“Evocatoria or Stories of Grace” by Zeny May D. Recidoro

On paper, she was Carmen but for us, she will always be Mameng. Decades ago, the entire family lived with Mameng in the mansion at Balic-Balic in Manila. It had three levels. The base was made of adobe stone, and served as the garage and granary. The two upper levels were made of kamagong wood later fortified with concrete and steel, and capiz windows later framed with ornate wrought iron. There were twelve rooms, five baths, a kitchen, an out-house in the garden where we kept chickens, a pond where Mameng cultured tilapia, a prayer room and a library. We … Continue reading “Evocatoria or Stories of Grace” by Zeny May D. Recidoro

“Landslide” by Amanda McLeod

  rules caught in the landslide swept away in madness and diamond filled rocks   reason is an unmarked map the unfamiliar wild envelops me   I am lost in chaos theory   there is no light on the windowsill to guide me home   I will not be entombed in this bottomless dark   I take my soul and tear it into a million tiny crumbs of ethereal bread each step a dropped morsel a trail of spiritual stars to mark where I’ve been,  so that I never go back             Amanda McLeod is … Continue reading “Landslide” by Amanda McLeod

“Brown Bear” by Bailey Bridgewater

The submissive bulb of the brown Long Island sunset was barely enough to illuminate the silently flailing figure in the water.  The flaming ball stared down at the commotion from beneath its skin of smog, but the girl simply picked the loose sand up in her hands, running the granules through her stubby fingers, fascinated by the way it felt on her palms, but irritated by how it stuck under her bitten nails.  As she dug it out with her tooth, her mother sat up straight, abandoning her usual reclining position and the song she had been singing on the … Continue reading “Brown Bear” by Bailey Bridgewater

“The Place Where You Fell” by Lorraine Wilson

  This is the place where you fell. Your bright swords and old shields faltering. All your angers and all your courage turned the soft earth to mud and the valley must have echoed, it must have echoed to your cries. In the cool dawn, in our houses we can still hear you shouting, and if we come down to the fields, if we listen in the evening, we hear you weeping. When mist lies in the low meadows, we gather our children away and think of risings and despair. Through all the many years, priests have come to cast … Continue reading “The Place Where You Fell” by Lorraine Wilson

A Short Story by Ximena Garcia Hidalgo

They were anxious to lock someone up, anyone or anything, it didn´t matter. I don´t know why. Lenin explained that empires export their contradictions because they can and as a way to stabilize themselves inside.   The monster, the crippled one, the one on top of the hierarchy, locked up a dog in the bathroom. I don´t know why. It was a big dog. I don´t remember its name. I only remember its tragic fate. He locked it in the half-bathroom on the ground floor, that was maybe two meters wide by three or four meters long. I guess it … Continue reading A Short Story by Ximena Garcia Hidalgo

“The Transfer” by Julie Rea

Hannah’s husband, David, was watching a live interview of the deceased creator of Transference. “Hey,” Hannah said, her long, red, threaded-with-grey hair braided close to her head. She collapsed onto the couch, tired after a day of teaching. “Oh, right,” she said of the interview. “I heard that she died.” “Yep,” said David, scratching his beard. Although Dr. Jimenez was dead and had Transferred in her eighties after becoming terminally ill, she appeared on the monitor in the news studio as a deeply tanned woman in perhaps in her forties. Dr. Jimenez’s daughter, actually in the studio and looking like … Continue reading “The Transfer” by Julie Rea

“Gothic, Colorado” by Zachary Kellian

The snow crunches like stiff leather under his boots. He winds through the scrub pine and aspens, stragglers along the mountain tree line. An aspen trunk, bone white and skeletal in the winter, becomes a perch on which to steady himself. The snowpack is unpredictable here and he needs the rest as his lungs ignite with each gulp of freezing air. The sky above him carries the clear delicateness of winter and one, lone bird — a blush of winged red and orange against the startling blue. It is cold today, but not as cold as it should be. He … Continue reading “Gothic, Colorado” by Zachary Kellian

“It’s All Happening at the Zoo” by Amy Soricelli

How odd to be him, here in this place of fierce thoughts and solid fur. All the best games in the sun, the cold windy bars keeping us tight from one another. She says “look up” I see long necks with spotted long lashes eating from trees. Bears with paws settling down into the pounce and fear of our million looking faces. It is much easier, I answer, to be him, here in this place sneaking between blades of grass, cigarette foil, broken glass. There are cages with stripes, wide eyes, shouts and warnings, pellets of food between their toes. The … Continue reading “It’s All Happening at the Zoo” by Amy Soricelli

“My Eyes, My Eyes, My Eyes” by Donald Zagardo

A trend is a law that has yet to hatch, to become, turned to steel. Lucky children with hormonal madness incline toward trend, but I am an adult. I worry as an adult would, about silly things, like trends becoming laws. How handy it will be, how much fun, how rude to have tiny cameras in one’s head instead of eyes. For the world to see right through and record for posterity, every sight and sound, one would assume. Michel Foucault one hundred years ago would have adored the idea, but not really adored. Each man a prisoner, a jailer, … Continue reading “My Eyes, My Eyes, My Eyes” by Donald Zagardo