Author: macromic

How to Sit by Jemimah Wei

For much of the past year, I have been obsessed with sitting. How to do it, for how long, in what permutations.  Currently, I sit by the corner of the dining table to write. My legs are splayed open at a 90-degree angle, perpendicular to […]

Leave a comment

At the Wawa by Jules Archer

We were drunk at the Wawa, how embarrassing, but also exhilarating. You and I, fifteen, pinkie-sworn BFFs, wrists corded with neon bracelets, black chipped nail polish, maybe we had braces, I’ll never tell (again too embarrassing), but then you shot gunned a beer in the […]

1 comment

Toasting and Weighting Ash by Jane Ayres

Toasting Each doorstep-thick slice impaled on a long fork licked by flickering orange flames, I toast bread over an open fire while Nan fetches butter from the pantry meat-safe. Cut from stoic cloth, she raised fifteen children in this tiny house, witnessed two World Wars […]

Leave a comment

Speed Dating by Anna Lindwasser

I went to a speed dating event on Tuesday after work. It was a last minute thing. My best friend Astrid got food poisoning from her lunchtime Chipotle burrito, and the $10 ticket was nonrefundable. In return for bringing her $10 worth of Bruce Cost […]

4 comments

dumb by Thao To

I keep a row of used wine bottles in a crate in the garage, waiting for Transvaal daisies to start wilting. These sunny flowers don’t fall apart, they wilt with a graceful bow, giving the floor the next stalk—I usually cut them mid bow. Today […]

1 comment

Still There by Ann Kathryn Kelly

You were there, not conscious but in body, when they draped you, intubated and hooked you to a ventilator. Your bladder, catheterized. Your body turned, from back onto stomach. Bolsters placed under your chest, to accommodate the breathing tube. Face lowered onto a horseshoe-shaped pad. […]

1 comment

The Study by Ryan Griffith

On the record Lydia Ruslanova was singing a war song, the wounded bird of her voice trying to fly, quivering, hurt, temporal, employed not as an instrument of beauty but of grief, so that as we sat in Slava’s study—dusk, cognac, The Fall of the […]

Leave a comment

Tributary by Melissa Llanes Brownlee

She pours more bourbon into her watered down old fashioned, the glass sweating even on as cold a day as today. The neck of the bottle taps the glass, her hand too tired to raise it any higher. She’ll need to buy another bottle, she […]

1 comment