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Gettysburg Review
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“Wade”

by Shirley Stephenson

We enter Pacuare by river. A swarm of eyeballs rises to the surface. Crocodiles lunge at the boats. We look to the canopy. Grant us a cotinga, or a toucan. Anything above this waterline. We know the story of the Israeli who died last week. When they pulled him up, only his hand was missing. Like everything here, the croc was defending its territory—attacking with gusto and bright, deadly colors.


“Decoding the Flag”

by Cheryl Dietrich

One summer when I was eleven, I bullied my two younger brothers into helping me open a lending library in our grandparents’ garage. We borrowed books from all our friends, sorted them alphabetically by author into battered bookcases, and set up a card file. Finally, to legitimize the venture, we pooled our money and purchased a twenty-five-cent flag. A library should have a flag.


“Beyond the Crepe Myrtles, Blue Yodel”

by R. T. Smith

The snake in his new outfit coiled and shivered.
The mockingbird from high in the live oak mocked.
Mama on the porch rocker cleaned her two barrel
and sang how looping a skin over the rail top
might make a stubborn sky shake down a spurt of rain.


“In Lapland”

by Christopher Merkner

On Thursday my wife returns from work and says she needs some color in the house, can’t live in this cell-hole another minute, what have we done to bring ourselves to this way of living at our age, we aren’t twenty-five-year-old twits, not anymore. Country Rill is the green she shows me in a magazine. “Look at that,” she says, thrusting the glossy in my face, “and tell me it wouldn’t change everything.”

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