The Business With The Mine

The Guiri Journals by

Santiago de Compostela, Spain There is a café here in Santiago called Avante! frequented principally by students and post-grads, whose walls are near-to-exclusively covered in Leftist memorabilia. I have overheard some Americans—most recently a group of Patagonia-clad boys from Colorado—excitedly call it “the communist bar” as if perhaps the First International were meeting down inMore

Five Stories

Five Stories

Fiction by

Vampires are real. UFOs are real. Ghosts are most definitely real. Werewolves are not real.More

Sylvia

Sylvia

Fiction by

At night, the fox continues to call. She wraps the back of her throat along the crescent moon and her teeth fall out of her mouth to form galaxies.More

The Peak of His Powers

The Peak of His Powers

Fiction by

Yes, I object to your taping my remarks. You might try listening instead.More

Belong

Belong

Fiction by

She’d been alone so long that she didn’t know how to bring men in from the periphery. They couldn’t see who she was. They didn’t last.More

SARS-CoV-2, At Folsom Prison, Track 1, “Opening Announcements”

SARS-CoV-2, At Folsom Prison, Track 1, “Opening Announcements”

Fiction by

When the virus comes out here, it will not introduce itself. It will not breathe its name into a microphone or echo out over the loudspeakers. It will creep in quietly, moving to an unheard rhythm.More

Didavwiski

Didavwiski

Fiction by

He talked of shamans, but you don’t like that word anymore.  You prefer to use the Cherokee name, didavwiski, two souls in one body, male and female, who have immense healing powers that help navigate the ongoing cycle.More

Epistle from the Passenger’s Seat

Epistle from the Passenger’s Seat

Essay by

…I want so badly for us to crash headfirst into a wormhole and time travel back to sunset. Orange and pink and persimmon. The glitches we saw in the sky, the almost-clouds. A time when time wasn’t time at all but all color and calm.More

My Daughter, Myself

My Daughter, Myself

Essay by

It has been a hard year, or so your new therapist likes to say, filling the silence in her small office, two padded chairs facing one another over a small table, after you’ve spilled some new petty frustration about the kids, your girlfriend, your life. She sips her water and peers over at you kindly.More

The Shiner

The Shiner

Fiction by

When Kenny arrived home, his left eye was a river that never stopped streaming.More

The Burbidges in Grand Marais

The Burbidges in Grand Marais

Fiction by

A custom polyvinyl chloride pool inflatable of Jesse McCartney was on its back in a white wicker chaise.More

No Windows

No Windows

Fiction by

A delicacy to celebrate my sobriety is probably what the doctor would prescribe.More

Three Stories

Three Stories

Fiction by

The risk. It’s just too much, he says, and this is where I got to draw the line.More

A Christmas Movement

A Christmas Movement

Essay by

The snow kept falling and we curled up tighter together as the days stayed dark. I held my daughters close and we laughed so hard our stomachs hurt.More

A Conversation

A Conversation

Fiction by

Eugene and Carol sat on their sagging porch outside the house they bought when they were young and oblivious to the permanence of this flyover country. Their land was hard, but Carol, at least, remembered when it had been harder.More

Porkchop

Porkchop

Fiction by

English teachers would draw steep mountains on the chalkboard and label them with nonsense such as “Rising Action,” “Climax,” and “Denouement,” a word he found unbearably pretentious. Life was nothing like that. Most people repeated the same tasks over and over day after day. They got up. They went to work. They came home. If a publisher wanted realism, that was as real as it gets. Life was more about cycles than linear, or even alpine, developments. And what was the climax of his average day? Lunch? More

“The car had been through a reconstructed transmission, a busted carburetor, and was an absolute lush for Valvoline.” – Jordan Farmer, “Brothers”