131Jul 23, 2019
At the Precise Moment of the Solstice Lie in a wheelbarrow like a sack of potatoes, clumps of earth still clinging to your plump, moist body – you’ve been buried so long, you still smell of soil – and let your head dangle over the front edge of the barrow, so you can see both […]
132Jul 23, 2019
we leave our names in hands always letting go on purpose Never answer So they fall a little short and huddle closer together Long for someone to take them home Or even just the thought of someone till the moon forgets its own and all that is left is this mist trailing twine below our […]
133Apr 2, 2019
Bear Kosik is the (co-)author of four novels. His short stories, poetry, and essays have been published by Third Flatiron Press, River & South Review, Calliope, Silver Streams, Weasel Press, and others. Bear also writes stage plays, six of which have been produced in Manhattan, and screenplays, which have garnered more than ten laurels since […]
134Feb 21, 2019
Artist’s statement: This photo was part of a series in which I integrated three tiny pocket mirrors to play with the idea of refraction. When brainstorming objects that might be dynamic at different angles, I spied a lily and a mirrored, sequin mermaid pillow. Immediately, I set to work combining and recombining and angling the […]
135Feb 21, 2019
Artist’s statement: This photo was part of a series in which I integrated three tiny pocket mirrors to play with the idea of refraction. When brainstorming objects that might be dynamic at different angles, I spied a lily and a mirrored, sequin mermaid pillow. Immediately, I set to work combining and recombining and angling the […]
136Feb 11, 2019
David Carter walks down the street when the building overlooking him says, “Fuck off.” He tells it sorry, drops his eyes to the ground, and keeps walking. The sidewalk asks what he’s looking at so David Carter closes his eyes and tries to cross the street. A car hits him. His head splits. He dies. […]
137Feb 11, 2019
For Edward Abbey and Thoreau, who have been with me on many walks. I am attempting to perfect the art of walking. It has been a lifelong journey of trial and error. I walk perfectly fine, but the art of walking I have yet to master, or quite determine what encompasses this aspect of walking. […]
138Feb 11, 2019
Sgt. Tulley squinted at his watch, equal parts curio and cipher. He studied the obstinate object until it finally relinquished meaning. It meant 0600, and 0600 meant 0600 should have happened at least five mikes ago. He duly made the morning rounds, rousing his squad, which was tasked to detainee guard detail. […]
139Feb 11, 2019
I walked into Wilcox’s hotel room and there was a man tied up on the bed, hands roped behind his back, legs bound so tightly together his bare feet had started to turn purple. He lay atop the sheets in his underwear, twisting back and forth, flopping like a landlocked fish, until he saw me […]
140Feb 11, 2019
My brother loved bones. George collected pictures of skeletons from archaeological digs, some cobbled together like a child’s art project, some whole and more recent. He’d curated hundreds—cut from magazines, copied from library books, printed from the internet—and carried them everywhere. He could tell you where the largest human skeleton was found (Bulgaria) and the […]