Writing is an act of resistance
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In the Dark
By Sarah Sutro how to survive a long disconnect, a winter of nationalist intent, a reduction of feeling? this morning the green slate on the window sill glows blue, under pots of flowers and bulbs raw edges like edges in a gorge upstate, shale-layered rivers, like pressed layers of filo dough in fine pastry snow…
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Proofreader
By Kris Faatz On the day the world finally changed, Cinny had her feet up on the end of the bunk in her prison cell and her nose in a lame women’s magazine. Today marked her seventeenth day at Washington D.C.’s Correctional Facility for Troubled Women. Seventeen days out of the three thousand, six…
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History
By Rachel Custer There is only one story a woman says and maybe she is saying something about the truth, or maybe not. The history of a place like this is the history of those who leave it. It’s a great place to be from they might say, and smile. Pretty men and pretty women…
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Not a Strange Grammar
By Eduardo Escalante nothing to raise Abel or make a song and dance about at the extreme of disorder a hundred-year’s flood every decade stories stir shadows over our small hours there is no place principle or signal right left center where to live no cause, no cause at the extreme of disorder the disorder…
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Thoughts & Prayers
By Jane Rosenberg LaForge They are offered in rote as if the supply is bottomless; like abstractions, inaction and aesthetics; they could be meaningless or mean anything, so long as they are not so sustaining as steak & lobster for the impoverished; more like succotash & wilted lettuce. Maybe they’re a law firm the…
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The Heroic Slave by Frederick Douglass
Celebrate Black History Month with Frederick Douglass’ only published fiction from the 1853 anthology Autographs for Freedom Read the entire story on Archive.org, beginning on page 174.
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I Am Not a Person
By Jessie Atkin I do not want children I decide, stretched out beneath the eyes of the late-night newsmen. My own eyes ache, but not as much as my ears, as my age, as my soul. Yet this ache, this loss without losing, without losing anything I have but the future stings less. It…
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Two Poems by Gary Glauber
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Testimony
By Lynne Handy I smell it— testosterone bones the very air I breathe, raping seas and waterways, regulating wombs and ovaries, paring healthcare to a nub. I smell it in warlords’ jizzy elbow-rubs, in stilled dissent and parody; in decay of human brain cells, contempt for learning. It is strongest in the threat of nuclear…