by G. K. Wuori
This is what I know, then, my name being Franklin McCormick, a man of uncertain status in that old man’s life except that I lived in a shed on his farm and gave him such labors as I could. It was an exchange, a salvation for my benefit. The instinct to reform never dies in any of us. Like some virtuous corrosion it eats away at a lifetime of fucking up.
by Michael McFee
Grandmother Ella Zoa
would never have flailed
with the hoe as I did
in my driveway at dusk,
hacking the copperhead . . .
by Richard Lyons
Those by the sliding door look like pharaohs, lapis-painted eyes.
They hip sway, drinks in hand, memorializing time’s happiness.
Another word on this would just be story.
by Sarah Aswell
For my thirteenth birthday, my father gave me a carved jade stamp, the handle in the shape of a dragon, with the words warrior poet inscribed in Korean characters on the bottom. He also gave me a copy of Sun Tzu’s The Art of War, the inside already marked with the red ink of the stamp. My brother and sister received the same thing for their thirteenth birthdays, though the bottoms of their stamps were inscribed with different words. Neither of them read the book.
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