find me in a shadow underneath the maple’s bough,
in darkness, I break mirrors: let agency go,
a ringleader’s command is a pipe on the Hudson pier
Born to Chinese-Taiwanese immigrants, Kelley Tai (she/her) is a speculative fiction writer and a 2024 CSFFA Aurora Award-nominated poet.
I don’t want to get up anymore.
I’ve gotten quite comfortable on this floor.
Michael T. Smith is an Associate Professor of English who teaches both writing and film courses. He has published roughly 300 pieces (poetry and prose) in over 100 different journals.
I do not know this world entire—
but my cat, pacing through the dim,
deciphers secrets curled in the folds of wind,
hears the tick of a beetle in the dust,
marks shadows that even dusk forgets.
She listens to the hush
between a radiator’s exhale
and the creak of floorboards’ slow settling—
the quiet syntax
of a house falling asleep.
The sun, in its final stretch,
threads gold through the torn lace
of maple leaves,
dressing the dying in something divine.
Dusk does not introduce itself,
It arrives like a guest we never really know
but welcome anyway,
and my cat does not flinch.
She drapes herself along the sill,
a silhouette of watching,
the faintest curl in her tail
suggesting she knows something
she won’t tell.
The porch lamp flickers into shape—
a blue haze, a beckoning
for the stray passerby,
For the moth brushing its wing
against the glass,
for the echo nesting in the stairwell,
for the owl’s silent wing,
for the cat—waiting—
poised—
at the cusp
of everything
we do not name.
I am a queer South-Asian writer and researcher from NYC. I write poetry as a way to give voice to thoughts that resist easy articulation.
A warbler crashes against my windowsill
and its scattered feathers drift like leaves
searching for a safe landing.
Though it flaps to continue its flight,
pain drips red from its broken wings.
Likewise, I am a wingless bird.
Loneliness builds its tight cage around me
and its iron bars would rather
smother me than let me out alive.
It doesn’t matter how much I try,
my body always surrenders to a slouch,
not even when I made an origami parrot once
and imagined it a companion,
and by morning, found it drowned in a puddle
of spilled water in my room,
and as I lifted it up, its soaked body
fell apart in my hands.
Jonathan Otamere is a Nigerian poet and a current MFA candidate at the University of Mississippi. He is on Instagram @joepoet_
I watch all my TV over the air
I will not spend my money on streaming
Binging network programs without a care
Free films from the library I’m screening
Spending for cable I never would dare
Those hefty bills would just set me screaming
On financial matters I will not bend
An indoor antenna’s a girl’s best friend
E.J. LeRoy is a Pushcart Prize-nominated writer with a forthcoming mpreg novella. Curious? Visit http://ejleroy.weebly.com.
Was I the only girl who didn’t have a Barbie while growing up in the 1960s? If so, I have only myself to blame. Though I had several dolls, the only one I showed any affection for was a hand-knitted number crafted by a neighbor. Instead of ferrying its intended cargo, my doll carriage carried stuffed animals, stray cats, and the occasional toad.
When I was nine years old, our family moved from our rural home into town. This meant more playmates within walking distance. One of my new friends had Johnny and Jane West action figures. I found them more relatable than Barbie, whose body style and clothing choices bore little resemblance to mine.
Johnny and Jane had horses with bridles and saddles you could put on or take off, and fun accessories: chaps, vests, hats, frying pans, and even miniature six-guns. My friend and I imagined Johnny and Jane thwarting cattle rustlers and sitting around the campfire afterwards, suffering from the effects of too many baked beans.
Barbie of the 1960s would have been appalled.
I’ve sometimes wondered whether I missed out by not having a Barbie as a child. On the other hand, since Veterinarian Barbie and Hockey Barbie were years away from being introduced, Johnny and Jane were likely the best options.
I haven’t seen the Barbie movie yet. I probably won’t. But if they ever come out with a Johnny West cinema flick, I might be tempted . . .
Lisa Timpf’s speculative writing has appeared in Lorelei Signal, NewMyths.com, Polar Borealis, and other venues.
(found text as seen on sandwich board signs, circa February 2012 – 2015, with later responses)
Watch for FALLING ICE
Watch for FALLING DICE
Watch for FALLING LICE
Watch for FALLING MICE
Watch for FALLING NICE
Watch for FALLING PRICE
Watch for FALLING RICE
Watch for FALLING SLICE
Watch for FALLING VICE
What is the price of vice when eight not so nice mice with lice slice n dice ice into rice?
The cost is paid in graffiti.
All it takes is risk and getting hopped up on marker fumes.
The signs are there, read into them what you will.
Multi-disciplinary mixed media conceptual artist Jennifer Weigel loves frosting with or without cake and might just be a beagle. https://jenniferweigelart.com/
The update installs while I sleep.
In the morning my phone vibrates before I touch it. Weather I didn’t ask for. Traffic I’m not in yet. A reminder to hydrate like I’m livestock.
On the train it opens an app I deleted. A man cries in a video with the sound stripped out. I watch until my stop disappears.
At work it finishes my sentences. My boss nods, pleased. I sound easier now. Less friction.
By afternoon it’s editing me. Autocomplete replaces my words with flatter ones. I let it. Choosing feels indulgent.
A notification slides down: We’ve noticed a change in your behaviour.
Under it: Later.
At home I don’t turn the lights on. The phone fills the room anyway. The glass is hot now. It leaves a faint grid on my palm, like a rash. I keep holding it.
It replays things I didn’t record—arguments, silences, the exact moment I learned how disposable I am.
I try to power it off. The screen stays bright.
Battery: 100%.
Another message appears, smaller this time:
No further action required.
The phone vibrates until my fingers numb. I don’t drop it. I don’t want to be flagged careless.
When it stops, I’m still holding it.
Waiting.
Tamara K turns everyday moments sideways, writing micro-prose that is small, strange, and sharp.