Three True Stories

Public domain photo by Icetsarina via flickr.

Photo by Icetsarina via flickr.


My child does not sleep, so I go walking with the bones of the dead. The stroller wheels click along the path, trees frame panes of light across the rows. The plots, green and even, are misnamed, trading stories for simple verse, for peace….

Jennifer Delisle is the author of The Bosun Chair, a hybrid of poetry and family memoir. Read “In Pleasantview Cemetery,” “Two Prints,” and “Peonies”

Range Folding (Populus)

by John A. Nieves

“We’re making our weather with a lone light bulb.” — Blake Schwarzenbach

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The Magician

by JL Higgs

In early 1860’s Virginia, Samuel was a rare thing, a free Negro. Rarer still, he was not a farmer, tradesman, or manual laborer. He was a magician in the tradition of Henry “Box” Brown and his talent came as natural to him as breathing. Samuel hadn’t known his parents, Hezekiah and Hannah. Both  had been […]

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Little Pitchers Have Big Ears

by Rachel Toliver

Emily always knew that her second cousin, Paul Williams, could die from Africa. Snakes susurrated along the rafters of his house. Malarial mosquitoes brandished dread proboscises; alligators opened their mechanical mouths. And—the prayer letters reminded them—disease was everywhere. In the Kuluva hospital, Paul’s father, David, plucked bullets from soldiers. He helped the lepers, who had […]

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Far Aberdare

by Paul Yoder

When Donna asked me to come to far-flung Aberdare, I thought about the trees in the nighttime – those burnt-bone-looking monsters that made folks huddle together. In the old days, we’d gather around fires at night, all facing the fire, and, incidentally, each other, and we’d speak. When you see the trees at night, you […]

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Pablo Escobar’s Hippos

by Jane Hammons
Photo by Patrick Gijsbers via Wikimedia

  The blue-eyed plecostomus will not eat shit, and they will not eat driftwood covered in shit. It is unfortunate that submerged wood sustains them because Pablo Escobar’s hippos unload turd after constant turd, coating the driftwood of the Magdalena River, native habitat of the blue-eyed plecostomus who will not eat their shit. They’d rather […]

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The City is a Lonely Pandemonium

by Chris Cartright

James thought that he might try to sleep with Madeline today, but he would not, because he didn’t really want to, except that Madeline might finally make him feel like he had touched another person, that they had touched him back; but since he didn’t know her name, Madeline wouldn’t feel the same, nor would […]

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