Issue 15 / Fall 2018 It’s the last day of school and I’m still acting like everything is normal. Benny, five days dead. I walk home from the bus, the sidewalk full of bright leaves and soy sauce wrappers that scatter when I kick them. Benny’s dead and I empty...
Issue 15 / Fall 2018 My fair skin suffers from excessive sun. I extracted the first crab clinging to my dermis when I was nineteen and the word cancer was uglier than the words fuck, cunt, wanker, or motherfucker. Nobody wanted to tell me the result of the...
Part 4: Peace By Andrew Gifford I have left my day job behind. When I started SFWP, I was working several jobs. Night shifts, weekends, holidays. While everyone else was opening presents on Christmas morning, I was in a warehouse in Landover, MD editing...
Issue 15 / Fall 2018 Grandpeg—that’s what we grandkids all call her—gave us gifts every time we drove the two hours to her house for a visit. Upon arrival, my brother and I would run to our beds, throw down our backpacks, and open presents wrapped in her...
Issue 15 / Fall 2018 We are elbow deep in the dark, loamy soil we made from our own compost. I used to think getting dirt under my nails was good for me, that the energy radiating from the center of the earth would balance me. Now, I’m not sure of anything,...
