I want to escape my sober thoughts and become undone under foreign skies.
His feet are large. His hair is hard.
He’s a child, all of thirteen with an incipient moustache and the greasy face of adolescence. I concentrate on his deed, but I can’t threaten him. He spits at my window as I roll it up.
Now they had religion. It was time to buy a house.
We finally know how our mothers felt when we were the ones in uniform.
Soldiers were for war, not airports.
I had seen this before, in Iraq.
Al was my new-found brother, filling the sibling gap of an only child. We matched each other in height, though I was always the skinny kid and Al was more round, of face and body, and that never changed.
When I saw on the internet that an entire family had died in a fire, it made me think of the new kids. It happened at the same government housing complex, what we called the Projects, where I grew up. It wasn’t the new kids who died. No they would be adults now. My name’s … Continue reading “A Project’s Tale” by Michael H. Pasley – Summer 2019 Fiction Winner
So, mister, you ever make out on a city bus in the driving rain? I did ONCE, at 17, riding home from high school, kissing a friend of my sister who told my sister she liked me. Eyes like ravens, bubblicious chewing gum-glossed lips, she got off at my stop, lived a block over. Two … Continue reading “Passengers” by David Colodney, 2019 Poetry Spring Contest Winner