i pop. plastic tubes crack for fluorophore, halos buzz through summer skies, dark tar rinds are husked from my eyes.
LaChelle (Sage) Schilling, “Celebration of the Woke,” published in SurVision, issue 4.
“Who keeps tapestries in a dungeon!?”
Jennifer Valk, from Wild Magic of Asémrys.
As the rain began to let up, she realized how frail the walls around her were. She had never seen the ranch house so susceptible to collapse. Even the furniture seemed to run from the walls in anticipation.
Erik Erikson, from Love to See You Smile.
Even in this frozen sleep our roots touch underground with every possibility of awakening.
Brook Bhagat, from “We Are Apricot Trees,” Only Flying.
Today, two families join. It’s the bottom of the ninth again, I think. But both sides win this time.
S. M. Lindberg, from “Bottom of the Ninth.”
I learned Spanish on my hands and knees on the floor, playing with blocks and a Baby Einstein octopus that announced colors in Spanish with the formality of a queen.
Lisa Macedo, from “Morado. Rojo. Azul.”
“This is a 1930s accordion by the Italian company Moreschi and Sons. It is in working condition though one key sticks if not pushed hard enough or, let me be honest, you haven’t had enough to drink.”
Kelsey Yoder, from “Ocean Bound,” published in Five Points.
“I died on the third floor of the library, facing west—wonderful oceanic west, with the sea sparkling as I had forgotten that it could.”
ReeAnn Hyde, from A Misspent God.
“What Faustian bargain was made to set a river ablaze??”
Candace R. Craig, from “Sins of the Fathers,” published in The Hopper.
The Nearby Universe 