by Peter Meinke
During the two months of his watch, there had been no burglaries, and everyone was giving him full credit, though he had never seen or even heard anything suspicious. He didn’t tell them he did it partly for the unheard music and partly to avoid his dreams. He didn’t care about burglaries; they seemed like petty crimes at most. People became too attached to things. James couldn’t think of any thing he’d really mind losing.
by Paula K. Speck
Behind the columns of the main entrance, the unspeaking guard motioned me to a uniformed figure sitting behind a desk in the dark foyer. This officer fingered my permission letter with a sour expression and demanded my passport. He took his time examining it, and his face did not change; in the end he motioned me down the corridor opening up behind him. I held out a hand for my passport, but he informed me curtly that he would keep it as security against my return.
by Albert Goldbarth
The four-year-old is sleeping
in the field, and a butterfly
—a monarch, one of those living
stained glass windows the color of
tangerines flambé—is somehow snagged
at the tip of a tendril of her hair.
by Silvia Curbelo
There was no news
in God’s country. The sun
sank without warning.
Every ship sailed away.
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