight between his thumb and fore finger, snubbed his cigarette butt out on the pink area between her labia and the close canal. lucky for her, the constantly running, invisible documentary of her life had a finicky record button too. she would hurt for a few days, but pain never killed anyone, like he always said.

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