Fiction

Russell Walker, by Daniel Lanza Rivers

19 Dec 2014
0
  Russell Walker Daniel Lanza Rivers   When I remember Russell Walker, I remember him in sounds.   The tsk tsk tsk’s that escaped his lips when he was bored, and the percussion of his fingers against the countertop.   The roar of wind that filled his car as we spent that summer hunting for water—in pools and lakes, and rivers snaking inland from the coast.   The creak of his bed as he craned over the edge with sleep in his eyes to ask about my dreams.   The snap of his father’s voice, the night he caught us together in the basement and called Russell by his brother’s name.   The quiet that overtook him sometimes, like the rest of the world hung at the far end of a long corridor.   DANIEL LANZA RIVERS is a PhD student in English and Cultural Studies at Claremont Graduate University, where his research explores the relationship between landscape and utopia in twentieth-century North American literature and social movements. His writing has also appeared in Lady Churchill’s Rosebud Wristlet, Connu, and Women’s Studies: an Interdisciplinary Journal.

A Common Amnesia by Alex Cuff

14 Dec 2014
0
By Alex Cuff   But not yet have we solved the incantation of this whiteness, and learned why it appeals with such power to the soul; and more strange and far more portentous—why, as we have seen, it is at once the most meaning symbol of spiritual things, nay, the very veil of the Christian’s Deity; and yet should be as it is, the intensifying agent in things the most appalling to mankind. –Herman Melville, Moby Dick, 1851 white butcher paper wrapping the white bagel with the white sesame seeds inside white wax paper white spray paint tagging the framing store on metropolitan before 1691 the word white did not exist white letters of Brooklyn Seoul six white people in the bagel store white napkins the white Nissan sedan parked across the street left over dirty white snow before 1691 the word white did not exist in a legal document the white help wanted sign in the bagel store window me a white girl sitting under the bright white light bulb that many things I do or do not do think or do not think say or do not say are related to this “fact” the pistachio ice cream green...
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Fiction

Dollbaby, by Amarie Fox

12 Dec 2014
0
  Dollbaby Amarie Fox   We are going back in time, locking ourselves in our little girl rooms where the walls are pink and there are daisy chains along the ceiling, just to find these sisters of ours, these versions of ourselves. Our favorite is packed in a box, banished to the back of the closet, bound with tissue paper––to hide her nakedness and headlessness. Our brothers stole her, tore her clothes off, spun her around by the hair, crying she was the witch. Off with her head. Before we can stop we are dismantling the dolls. Pulling on their perfect arms and legs, plucking body parts like flower petals, singing he loves me he loves me not he loves me he loves me not. We climb from the window, digging holes beneath the bougainvillea, making tiny graves. Thorns slice our forearms as punishment. Blood smears on the smooth plastic and it really starts to  feel like murder. Swallowing the sick down, the guilt, the shame, we hurry back inside, scramble to reattach limbs and heads, but what we end up with is not what we expect. There is no ugly assemblage of mismatching parts. No freaks. No horrible Frankenstein...
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