Last year we introduced themes to carte blanche, with a spring issue on crisis and a fall issue on obsessions. This spring, we opened the call for submissions to anything and everything, to give our writers carte blanche, as it were.
The news reports didn’t exaggerate. The waves were huge, as big as Hugh had ever seen in California. Slabs of water, rhinos, the surfers called them, which didn’t stop dozens of thrill-seekers in black wet suits from stepping into their path.
I reach into my pocket, pull out the scope and place it next to the M1 Garand on the sleeper ties in front of me. I see the back of his head as he holds his breath.
Upturned Sky was written and performed by James Claffey.
Leave is such a little word . . . A full word. A suitcase burst wide open on an airport carousel.
The art on the walls is unremarkable
so you let the conversation flow
with yet again, “It must be wonderful,”
until again, “I really must go.”
His Adam and the Ants records clinched it. Merry said she didn’t believe him. Bill thought she was pretending not to believe him. Either way, there was a pleasant quiver in Bill’s belly. Merry said she would not believe him until he actually proved he owned two Adam and the Ants records. Just like that she was coming over to his apartment. Right after she finished her coffee and her slice of Rolo Cake. He could barely touch his Chocolate Eruption.
How can I hunger for this? Even the bread grows hollow, yeast over-risen,
bubbling into empty spaces. No food assembles here.
I couldn’t bear to watch him but couldn’t
not listen, so I’d squint at the gold cross
above the altar so hard its light splintered
across my eye.
I dream that my legs
are covered in hair, dark
and coarse as a bear’s.
No mail in a week and I am certain I don’t exist.
Loneliness, once the enemy,
has since become acceptance.