Maybe you hear a bell, heard it for years, clang-clang-clang. You sit on the floor, legs in a deep V, lean across to your left ankle.
Micro Prose: They Might Be Violent by Ramona Reeves
She supposes plenty of hunters enjoy what they do rage-free but wonders if this isn’t worse. Maybe, she thinks, we are all predator and prey.
Micro Prose: The Founding of Rome by S. Craig Renfroe Jr.
The Founding of Rome I’m trying to feed baby girl, and she shakes her head, slaps the spoon from my hand, raspberries away any puree I manage to force into her mouth. I give myself a time out, but it doesn’t help. “You have to eat!” I come at her again. This time she shields…
Micro Prose: Office Pet by Amber Wheeler Bacon
I pray for a fire. It would break the monotony of telephone rings and the buzzing of the damned lights.
Micro Prose: Saturday Morning by T. J. Butler
Later, the girls stand in front of the open refrigerator, slightly feral: slices of cheese torn from plastic, pickles from the jar, a swig of Hershey’s syrup, jelly scooped out with a finger.
Micro Prose: For Witches by Adam McOmber
For Witches Ohio, 1994 Here is a language for witches. No. Here is a language for high school. No. Here is magic in all its occult guises. No. Here is high school in all its occult guises. No. Here is a hallway in a high school. The floor is gray linoleum. Lockers line the walls….
Micro Prose: Dollar Store, Yes by Suzanne Richardson
Dollar Store, Yes The checkout girl is fecund with child, and her neck is so finely dappled with the unmistakable constellations of hickies that when she asks you if you want more (more chips because you have one bag, and it’s two for one), you automatically say “yes,” because clearly this girl is teaching you…
Micro Prose: To My Ancestors by Anishka Duggal
To My Ancestors To My Ancestors, Down the street around the cul-de-sac are the purple flowers that are shaped like snap-dragons except somehow prettier. I do not think they grew when you were here. // In the summer I am a browning leaf. I hear my bones crack and crumble underneath the smooth white soles…
Micro Prose: Thanksgiving, 1996 by William Hawkins
Thanksgiving, 1996 It’s a generous memory. My uncle holding crystal, delivering on the joy of family; his wife, my aunt, looking through the turkey one day after discovering her marriage vows had been violated. My father drunk again, my mother worried, her hand nervous at his side, trying to take a hold of his…
Review | Anne Champion’s The Good Girl Is Always A Ghost
by Anna Sandy-Elrod Anne Champion’s The Good Girl is Always a Ghost inhabits, identifies, praises, and laments the multifaceted, complex nature of womanhood. Champion writes odes to women—Sandra Bland, Amy Winehouse, Billie Holliday—and poems in their personas—Indira Ghandi, Bettie Page, Eva Perón—in a way that devastates, humbles, and breathes life into women across history, across…
