“Life” Part II Angela Miller/the one who served justice for women. The storm was coming sooner than anyone expected. Garbage bins, branches, and road signs flew through the air as she drove her rented white Ford Cabriolet. She ducked her head in fear of getting hit by the flying objects. “Why did I come? Damn it. I knew this was coming,” Angela whined to herself while trying to keep the car on the road. She could hear the cyclone coming closer and closer. Her heart beat fast. Fear had conquered her whole body, and she couldn’t focus. She hit a tree, and the car stopped. She looked around. The air was thick with dust. She coughed; her lungs were full of filth. Her right leg was stuck underneath the steering wheel. She tried to free…
“Life,” A Novella by Burbuqe Raufi
Editor’s Note: “How could you live and have no story to tell?” wrote Dostoevsky in his short story, “White Nights.” Life is about the stories we live and tell, and the three interrelated stories in this intriguing novella by Albanian writer Burbuqe Raufi, are no exception. We present these three stories of “Life” – Sergey Volgov, Angela Miller and Samuel Blanc – beginning tonight and concluding next week. ** “Life” Part I Sergey Volgov—the man who fought poverty. Freckled and ashy pale, Sergey Volgov, a very old man, sat in the wheelchair by the window, watching the mesmerizing motion of the late autumn leaves falling from the trees and landing on the muddy ground, waiting to experience his last breath, but his beaten body resisted freeing his moaning soul. A harsh torture, as was his thin…
Paths of Existence: Poetry by Yong C. Takahashi
Journey I emerge from the mud Caked in past indiscretions Mistakes weighing me down I attempt to shake it off And decide I’d never be able to Reduce the heavy load I decide to cry until I’m whole Hoping not to drown in tears Unable to cleanse my past I praise the rain that comes but It’s cold, dark, and unrelenting Not the salvation I prayed for When I think I may drown The sun comes and warms me I look back at the faded footprints And marvel how far I’ve traveled The old path is almost gone The rotted breadcrumbs I left To find my way back home Are washed away and I must Forge a new path to happiness The Collector We can collect treasures Even coveting wounds That aren’t even ours Treasures proudly displayed Spotlight shining on them Repurposed into excuses You can use not to succeed After years, they collect dust Graying, covered with cobwebs Too tired to clean the artifacts Scrambling to recoup…
John McKernan: A Deeper Look
MIDNIGHT PHONE CALLS FROM MY ALIAS Quit pretending you are still a teenager That girl at Wal-Mart keeps asking about you Have you written your obituary yet? Which of President Kennedy’s sluts did you like best? I’m not frightened Are you? Where have you been hiding? Making any money selling cheap fireworks? Why don’t you visit me anymore? Sure Go ahead Enlist in the Marine Corps Here are some verbs to help you out Crawl Slither Sneak Snivel Grovel Let me tell you something you need to know You want a crate of chocolate chip cookies? Buddha walked through the door showing us the new tattoos His entire body a geranium covered in blue and green and black and yellow and red What would it take to make you speechless? A maniac’s kitchen knife to cut out your tongue DIAMONDS OF SWEAT Drop to the dry ground Tiny explosions of dust A large serving of memory please In a chilled wine glass With slivers of yesterday I always…
Kyla Houbolt: A Natural Poetic Eye
What the Bears Do If this is a dream I will open the eyes of my eyes before life kills us all. I want to see what the bears do. I open the ears of my ears when there is a dear hum or sound of grinding that burns. The bears hear it too. The bears are not dancing. They may surround us with their large smell of hot fur or drop to the ground, lope off into woods we did not know were there until the bears claimed them. We have received from the bears something of fur of the woods of knowing in our blood but what about when blood is gone? What then? Then I will wait for the tiger sure to come. I am not prey. I will follow and not be mazed by that hungry chthonic gaze. It may be that any death should feed somebody, but in my family we burn our dead. Journey For a Monday Monday and suddenly I feel an intense longing for the desert….