Spring 2024 Issue 25
Salvatore DiFalco – 3 Poems
The plastic cup knocked over by the wind startles you in mid-thought. It held ashes that scatter over the parquet floor. No need to move, the nerves settle on their own oftentimes, every little jerk and shake, the trembling lips and ears.
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Mark Mullen - Fiction
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve loved the word “striking.” You see that word used about a lot of people now. Red-carpet-baggers. Grandstanding politicos. Wheaties athletes. Isn’t it weird, though, how it’s mostly only women and girls that get called striking? Almost never men. When its men that do most of the actual striking.
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