Gravity

poetry

Mindego Mountain by Joe Cottonwood
Flashlight in hand, 
I follow the boy
toward stars.
Emily as the River Learns of the Button by Darren C. Demaree
Touch becomes hurried
when we are busy fighting
the nature of the gradient
of our time together.
All Nite Wash & Dry by Hilary Sideris
There’s a guitar
in the picture
Lee the laundry lady
sent
Full Length Mirror by Hilary Sideris
I sat at my desk
that bread & coffee
 
day descending
into bread & wine
Syzygy by James Croal Jackson
We collected enough spacedust
to build a story, and so began
ours.
The Pilgrim by Joanna M. Weston
your footsteps
leave no imprint
on paper
only ink the road
a little deeper

fiction

Kissing Mermaids at the True Death-Defying Waterslide to Oblivion by Jim Naremore
On a summer afternoon that melted the gravel under our feet, Tony Bacard and I came to the Mighty Whitewater Hydroslide looking for Merrick Saunders. Word had gotten out that Merrick had spent all winter creating something new and “exceedingly perilous.” We had, therefore, come to see for ourselves. “Exceedingly perilous” sounded fun.
Notes from a Penny-Candy Store by Alex Markovich
It didn’t take me long to sense that something was wrong. I noticed early on that people seemed startled when they first saw me, for just that instant before they regained their composure. Mother sheltered me as long as she could. She distracted me with frilly little ballerina dresses and furry slippers with cute bunny ears, and she hung our only mirror high on the wall.
The Tree by Don Noel
He stomped through the knee-high grasses of the newly-verdant meadow, warm in the afternoon sun, and into the woods, where he threw himself face-down on the soft duff under a hemlock. After a time he rolled over, and saw that the feathery branches brushed the bole of the oak. And a few feet off the ground, a weathered board was nailed into the tree.
Praetorian by Andrew Davie
There was an edge to Mr. Johannes’s voice, which hadn’t been blunted from years of cigars and brandy. The type of voice which belonged to a man who wore diamond cuff links and smelled of savory oils massaged into the skin by Thai hands; he was a man who knew the difference between Ossetra and Sevruga.
Heart Rot by Frances Howard-Snyder
I stood at the entrance to the workshop, inhaling scents of sawdust and resin and listening to the sound of a rasp. The two men in my life, bent together over an unfinished oak dresser, were a study in contrasts: my husband, Gideon, had grey-blond hair cut close to his skull and skin baked ruddy and packed tight as a pitbull's, while Aaron, our son, was loose-limbed with a thin veneer of muscle, floppy hair, and pale cheeks.