PAGES OF GOLD
Creative non-fiction
by Edward Belfar
The photograph, black and white, three inches by five, slightly faded or a touch overexposed, captures my father rowing. With his lean upper body, his dark eyes staring directly at the camera, his wind-tousled, wavy black hair, and a cigarette dangling from his lips Bogart-style, he has a rakish, bad-boy look. . . .
I Had To Say It
creative non-fiction
by David Calogero Centorbi
And it raised more than a few eyebrows, almost all the right ones, except, well, yours.
I was not expecting that.
I thought, oh dear, if me saying, it will always be Mahler, ruined my chances for coffee and pastries at some, never Starbucks, hideaway cafe with you . . .
lost
creative non-fiction
by Jamison O'Sullivan
There’s something in me that needs to get lost.
I’ve never understood the why of it, what triggers the feeling that comes over me sometimes. How sometimes I feel too grounded, like I’m stuck to the floor. How I feel like my entire life is frozen in place, waiting. . . .
Newton, KS to Ft. Madison, IA
creative non-fiction
by John Hansen
The drive at eighty-five. Alone. Like the other times to Newton. My eyes heavy as I merge onto I-35 North fishing for sleep – tungsten split shot weights clamp to eyelids that sink downward. Thoughts die in darkness yet flicker in me like heat lightning. Tires splash puddles from earlier showers to remind me the night has aged. Aware of isolation from human contact, my grip on the wheel weakens. . . .
Don’t Ever Talk About It
fiction
by Kip Knott
He was ten-and-a-half the first time he thought about it. That was the summer his mother died. He thought about it after his father had burned the cheese quesadilla he asked to have for dinner one night. . . .
Weight of the Clouds
fiction
by Nick Farriella
On the morning of the day she promised to make the five o’clock news, she watches her boy lie in the grass from the window above the kitchen sink where her hand shakes holding the knife under the suds in the greased pan with hard webs of scrambled eggs, tomato skins, and chives scraping against her knuckles . . .
alone
fiction
by Ron Burch
The garden hose rises like a cobra, soaking Dennis before it dances away. Fifth time Dennis’s come over and the fifth accident he’s had. I don’t want him to leave. He laughs, says no problem, gives me a hug. My heart wants arms to hug him. . . .
Dedication
fiction
by Trent England
Do you read Zadie Smith or Sally Rooney? What about Donald Barthelme, do you ever read him or Robert Coover? Do you have a favorite book of James Baldwin’s, and do you prefer his fiction or non-fiction? Have you read all of In Search of Lost Time or the Neapolitan Novels or My Struggle? . . .
It’s Not All Black And White:
the art of michael st. john
artists
by Robert Kaniuk
I don’t know art. I don’t know art history or technique or really any of the lingo. It wasn’t until I heard a podcast on Caravaggio that I began looking at it differently. . . .