POETRY Tyurina Allen A Childhood Compared to the 9-Hour Workday Christy Cottle The Downtown Upanishads Mieke Eerkens Kitchen Spirits Denis Michel Garrison Larks Die Too Michael Griffith Maybe One Garrett Patrick Kelly Verano Timothy M. Leonard Kuwait Fall Love Letter Duane Locke Goodbye Circe Jennifer McCoy A Billow on the Clothesline Dan Sicoli Simply Doc
James Boice An American Suicide They found him in his closet. It was his mom. She found him in his closet. He was blue and puffy. Didnít move. Now he lives in his motherís sleep. Sleeping. Only eyes were open. Andrew Gallix Sweet Fanny Adams Granted, it could have been an airport, say, or any other point of departure for that matter, not necessarily a railway station. Then again, I would not want you to go thinking that his choice had been totally arbitrary, although he was, admittedly, no stranger to acts of random behaviour. Jon Ingold And They Say He Shall Return The trees began to slow down. Tall elms, with wide majestic sweeps at their canopies and thick trunks like the legs of a giant; they began to crawl past as if each was old and frail until eventually the concrete rim of the platform grew from the earth to level with the train.
Elizabeth Larrabe Heather
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