Prose

two trees in the fog

Things Long Dead

by Rhonda Browning White
I ain’t sure if the prickle on my scalp is one of foretelling, like when time slides around and I know things ahead of God’s time for them to happen, or if it’s anger from knowing I’ve finally caught up with the lying sack of shit.
apple orchard very green

The 89th Jar

by Carol Barrett
Two sounds continually punctuate this house: the cat’s paws at the back door, time to go out, or come in, thank you, and my daughter sneezing.
building like scales

Someone, If Not Her

by JoeAnn Hart
In the Venn diagram of a family, the mother was where all the circles intersected, and it was a cramped, irregular space. It was here that family members blamed one another, complaining how hard it was to get away from jobs or children, stressing how impossible it was for their mother to live with them, when of course, what they meant was die.