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Art, Fiction, Film, Poetry, Theatre, & Other Imaginings
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The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Kate Meyer-Currey  My spine is the crested ridge
Of firs; their branches are my Raised hackles: I never sleep When the low sun throbs; The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Raven Undersun  1. The Ashes I am not convinced that perfect goodbyes exist. At any rate, I didn’t get the chance to find out. Temporary farewells have always seemed out of sync with the living breathing reality of the friendship. They left, along with the imprint of a clap on the shoulder, a strange lingering feeling and the sense that you ought to have said something more. Sometimes they were missed out altogether and blue clouds rushed across the internet to ping in pockets saying ‘c’est la vie! See you after summer!’ A poor substitute, I realized now. All that aside, the moments you didn’t realize were goodbyes until afterward have a different feel to them. My lip wobbled. Staring down into the broad circle of my mug of tea to steady myself, I saw it too was full of ripples. I had been jiggling the table with my leg. Glancing out the door to the back yard, I finally found a distraction. The neighborhood cat was back. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
By Kate Meyer-Currey  As twilight deepens, Morrigan, hear my Supplication; may your shadowed cloak
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
 Miss Ree-Ree ran 351 Howard Avenue, which was the kind of building that needed a good power washing a decade ago and just never got it. And I’m talking about the inside. Germaphobes never made it past the front door. The glass didn’t need to be clean for you to see how filthy the lobby was. The grout between the floor tiles was supposed to be white. The walls weren’t supposed to be coal black in spots, either. Miss Ree-Ree didn’t care. This was her spot. Even a shitty kingdom is still a kingdom. She knew who was coming and going at all times. She knew if the mail carrier was early or late. She knew when white trust fund kids were rolling up to buy their drug of choice. She knew if a party or a fight was about to go down. Miss Ree-Ree saw all—but don’t go thinking she was a snitch. Miss Ree-Ree had her own vices and didn’t need anyone calling 311. What, and spoil all the fun?
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
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