I’ve socialized a couple times in the backyard. Masks on, masks off, nibble, nibble, sip, sip, masks on, masks off, sip, sip, nibble, nibble. (Nonfiction)
You’re going to call me racist with the name, Bianka? “White?” “Fair?” “God’s Promise…” (Drama)
My friend was talking to her brother on Skype when a mouse–
“I wanted to shout, but my tongue felt like the army slept on it. I wish I had a bittersweet Lick-M-Aid.” (Fiction)
“but the sea swoons/with delight in holy purity/but sand breaks the stone/that covers my face” (Translations)
Whilst searching through an unfamiliar room,/the guest against the bedstead sets abloom./A blemished bruise that raise on his shank pain’s gloom.” (Poetry)
Lexie Pitter is a newfound activist, bringing police brutality protests to Chicago’s North Side, where residents perceive police as benign protectors, as opposed to threats to the innocent. An interview by Avani Kalra.
“I’m a big fan of letting people enjoy things,” a Twitter user named Sherryis washingherhands…
“Stories of immigration, grieving, displacement, disaster, and language itself explode in this debut by Chicago-based writer Michael Zapata.” An interview by Samuel Schwindt.
I’ve never liked American reality TV because there’s so much hyperbole, yelling and arguing that reminds me of my childhood, that cramped home, the screaming matches, the constant fighting over money. (Fiction)
This is the day I am told I’m not essential. “I am too,” I say.
Moving beaters hacked and coughed like emphysema patients. (Fiction)
The space between the woman and the art flattened until she felt she was the art. (Fiction)
I had to be in lockdown with a soon-to-be-ex-husband.
A trifecta of trilliums, a triplicity of trilliums.
Oh, food. It is such a deft [and daft] distraction. It absolutely changes the narrative.
Nowhere in the Five Big Ones does it say we have to be well read. Which is good. (Drama)
A response to some of the fun and humor and movement of the poem. (Translations)
Hunter said she aims to “visually discuss law and society in slavery and racism through physical spaces.”
on its way to a hip’s ball/ and socket
What does it mean when most of your countrymen live in Moscow or Los Angeles? (Fiction)
Once, existence was on/full speed, catching rumors.
(Nonfiction) We don’t know names, on our street.
The glass is how/we can see
his desire heated to almost a reckoning, and I
I waited for a stimulus check that I doubted would come.
I’d sip on my coffee while showing off my fishnet thigh-highs.
OK is two empty letters, trapped in a meaningless alphabet, created by those who had vision, who thought we could do better than we were doing.
Reviewer Matt Meade writes, “These sixty or so mean little tales come across as dispatches from some strange world, as if Grimms’ fairy tales all took place in a moldy locker room.”
“I don’t see what you could do, unless you want to pay for a hotel room.”