The pain unleashes itself in hues of yellow, black, and crimson. The breaks between contractions are ephemeral.
Feelings are tyrannical – they can’t be mapped. Ironic, since you were holding a map for the journey ahead, too proud for GPS.
Online exclusive – “The area was supposed to be green again by 2053 but that was almost a decade past.”
Published in 26.1 – “There is thrill in the moment before you wake up, and with it an awareness that life is simpler here.”
I told her I’d cross the river to meet with her. I knew she lived on that side because she said something once about all the cars and noise when you live near the stadium.
First Place Prose Winner The Dong By Sarah Butson Published in issue 26.2 I was back at the Powderhorn, sitting against the wall, paranoid on account of I don’t know what. I hadn’t been in there for at least a year, maybe more, trying hard to avoid those guys from the Double X, assholes that they were, who’d probably suck me back into their stupid schemes to move stuﬀ for them. Stuﬀ…I guess that’s what I was scared of. I was desperate to score some and I didn’t need them knowing about it. They’d probably use it to blackmail me later, or worse, report me to probation. The thought of more time at Fort Saskatchewan, surrounded by mean bitches and even meaner prison matrons, made me want to pass out. It was a scorcher outside, but the cool air inside the Horn ﬁlled my veins with electric tension, like the ﬁrst zap of speed hitting your solar plexus. Tourists, dopey happy with their beers, oohed and aahed over the scenery and the healthy fucking mountain …
Published in issue 26.2 – The heat is always the ﬁrst thing he notices waking up in Pakistan.