Next To The Gutter

Ethel Rohan

He arrived home from school, and entered the house, into its dead feeling. The hall as usual littered with purple Post-Its that had lost their stick. The first of his mother’s notes read “EAT,” followed by a sprinkling of others darkened with arrowheads that pointed to the kitchen.

Empty

Kathy Fish

It rains all over them. Their hair and their clothes droop. Their bare feet touch the pavement. Droplets cling to their noses. They don't duck and run. These kids. Even their underwear is soaked. The place reeks. Manure and corn dogs and Tom Thumb Donuts. Wet belly buttons and Tiger Boy and diesel fuel and cows. Beer and the breath from Tiny Tina's nostrils.

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Nouveau Riche

in
Chris Middleman

A huge box that once held
a plasma screen television

now lies, overturned by wind,
on the bone-white cement

in front of an urbane townhouse
Bloated with styrofoam,

the box will wait there for
six days until trash pickup

the trucker one booth in front of me at the flying-j

in
Justin Hyde

hooks a napkin
into his
shirt-collar
 
flips open
a laptop

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