A Hole is Just a Vacant Dot by Sarp Sozdinler The day the sinkhole appeared in our front yard, the objects in our home vanished one after the other: Mom’s candy-colored spatulas, Dad’s citrusy Old Spice. Clementines rotting in the wicker basket. We noticed the...
Differential Force by Dayna Bateman Set a bike loose, riderless, with a gentle slope beneath it to give it speed, and the bike will remain upright regardless of terrain. Rough road or no, the bike will correct itself when the world goes wobbly and all sense would...
Birthday by Miriam Åkervall I dream the girl again, lashed to the stern of a tractor. The number on her forehead, the rope in her mother’s hands. I wake in a glass sleeve of sweat. Words gather at the heat like moths, or smokers warming their hands in the night. I ask...
“The part of you that speaks in your mother’s voice,” your therapist asks, by Eben E. B. Bein “is it you or her?” A Mourning Dove lands on the air conditioner outside the window. Inside, two strangers, two chairs, and an empty side-couch—a contingency for...
