News

Issue 28 | Fall 2021

an excerpt from Arribada

By | Fiction

Places preserve odors and echoes over the years. This decrepit lobby, drenched in the fragrance of coffee and pineapple juice, more a market than an airport, the hallways resonating like a tuning fork with the sounds of the runaway city—Mexicana de Aviación, announcing flight five fifty-eight—The laughter and the merriment that accompanied Mariana on her many departures. Where did it all go?

Issue 28 | Fall 2021

The Wait

By | Fiction

Every weekend we stop in Lufkin on our way to the hospital—north, where hospitals live. Outside the shop there is always a line, five or six people wearing wide straw hats. Sometimes there are super-thin kids worked up with piss.

Issue 28 | Fall 2021

Days Repeat in Confinement

By | Fiction

The days are long—congruously slow. They blend into one another. The present is fragmented with what lies ahead, or inevitably does not, or what could have, skewing my abbreviated notion of time and space, past and future.

Issue 28 | Fall 2021

The Head

By | Fiction

I can hear the head tumbling as I turn onto Texas. She was a kind woman, everyone used to say even when she was alive, the kindness that impresses cats, all tarot readings and exotic cigarettes. She saw the flinch at the heart of you but lied and shook out stories instead. 

Issue 28 | Fall 2021

Appendages

By | Fiction

The wind troubled the gap between her coat top and neck. She shifted the box to her left hip, fingers white and numb from the tight hold. Using her right elbow, she knocked on the driver’s window, her hand still clutching a coffee cup from the drive. A black Audi, he had told her. Two …

Issue 27 | Winter 2021

Avalanche

By | Poetry

Ally tells me her husband is adjusting, that they all are, that the diagnosis is for the right kind of cancer, if that makes sense

A Review-Essay of We Met in Paris: Grace Frick and Her Life with Marguerite Yourcenar

By | Book Review

Until I read Joan E. Howard’s fascinating account of the couple’s years together, I had never dropped Marguerite Yourcenar’s surname in my life. But the revealed intimacy of the pair invites us in.

Issue 27 | Winter 2021

Daffodils

By | Poetry

The spring day when after the dark subway the light was blinding and the last of the snow melted, trickling into the gutters, but still there was the scent of fresh snow. Work was over at last and there wasn’t a thought of tomorrow. There were flowers like lit candles on the corner near Old South Church and just enough money for daffodils that came dripping from the bucket, daffodils carried home to our room. where we sat without having to talk. And I became part of the sun-struck halo, the snow-washed high windows, the silvery mirror, voices rising from the street, walls saturated with ghost music, passengers peering from train windows and those arriving to vanish in the distant Back Bay streets.