The Lemon Tree
A farmer was wandering through his orchard at harvest time, when he saw an apple hanging from one of his lemon trees.
It is November.
I am mining crystal geodes
from the dead
With submission season close at hand, we thought it a good time to give you all a little glimpse into the people behind the curtain.
The dream collectors’ truck stopped at each house on our street. There was a system: Mondays recycling, Tuesdays dreams, Wednesdays general trash.
It’s time for an update on where we stand, and where we’re headed next.
Our heartiest congratulations to Eric Schlich, winner of the prose contest, and Mary Haidri, winner of our poetry contest!
More than once there was a soon-to-be-old woman who had a loaf of bread, held it in her hands she did, and it was inconvenient to have a loaf of bread always sitting in her hands…
Now I think of what I’d die to forget. Now I forget.
Where did I grow up, get out—was I as rich as a golden
yolk waiting to crack in the hay?
People love my city for its brasseries like hothouses, ardent and perverse, its breezes that smell of coffee and of the sea.