They have been painstakingly cataloged, each with date stamps remembered vividly, ready to roll up on your shores like muscle memory, like grudge-holding tides that never forget. When you’re willing to let it go—all of it—to make amends, to say your goodbyes, let it not be too late.
Thad DeVassie is a lifelong Ohioan who writes and paints from the outskirts of Columbus. His recent work has appeared in Unbroken, Spelk, Lunate, and Ghost City Review, among others. He is a winner of the 2020 James Tate International Poetry Prize for his manuscript SPLENDID IRRATIONALITIES. His chapbook, THIS SIDE OF UTOPIA, will arrive in 2021 from Cervena Barva Press. Find more of his work @thaddevassie.
Everyone else is a newcomer. He lived here before they built the road. Before the road gave rise to the houses. Before the houses necessitated the church and the pub. But now they need a school and an old tree can’t be allowed to stand in the way of progress.
Ben lives in Dallas where he is viewed with tolerant amusement by his wife and two small boys. He has just started writing micro fiction and hopes to get better at it.
After I died I watched my invention rolling on through generations and centuries—ever larger, ever faster, more numerous, powered at last by the burning of Earth’s darkest fuels until the air itself changed and the suffocating world headed towards another night.
I would uninvent the wheel, if I could.
Fiona M Jones wrote this story.
Nick’s hometown is missing. Where are silent evening streets, where he cruised in his Subaru and listened to oldies?
Cars roar, faces consumed by exhaust.
Where are the small shops, sizzling with pizza and cigarettes? Easily walkable blocks?
Skyscrapers rise, proud monsters.
Nick wanders, denying, not ready to bury home.
Yash Seyedbagheri is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. His stories are forthcoming or have been published in Café Lit, Mad Swirl, and Ariel Chart, among others.
It’s the woods and the painted barnstar that hangs upon my neighbor’s house; the nightly vigils that loiter in the windows and the blue Dodge Dart eaten by rust that Mr. Thomas refuses to get rid of.
Placing newly built concrete gods in the rearview, I wonder… where’s home now?
E.O.’s pretty sure that Starbucks is evil. Stores keep spontaneously appearing where trees, herbs, and game used to be, even though their coffee isn’t very good. What type of obscure witchery is this…?