by Christopher Bakken
The exceptional thing about us
was not that we survived
on speed and weed alone,
burning textbooks to keep warm
when our slumlord crashed the furnace.
by Joan Connor
For thirty-two years Caspar Weems—who was actually a novelist, which he would have been happy to explain to anyone who asked but no one did—had written obituaries for the Glad Rag, the newspaper with the third largest circulation in Hobson’s Choice, a city dwindled to middling in size, once renowned for its production of tractor parts and for rendering duck fat.
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