Issue 2.1, Winter 2017
Fiction: “While We’re Old” by Paul Handley
It first happened while my new girlfriend, Catrina (Pet name Kat with emphasis on the K) and I were watching our favorite TV show, When They Were Vulnerable, about the childhoods of successful musicians. The electronic eyes that are everywhere made it possible to stitch together enough video to choose the highlights from solid months of computer generated images. It was a costly process, so the producers piggybacked on the House of Age which could always use the money to fund their efforts.
Flash: “An Inside Job” by Salena Casha
Of course, I’d missed the window for spray paint. I’d checked three hardware stores and you’d think that in a city where liquor bottles didn’t have a bedtime and disposed clothes decorated avenues like trodden party streamers, there’d be at least one place open for a late night job.
But New York past 4 a.m. didn’t feel like doing me any favors.
Poetry: “They Hide in All Forms” by Abhishek Sengupta
You tiptoed into our absence, last night.
I wondered if the frail touches you wore
were mostly the beads of silence, covering you
in that hymn, you used to chant unconsciously.
Debut Fiction: “(A World of Their Own)” by Tyler Wilborn
I think it should only be a few more days now – there isn’t any reason I would refuse this! And wow, isn’t it just a golden opportunity? What a good omen! I don’t even understand why, but it seems like this is from another world (i.e. too good to be true!), and it just doesn’t seem to make sense. Like, one day I’m in here for the usual, and the next day I’m being asked to be a support of this very country (as they say, for the sake of silicon domes!). The country that most people would say is “not to be my friend.” Ha! Ironic, isn’t it? There are some things in life that you can’t predict. You know that, though, don’t you? It really is like that. Life is. It makes things so much more interesting when you can just say “well, if it happens, it happens,” and there’s not much more to it. Really, there’s not!
Debut Poetry: “From my window on a snowy day.” by Anja Benevento
World a bluish-white vacancy.
And I can almost hear them:
Small girls squirreling through wet flurries
Of spring snow.
In the chill.
Sing-song voices snapping
Like wet silk.
Featured Art: Alex Duensing
When I First Was Alive
When Will It?