HALVES

CREATIVE NON-FICTION

by Angeline Schellenberg

My brother’s feet are what shock me most: turned outward like he’s forgotten they’re attached.

He never did anything about the fungal infection. Who cares now? He hasn’t left this bed in a month. Probably doesn’t even feel it. . . .

sweat test

creative non-fiction

by Claire Hopple

My first memory starts in an overheated room. I was three, sitting on the floor with some toys and other kids in what looked like a waiting room. Moms were lined up in chairs along the wall with magazines. . . .

A Few Dirty Thoughts from Henneberry Cabin

creative non-fiction

by Mason Parker

Southern winds move through the canyon spires, filling my lungs between swings of the maul. Ponderosa wood cracks under the weight of the wedge. I collect the pieces and walk through the white swinging door into the cabin to feed the furnace—great god of the homestead, destroyer of cold winter nights, creator of body odor and ball sweat. . . .

carve

fiction

by Robert Warf

Lee Hoover is the plumber we pay in beer. Booze. He prefers plastic vodka so he can get more from us. Then he got a wife and said he preferred beer. So we get him that now. Preferably Corona. Sometimes Victoria. . . .

Halcion

fiction

by Robert Warf

Horses sleep standing and I don’t sleep at all. Horses like to come up under our beach house and sleep facing our door. Mother likes to go up to the door, turn the outside lights on, and peek her 35mm out. Sometimes she puts carrots out. My father stays asleep because he doesn’t have sleep to waste. . . .

Opener

fiction

by Garth Miró

Someone has to go first: so I will. I’ll blunt the hate. Warm them up. I’ll get eaten in service of someone greater. Here I go. I’m getting on stage. Easy. No big deal. People aren’t here for me. I’m a decoration while they order drinks and food. I talk, they eat. Here goes my first line. Did it land? Are they laughing? Can’t see. . . .

Rudy for Rufus

fiction

by Doug Ross

I made a mistake. Again. Maybe he didn’t notice. He was the editor of an online magazine that I could see myself in. We’d both gone to a memorial event for my teacher—not his. He only hosted it. He only knew the man and his writing. I knew his teaching. . . .

Soul Sale

hybrid

by William Doreski

When I try to get Satan to sell it back he says, “You can have it. What do I want with that filthy rag?” We’re sitting in a coffee shop in Midtown. Buses hustle past, snoring and shaking the plate glass windows. “You have to accept payment,” I say. “Contract law requires both parties to benefit from a transaction.” The waitress refills our cups. . . .