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Issue 32
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Issue 31
FICTION
The Notebook
She Wrote
for Adaline
Alicia Combs
Proud to be
an American
Emma Hill
Raspberry-Flavored
Body of Christ
Fabrizio Lacarra Ramirez
Postmortem
Menagerie
Julia Dath
from Proud to be an American
Chris woke up late Sundays and holidays, which gave Lee time to make tea. He microwaved the water; they didn’t own a tea kettle. It didn’t really boil, but the steam drifted up after four minutes or so, licking his clean-shaven cheeks with welcome softness. If Chris had eaten leftovers the day before, the steam carried a faint smell: barbecue, marinara, greasy undertones of shredded cheese melted on nachos. But when Lee dipped the teabag into the mug, the steam-smell altered to heady spices, soft herbs. Quiet flavors. Lee kept the tea packets in his room, next to the Bible his grandparents had bought when he was born. Its pages, tinged in gold, had remained in the same pristine condition for eighteen years
today.
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from Raspberry-Flavored Body of Christ
Archie stood on the altar of Sabbath Morning Catholic Church and looked down at his hands. It was a Sunday morning in July and he was gripping the long ornate handle of a candlestick. He was inspecting the color of his knuckles; they grew paler every time he brought his gaze up to the congregation. The Father had asked everyone to stand up. His hands rose towards the tinted glass section of the ceiling, not tinted enough to prevent the rays of heat from invading the room and bearing down on the altar boy.
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from Postmortem Menagerie
There hasn’t even been enough time for the dust to settle in my late mother’s bedroom when Tyler I clear it out. It’s a living tomb of who she was: chestnut furniture purchased thirty odd years ago from somebody’s front yard, and boxes with some missing lids stacked in peculiar disarray that create a maze of memories, both significant and utterly useless to me. But the tomb isn’t even allowed three days of rest before it’s unearthed again, the upheaval of her private space a necessity in abandoning a house that was sold while her bedsheets still smelled of that all-too-familiar thick perfume she spritzed each morning.
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ISSUE 31
POETRY
|
FICTION
|
CNF
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ART + PHOTOGRAPHY
|
MASTHEAD
Art on this page:
Wishing Me Well
by Melissa Crisan.