Excerpts from Issue 8.2

From Ledge by Emma Winsor Wood:

In an act of pity his hands

are trees she cannot see for the forest’s so lovely

for a moment she forgets the elegance

languishing in her grasp

white paper napkins fluttering in the wind

on an egg-blue bright day, he

cannot remember the clarity of parallax

weather, a telegram yet to be sent

unspoken sentences, irrigation canals, the sky’s vacant corral

the color of a drowned seagull


From 1982 by Justin Bigos:

            After the movie (Bronson’s daughter kidnapped, raped, and impaled on an iron fence after jumping out the window of an abandoned factory; Bronson hunting down each gang member with his revolver, then somehow, in the final scene, managing to give the audience a mustached smile in his light gray, zipped-up windbreaker) Nick Senior and his son are the last to exit the theater. The locked metal door closes behind them, and Junior is once again surprised by the sudden light, even in overcast, blustery February; remembers how easy it is to forget the time of day inside the movies. He shields his eyes, just for a moment, and watches a van drive past on Boston Avenue. He thinks of the gang members’ yellow van, with the trapezoid of gray primer paint on its side. His father takes his hand – which Nick Junior doesn’t mind, even at the age of nine – and they head south on the avenue, and after just a few blocks cross the line back into Bridgeport, where they live, though now in different homes.