(for Jean-Pierre Adams, in coma for almost four decades before his passing) What landscapes emerge when the spirit goesfor a walk? I ask because I do not knowwhat fragment of you was anchored here.To be happy, I should say you were happy,but I keep standing by a windowoverlooking the world, holding backthe birds in your […]
Song of the Last Hour, by Samuel A. Betiku Keep Reading »
FEBRUARY 2023, SHORT STORY, 1015 WORDS The best thing about being dead is no longer needing to breathe. The worst thing about being dead is, well, being dead. The gondola—the one you dove from before you knew, really knew that you’d died—passes overhead, and you are not drowning. Staying down on the seabed is as
You Row and You Burn, by Elou Carroll Keep Reading »
“For some folks, death is release, and for others, death is an abomination, a terrible thing. But in the end, I’m there for all of them.” —Death, The Sandman It’s difficult to say when I realized I was no longer afraid of dying—when that looming specter that haunted the recesses of my mind seemed
“Wake up and ache for your life.” — Natalie Diaz I do not assure you the ligament protruding from your rib cageis an act of kindness. say, you were born a leakage of skin &rotten suspense,with no ache to salve the blood. a sacrilege of meat—fiddlingyour bone marrow. growing up, I fed slowly on damnation,&
Bougainville, by Nnadi Samuel Keep Reading »
State of the Necromancer Address The year 2023 has wrought big changes for your necromancer, dear readers. When I started mortuary school, one of the first things I learned is that—at least in Texas—a mortician can expect to make as much as a teacher. I laughed, I cried, I resigned myself to ongoing penury. At
Ask a Necromancer, by Amanda Downum Keep Reading »
SHORT STORY, 4805 WORDS I can always tell what dish my customers will order. Knowing what the dead crave is my gift. Or my curse. It’s hard to know which. This girl, for instance. Brown, like me, but pale, as if the color’s been leeched out of her skin. Dark, staring eyes, weeds tangled in
Amma’s Kitchen, by Rati Mehrotra Keep Reading »
after the flood we grew carnivore pumpkins,fed on flood fish—silver fish, too small for species,unlucky—they had died in the mud of the road,where the brook had leapt up,had its loud tantrum,and then sucked away,exhausted,a little ashamed after the summer we harvested pumpkins,child-sized, glossy-skinned pumpkins,apricot-gold.were they exceptional?were they sweeter, or fatter?shouldn’t they have been?how else would
flood fish/pumpkin moon, by Grace Cahill Keep Reading »