Issue 06

Blue Mountains

By JAMIE EDGECOMBE

Dr. Nakajima had a poem in his head. It went something like, however far I go, blue mountains.

‘Ah,’ the Doctor thought, ‘I like the style of Taneda Santka. He is modern, yes, but his poems are easy enough to remember in volume. They are neat and simple and great for these summer days when the mountains grow taller on the horizon with every step. What a joy life is, when someone else puts words around it.’

Julia PikeBlue Mountains
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They Called It Shooting Then

By TYLER SAGE 

1.

He wakes from dreams of killing. Heavy timber. Shaggy forms moving through the rocks, the alpine flowers. A plane passing overhead in his sleep, in his dreams, a silver spot against the sky. He raises the rifle. He wakes and is in the night. The animals fade, the air thickens. He is alone and paralyzed, and he wakes, and she is sleeping next to him. 

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Well-Armed

By ROWAN MOORE GERETY

A few months before I moved in, Serge was sitting in his house cleaning an AK-47 when it went off in his lap. Looking down, he found his hands were still intact, and he decided then and there to stop selling weapons. On the French mainland, he’d gone to school for aitiopathy, a form of physical therapy that seeks to provide treatment without pain. Down the line, he still looked forward to opening a private practice; gun running wasn’t worth the risk of losing any fingers. Eventually, Serge’s friends would tell me about his arsenal, though I never saw it myself. Each of them had seen a weapon at his house, and they realized, comparing notes, that the individual guns they’d seen were all different. In fact, Serge seemed to have a very large collection.

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Error Upon Me Proved

By WILLIAM WENTHE

A sound I hope to hear no more

than once—faint chime, small ring

produced by a wedding ring, rose-gold, flung

five flights to the cobbles of Rue Valadon

from the closet-sized kitchen where, wrung

dry, come to the end of endurance and all sense

of possibility, I had thrown it out the window. 

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Arab Springs

By ANDREA SCOTT 

And the clucking tongue of a woman in her black chador . . .

And the feeling that this may be less than what’s real . . .

I cannot translate what the old man has said, grinning toothless from
the computer screen.

He’s cursing the Mullahs and all that’s hypocritically holy in Iran.

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Apple

By L. S. KLATT 

You don’t fall far from the tree. Is that because you are adamant? In Adam’s fall/ we fell all, bruised? Software? What keeps us processing even if besotted? Knowledge? What’s the big idea? Is it my soul in your interface?

Julia PikeApple
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