Pocket Change is a classic hole-in-the-wall bar—dim and slightly smelling of men’s piss. The overhead Budweiser lamp throws off odd shadows of red that mingle with the green carpeted table and I’m rem...

*** A Peek into our Fall Issue | FICTION ***From The Incremental Graveyard by Ron Dionne‘The Incremental Graveyard’ grew out of a splinter acquired when reading an essay on fatherhood by Joseph Epstein some years ago. Epstein remarked that it was a father’s job to disappear—not by abandonment, of course, but rather by the very act of being constant. Anyone who has children—or nieces or nephews known since infancy—realizes that if all goes well, they grow away from you from the moment they are born. It’s good and right but hurts a bit. - Ron DionneWithout further conversation, they reached the graveyard at the far edge of the lawn. It was shaded by elms and tulip trees girded with a wall of mile-a-minute vines. To the left, a small brook formed a border between the edge of their yard and the neighbor’s, overgrown with a hedge of rose of Sharon and other low, untended shrubs. The graveyard itself was just a row of six white-washed stones of irregular shape, each labeled in child’s writing in indelible marker, though on some the writing had faded.***Link in bio to keep reading!

Clyde trembled as the import of the message became clear, sliding by the mental callus of disappointment and chagrin that had formed over the long years of trying and trying again.

DARL Jewel and I come up onto Macy’s fifth floor. We cannot find a present for Pa and we are in bed and bath and lost. The beds look like shorn she...

A journal of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction

When Fashion Was Slow and the People Who Shaped My Years in Fashion

Nathan Blaustein was a short man, with narrow, seemingly inert ice blue eyes that nevertheless were penetrating. No one closely observing him as he stood mutely taking in his wife Bea’s histrionic dis...

“Tell me what it looks like, Daddy.” Kimmy’s hand fits inside my own like a photo in a locket, as if both were made for the sole purpose of being intertwined. We’re five hundred feet above ground, the...