Postcards Of Joy

Mother loves postcards. I wish you could see this cathedral. I miss you. I have been constrained by tradition. I move from friend to friend. Wake in one bedroom, slumber in another. No personal markers, photos. Gifts conveying motherly intimacy. My favorite Yates novel, a radio, a train set. Living with Mother was rife with frenetic energy once Dad left. He called her a senseless dreamer. Life was defined by bottles, hissing wine. Cackling laughter, dissolved smiles. I want Mother at ease. Instead, I conjure her flitting about cathedrals, mistaking facades for joy. I tell her I’m happy. Try to believe.

From Guest Contributor Yash Seyedbagheri

Yash is a graduate of Colorado State University's MFA program in fiction. His story "Soon," was nominated for a Pushcart and he has also had work nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Yash's work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as 50-Word Stories, Silent Auctions, City. River. Tree. and Ariel Chart.

Personal History

Adulthood in Texas means being old enough to get the electric chair if you kill someone. In 17th century England offenders sent to the pillory were pelted by the crowd with dung, dead cats and dogs, rotten vegetables, and, in extreme cases, stones and even saucepans. Some, though, flung flowers in Defoe’s face. It’s the difference between weather and climate. The least you can do is pretend to care. In Jewish tradition a righteous man is buried with 144 prayer books atop his coffin. When my Uncle Lou was buried, they put the books in cardboard boxes labeled Kitchen Utensils.

From Guest Contributor Howie Good

Howie is the author most recently of What It Is and How to Use It from Grey Book Press. He co-edits the journals Unbroken and UnLost.

Pity Me, My Preconception

I'd been here before, but I was lost. Confusion, desperation took residence in my bones, my breath, my very being. Everything had changed.

I stumbled along, eyes rambling in vicious circles, a desperate search for something familiar. Nothing made sense anymore. Tradition sacred, change took me by unfriendly surprise. If no one tells me who to be, who am I? I need structure.

I found a man, wearing men's clothing, and I asked where to find the Men's Department now that it was just Department. He pointed to the sign that said "Men's."

"But what does that mean?" I asked.

From Guest Contributor Stacy Gorse