By Pleco Philodendron -- I hear her when she’s lurking, an anklet And toe rings, and I smell it in her hair— The ring around the toilet bowl, the sink, The fringe of offset yellows that creep Up the shower coverings, the safari In her sheets. I imagine breathing hot Inflammatorily through the nostrils Flaring snot since the nose is pressed Against the skull too closely, the sheen Of wiping on the sleeve, the food caught In the dales of her chins’ multiplicities: What refuge d

By Julia Rose Maseda -- His hands hold me like they are the sharpest of knives, Painful. Enduring the pressure I bear with each breath I take. But just like a cut, there is warmth in every ounce of blood His hands draw from my skin. Its only when he lets go That I feel the cold air On the wounds he left. Then, he grabs me again, and thankful I am, I’m warm once more. Forgetting how I became cold in the first place- (before?) and when he leaves again, (Oh?) how cold I will be-

By Mandolin Thorne -- Challenge me and my convictions Cover me in premonitions “The Nephilim are sleeping still!” ...but they’re asking me to kill Stray renegades among the Fae Warned You it would be this way I know it’s so, for I was told While in the Faerie Lands of gold Where we awakened slow and lazy The nature of our essence hazy “It is time to go.” they said “For all the world believes you dead.” Now fire is hot; fire it burns Up from the ashes a Pheonix returns So dead

By Debi McKee -- All I’ve learned and been told is to work your hardest, never fold You’ll reap in profits, the world’s riches in diamonds and gold All you have to do is try until you succeed Well, I’ve been trying until my hands bleed This barren earth is where I planted my seeds As I look up, I see this world of mine is all dusty plains When damp green grasslands are what I need Pray the dreary yellow sky turns viridescent blue when it rains Will it rain? Any moisture in th

By Aaron Aguirre -- Form is found by its absence. From the empty space beside me, And the flowers untouched in the hills. I know it from my warm feet, covered by wool on winter nights. How I wish to turn and see drool at the edge of her lips—mine. Moonlit flowers at the bedside—hers. With a heart warm and feet cold.

By Aaron Aguirre -- I dream of saffron windows And quivering trumpets, A sway of shadows on sunset-stained walls. I dream of home, in my arms, and on my neck.

By Aaron Aguirre -- Some find it silly, But loss is a beautiful thing. It ventures where we dare not, Where we hardly get to see. And presses against that small, gentle thing. May it have fields to burn, May they burn bright, May you feel their warmth in your throat And in your eyes.

By John Grey -- I was out of the house, on my own at last. “You’ll regret it,” my parents said. My first apartment boasted crates as chairs and a mattress for a bed. Its three rooms were so cramped it felt like the walls were hugging me. I didn’t have a car which was just as well as there was no allotted parking space for my hovel within a hovel. I ate haphazardly, slept restlessly, sat uncomfortably, entertained unfortunately. I didn’t just live there, I became the place, st

By John Grey -- My issue is that I’m visible. Step out of my house, and sidewalks put me on display, roads sell tickets to my every move, and the sun shines its spotlight wherever I take a step. Every car, every window, every face, every eye, is a camera. I merely scratch my nose and it’s somebody’s “More news at eleven.” Or I glance at a pretty woman and it’s “This just in.” Or I carry on a conversation with an even prettier woman that I happen to see on the street. (It’s be

By Robert Beveridge -- The monster always lurks in the background, of course; if you see it, you don’t leave the bedroom alive. Its talons form the shape of presents, wrapped in red, tied with five ribbons sharp enough to take your fingers before you even know you were shaking hands. Some of us, to our credit, turn away, walk as far and as fast as we can, family in tow. We know without the need to look the rebellious teen is keyed up, crouched in the perfect tuck, pupils fixe

By Robert Beveridge -- That ever-hungry fire that consumed us now ash you left for greener pastures and lustful poppyfields while I stayed locked in our room on the third floor of some nameless apartment building the bed the perfect size your picture is still on the nightstand turned towards the wall

By Robert Beveridge [Winner: 1st Place] -- broadway, between 70th and 89th: it's after sundown and still the vegetable stands are open, their owners full-throated about the supreme quality of their cabbage, their papyas, even their clearance carrots in the back alley tongues meet, do battle against the quiet, sterling field of teeth: when black changes to red it's not what they do but the lights of the police car that passes, illuminates the monks at the other end there are g

By John Grey [Winner: 2nd Place] -- I kneel down in a garden watch tiny insects go about their tiny insect business   when I remark to myself how they do just the kind of stuff people do whether it’s nibbling on what’s handy building things sniffing flowers hanging out together only there’s more of them and to be honest I don’t like their looks. Then I spy a butterfly bright gold deep black flitting gracefully from flower to flower. All it takes is one flutter of wing and I m

By Debi McKee [Winner: 3rd Place] -- In the intersection there were cars Just as in the sky there are never no stars I was marred by people just like me from my destination I would cut right through them if not for my hesitation My objective was more important, as was I Roaring tires and smoke filling the sky They should try and see it from my perspective For my own goals, I would indeed plow ahead Although I could end up wrecked and dead But the light yet remained red   And

By Stephanie Reddoch -- 21:00 Broken glass crunched under the coroner’s boots as he entered the apartment. The scent of a doused fire. Acrid. Humid. Next, the stench of ignited plastics and paint and synthetic chair upholstery. It was the unmistakable sickly sweet smell of burnt flesh that drew the coroner’s attention. The deceased was charred beyond recognition in the living room. He had melted into the easy chair. Muscles contracted in a pugilistic pose. According to police

By Meg Newman -- The man I’d been   hoping to see was standing ten feet away from me, sorting through a pile of reddish-brown hardwood posts. Probably ash. He was thirteen years older than the last time I’d seen him, still lanky, with those long sideburns, and now nearly bald. I swear he had on the same pair of glasses. It had to be Matt. “Matt?” I said. “It’s Julie. Julie Rustin. Y our apprentice and JoAnn’s former significant other-girlfriend.” “Holy Cow, it’s you. My ca

By Lilia Mahfouz -- As a child, Arthur was mesmerized by the golden plaques affixed to building facades. Endlessly, he would ask his nanny to decipher the mysterious titles etched under the plexiglass: “Psychologist, psychiatrist, psychotherapist, psychoanalyst.” The little boy would bounce with joy upon hearing those strange sounds. His nanny, a young woman of Moroccan origin, had explained in her own words the nature of their work: “They're specialists who heal your mood. T

By Gaurav Bhalla -- May is in the kitchen having breakfast—toasted English muffin topped with thick-cut marmalade and a piping hot cuppa tea. Between bites and sips, she cross-checks items arrayed on the kitchen island against Mary B’s recipe: She and June, her best friend since Montessori, are getting together at 11 a.m. to bake a Victoria sponge cake. A curated list of oldies—love songs—is playing. She sways sensuously to their rhythms, occasionally stopping to listen more

By Gaurav Bhalla -- Gina and Zoe Gina retrieves two bulging grocery bags from the back seat and shuts the car door with a merengue-style swing of her hips. The car beeps. Zoe lives catty-corner from Gina and is out watering her tulips. She hears the beep, sees Gina teetering—a grocery bag sliding down each hip—drops her hose and walks briskly toward her, “Here, let me help you.” Gina doesn’t think she needs help, but lets Zoe carry a bag. She’s the only resident on Running

By Charles Parsons -- Judd Rafferty was one of my early criminal clients. He retained me when he was charged with the rape of a flirtatious woman he met at a bar near his apartment. The penalty for rape in our jurisdiction was up to twenty years in prison. In her in-court testimony, the putative victim agreed that as the tavern was closing on that weekday evening, Judd invited her to his apartment. Lola accepted. With a freckled face and unruly auburn hair, she was fetching