Tehran, February, 1979 “So you’re a bachelor,” I ventured. “Why do you say that, agha?” “You wear the brown of a bachelor.” “That is a custom for the maghrebi—the westerners. The Berbers. For me it is a good color to disguise the filth I encounter here. For example, that dog.” “Nice taqiyah!” I was complimenting his white cap. White linen doubled over with a kind of gold filigree. “It is an araqchin, agha.” “Why are you sitting here?” I asked. I had had enough of the xenophobic vocabulary lesson. He’s irritated me so I decided to be irritable in return. “I am making illustrations of the bustle and tragedy of these people. These Emricani and the Irani. Maybe some are from Afghanistan as well. They are always in the wrong place. Always the wrong time, those…
“The Jam,” A Short Story by Joshua Britton
A black Nissan hatchback with its lights off rolls down the street. Troy is at the wheel, and he and Brandon listen through the open windows for community unrest. But it’s dark and quiet. The lights go off at 11:00, inside and out, whether you’re ready or not. Utopic villages like this one have sprouted up all over the country, segregation as a result of a rigorous application process. Troy had tried to be admitted just hard enough to know it was futile. These communities were designed to keep out gimps like Troy and minorities like Brandon. If discovered, how they’d snuck in would cause a panic among the residents. Aided by light from the moon without the hindrance of light pollution, Troy slowly navigates the hatchback toward the main gate through the flat neighborhood…
“Featherweight,” A Short Story by Avi Setiawan
On a warm day in May, when only a few clouds tripped across the sky like lambs, Gertrude Stocking began to float away. It was a clear day, with a sky so blue that it made Gertrude Stocking want to cry. She didn’t cry, though; she felt as if she was stewing in a huge pot of soup. It was that kind of day. Gertrude Stocking didn’t notice that she was floating at first, thinking that she was particularly light on her feet on this particular May day. But as she traveled up the street, Gertrude Stocking realized that her feet were no longer touching the ground. She stopped and looked down at her brown patent leather shoes. There was a good half-inch between her soles and the pavement. “Well,” said Gertrude Stocking. “Perhaps if…
“Coddled by Mountains,” Poetry by PS Conway
coddled by mountains watercolor skyline we have forgotten the artist but recall the art on a wall, set apart while all the while Cézanne lies face down in a field surrounded, coddled by mountains carefully crafted by the same god he helped re-create ** seaside ministrations bundled warm and dry midst the juniper subtle scents of pine and lavender blend to blunt the violence of raging surf and the winds that lament with banshee song first days of February, tides carry reminders of winter’s devastations flotsam mottles waves snowflakes cascade white blur the aplomb of the horizon line springtide seems so far away, here amongst the rocks and sand, no driftwood dry enough to light a fire no reeds to weave a holy rood nor to silence the dogged banshee keen the poet has denied…
“Dare To Question: Carrie Chapman Catt’s Voice for the Vote”
A New Book by Jasmine A. Stirling Jasmine returns to grace these e-pages with her story of the woman who led the struggle to give American women the right to vote in the early 20th century. Yes, the twentieth century, just a hundred years ago. Yet to this day, the same kinds of issues continue to plague this so-called enlgihtened country. But who was Carrie Chapman Catt, and what exactly happened 103 years ago this month? Jasmine writes: “As a child, Carrie Chapman Catt asked a lot of questions: How many stars are in the sky? Do germs have personalities? And why can’t Mama vote? Catt’s curiosity led her to college, on to a career in journalism, and finally to becoming the president of The National American Woman Suffrage Association. Catt knew the movement needed a change,…
“Vector Control,” A Short Story by Micah Thorp
Laughter and revelry permeated the ceremony. At least until the explosion. Red balloons, firecrackers, a brass band and the entirety of the Mayoral staff were in attendance as the coffin was marched from the back of a flatbed truck into the midst of Portland’s South Waterfront Square. The coffin was an ostentatious thing, painted in red and gold, with the lid cracked open just enough to expose large Papier-Mache ears and giant snout, complete with whiskers and buck teeth. The laughter was misplaced, though the participants at the City’s mock funeral celebrating the beginning of “Vector Control Week” could not have foreseen the devastation about to befall the event. After all, when is frivolity at a mock funeral interrupted by domestic terrorism? Particularly unaware were two young men who would eventually “claim” responsibility for the explosion. Not…
“Wind Fall,” by Ian Carass
Lila stood at the window as what passed for daybreak began to light her room. Her bed was unmade and would stay unmade until she returned to it. A twitch of the coverlet and a brief smoothing of the sheets was all she would do to make it ready for sleep. The bed bore the indentation of her body. No longer did she turn the mattress, as her mother had taught her. Sheets were washed irregularly. The mould of her form and the residue of her own body odour were comforting when she retired each night. She slept alone. Lila’s husband had left many months before, seeking work up at the Confluence. He had heard that labouring was well paid there and living was cheap, that the air was more consistently purified, that grass grew…
“New Tricks,” by Fiona Sinclair
Lugging shopping up the path, she leaned against the back door to open. Dumped bulging bags on the kitchen floor, exhaled with relief; the food shopping, top of her weekly chore list, was completed. “You shouldn’t have left me alone,” her husband grinned as Olivia entered the sitting room. A grumpy “Oh” as she plonked herself down on the sofa and regarded him with a frown. She wondered when they had tacitly agreed to this division of chores. Whilst she tackled the weekly shop, her husband checked his emails and pottered about the internet. Oblivious to her body language he turned the laptop to face her. “What do you think of this?” On the screen, a motor bike, retro in shape, glossy black with chrome trim. “It’s pretty,” she replied, wondering where he was going…
19 June, 2023
Two Works for Juneteenth by Cori Sims I am . . . More like an eclipsed sun, I am Shade under a tree The stout beer in your gullet A mouth of a cave The skin of the polar bear I am Ever present, inescapable Behind your eyes I began in your mother’s womb And will swallow you with delight In your end No thing is beyond my reach Above the clouds and stars Or deep in the cracks of the mind I hold no fear Of what I am All I must do is Be ** Know Thyself to be Seen A conversation last week with a dear friend revealed a door, a chance to expand a philosophical concept and apply it to Juneteenth, the recently nationalized commemoration of the militia event that drove…
Impact! A Sci-Fi Trilogy by C.K. Westbrook
We continue “The Impact Series” Trilogy with volume 2, “The Collision” We recently attended a book fair where we met the author, C.K. Westbrook, and were intrigued by “The Impact Series,” a science fiction trilogy: The Shooting, The Collision, and The Judgment. In each volume the story, told a day at a time, is that of Kate Stellute, who works for the United States Space Force in the near future and while out for a run is abducted by an alien. She becomes its media connection to the people of earth, who are warned they must change their ways or be obliterated. As the author writes: As the world continues to reel from the shooting, Kate must race to save humanity from more horrific violence. After escaping an angry, dangerous mob, Kate Stellute and her neighbor…