“City of Dead Souls” by Agee Sasso
When I got to the top of the stairs, he pushed his hulking shoulders from the wall and pointed backward at the sign on my door. I made up the half step I’d lost at the sight.
“You him?” he said . . .
When I got to the top of the stairs, he pushed his hulking shoulders from the wall and pointed backward at the sign on my door. I made up the half step I’d lost at the sight.
“You him?” he said . . .
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There’s lights on the ceiling, big white circles, each one brighter than beach sun, but you can’t blink or squint when they’re taking your picture . . .
Stephanie Stio discusses the creation of the Paz Prize for Poetry and the selection of the prize’s inaugural winner, Dinapiera Di Donato’s Colaterales/Collateral.
There’s no time like the past, Steven thought as he entered his time machine. He found himself in the maternity ward of a small rural hospital at 8 am on April 16, 1971—the day he was to be born . . .
It’s happy hour at the Dirty Lemon, but I recognize the same lipstick smear on my glass from when I was in here this morning. It’s 9 pm, but the room is still hot and my half-drunk beer is already warm . . .
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Many years ago I read a collection of essays entitled: The Habit of Surviving: Black Woman’s Strategies For Life, by Kesho Yvonne Scott . . .