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“FAUX FABLE: GOING PRIMITIVE” by William C. Blome
FICTION / ISSUE 6: WINTER 2017

“FAUX FABLE: GOING PRIMITIVE” by William C. Blome

Flexing her biceps again and again until she actually grew a tad woozy from doing so, Pearl nevertheless kept feeling her left arm with her right fingers (and vice versa, of course) over and over, until one day, she skipped through her living room and on into the powder room with its mirror and visual confirmation that if she craved to bulk up and grow strong enough to truly go Cro-Magnon, then she was going to have to become sufficiently buff to be able to club her lover on his fedora-wearing head so he’d drop like a deflated judy-doll, and it would then be okay for Pearl to lose her thick, thick club of oak and drag her lover to the daybed in her duplex— well, in order for Pearl to accomplish all that, she was going to have to polish off even more than her standard fare of four nice bowls of steel-cut oatmeal every morning, an overstuffed hero sandwich near noon, and a sixteen-ounce rare porterhouse with Jujubes come dinnertime.
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“The Trees” by Alice Ash
FICTION / ISSUE 6: WINTER 2017

“The Trees” by Alice Ash

‘You think that it will never happen to you,’ said the television, ‘but it may well. Divorce affects up to 70% of couples and your marriage could be next.’

I span on my heel and pointed at the television.

‘Never!’ I said, ‘did you hear that, Honey-Bea? 70% divorce rate!’

Beatrice couldn’t hear me; she was looking for Jason’s lunchbox while Jason banged his little shoe on the floor.

I considered my son for a moment and then sat down on the balding sofa.

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“Infidelity: A Love Song” by Korey Hurni
ISSUE 6: WINTER 2017 / POETRY

“Infidelity: A Love Song” by Korey Hurni

Whenever I listen to pop music I am reminded that I am nothing
more than what I am, a fawn of a man

like a blown-out speaker whose creation myth always re-begins
the night before, born emasculated in a bathtub filled with gin

wearing headphones blaring Ke$ha’s “Your Love Is My Drug,”
born hipless strutting what I got, a born bastard or however

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“BOYS ARE LIKE HOUSES IN A BIRACIAL, TRANSCONTINENTAL STATE” by María Cristina Hall
ISSUE 6: WINTER 2017 / POETRY

“BOYS ARE LIKE HOUSES IN A BIRACIAL, TRANSCONTINENTAL STATE” by María Cristina Hall

Two stuffed bags. A closet arranged from purple to black, customary in Columbia dorms. Chucked an exam hangover into six human-sized boxes, followed by five-dollar margaritas spewing me blue on a viscid wood floor: six legs, three tongues, multiple smartphones testifying. Then an apartment furnished to eat at the liver, pinching it tight like money.

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