If this was a holiday, school was infinitely preferable and our Leeds council estate outright homely. But rain had shifted, clouds lifted. For the first time since our arrival Wallops Roost stood bathed in sunlight. From the open window of Mother’s bedroom of confinement all the valley below was shown for the rural idyll it could be. Rising on the air was the heady scent of wet earth and greenery warming.

The sciences only drink from
foam cups, and hide underneath
water from God; his woman
lips: Don’t make the same mistakes
your father made; a Southerner with
his bum-steer sense
of honor:

My father told my brother and I when we were still too small to see over the bow, “Blood is stronger than the tide.” We took his words to heart years later when our first crewed boat took off from Eastport. The night I killed my brother the wind seemed to whisper of sights eternal and words never uttered. My knife wasn’t as sharp as it used to be and neither were my eyes. Yet my eyes were incisive enough to feel a break in my wedding band. I never saw it happen, but you never see the wind begin to change until you’re knee deep in water. Oh brother, our blood was so thick. My brother had been the captain of our ship for twenty-two years. I had followed his compass as first mate all along the ebb and flow. My wife and I had a son. We named him after my brother. His blood was beginning to harden on my hands as the tide began to shift and the sun started to sizzle. I knew it wouldn’t be long before the crew would awaken to find my life cut in two over the bow. The same bow I stood with the same brother with the same father and heard the same words one of us would betray. Oh brother, our blood was so thick. I felt as though the sea would overtake me before the crew did. His cries were silent and quick. I felt need for him to suffer—yet I could not bear to see it. I can still hear our father yelling over our shoulders as we stood together long ago, “Right ahead, young sailors!” And my brother and I in synchronicity would respond, “Right away, right away great Captain!”

Yes, you little monster, I did do some things right in this life. Considering all the things I could have done, I did well. Old now; perhaps not one who got brains working in the head, but I am still here. And I am going grey and tired…

And you want my story? You are almost grown now and I have never shared with you one word of my life. I will tell you this…

He lends her his comb
by Michael J Pagan

He loved—or so he thought—the idea of it; thinking: how young was I when I first learned how to hide? As she leaned—preferring always to kneel upside-down, or right-side up depending on whose perspective was right at that particular moment—both her knees just above the crown of his head, both hands cleft by the breadth of his bare abdomen, as her hair dripped over him.
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As I recall, before packing, we had warning sufficient, just, to eat a light breakfast. My younger brother Jake and I were lucky enough boys, so Mother put it, to be visiting our Granny Wallop. A holiday, she called it. I had concerns from the off, she never before having used Granny Wallop’s name in any but a cautionary context. Typically, ‘Ee, tha’d not be so swaimish, wi’ thi Granny Wallop rearin’ thee.’

He loved—or so he thought—the idea of it; thinking: how young was I when I first learned how to hide? As she leaned—preferring always to kneel upside-down, or right-side up depending on whose perspective was right at that particular moment—both her knees just above the crown of his head, both hands cleft by the breadth of his bare abdomen, as her hair dripped over him.

Homs, Syria by J.D. Ferguson

ABU WALKED to the wooden box lying on its side.

 was painted on the top in red. He kicked it and looked up.

“Ahmad, there's something over here,” Abu said.

Ahmad walked slowly to the box and kicked it.
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“Dr. Livingstone, I presume?”

“Oh, dear…”

“Well, you are the doctor, right?”

“Look, old chap… Can we just keep quiet about this?”

“Keep quiet?”

“Yes, old chap. I just feel silly about all this and want to keep my name out of the papers.”

Here is your daughter. Her khaki satchel has been dumped next to her, its contents scattered onto the linoleum, and you wonder if she has even noticed. Her hair is pulled back and you know that it's morning still for her. She presses her lips together in a hard line while she reads Dilbert in the Sunday paper, and her fingers idly fiddle with the fabric of her t-shirt; one that you specifically told her was not for sleeping in.

I heard the disease last afternoon
echoing bass and tremolo
from the woods
of origin from outer space
of origin, not of no thing
the disease told me to close my eyes and walk through the four lanes of route seventythree
to have faith in something from some thing
so I smoked two cigarettes at once for some reason
and went for it
on my first asphaltian step I heard swerving and beeping so I opened my eyes
there was the cure
driving a black escalade
calling me an asshole.

Abu walked to the wooden box lying on its side. was painted on the top in red. He kicked it and looked up.

“Ahmad, there's something over here,” Abu said.

Ahmad walked slowly to the box and kicked it.