A glowing white house
tucked beneath the trees
& the too-quiet hallway
that leads to your door.
Home feels like this, I think—
sacred, without question.
As if we’ve always lived here.
As if we built this
together.
I do silly things now, like daydream
about the honeygreentea scent of your skin,
or buy plastic toys for your sweet, destructive cat,
& worry, a lot.
There is a softness here,
but it’s young and doesn’t know
what it wants to be yet.
It whispers, I am going as slowly as I can.
It’s never loved, but it’s learning.
by James Nulick
fiction
... I turned my head and saw a leg with a sock and a shoe attached to it hanging from the wall. Horrified, nearly missing the bowl, it took a moment to deduce it was an artificial leg hanging from a peg, an old postman’s shoe secured to the foot ...
by Ursula Pike
nonfiction
... if we left after school on Friday I could be eating sourdough waffles with my grandparents on Saturday morning. I always thought my mother took me there so I could be close to my grandparents. Now I wonder if she was going for herself ...