Uneasy strangers, we pee by the roadside.
Unbidden in my truck, she eats my French fries.
Will she eat me too? Recognize my hen-ness?
My ghosts linger here—the ones I pretend don’t exist in my real life. Or at least can be ignored, buried deep, where the only reminder of their existence is my existence. Here, they can be found at any given corner, at any given time of day or night. They sneak up on you, tricky little fuckers. And they are known to sucker punch…
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You two would def eff I told them in the bonfire night of this big top
behind a stone dog and a prairie rose
firm ground and distant giggles
I watch my husband of fifty years walk toward me, out of the calm, warm waters of the Pacific. He’d been swimming and is bare-chested. He is a handsome man. Still slim enough. He has little hair on top and in his beard only a few flecks of black. I take his photo…
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Isabelle (Iz) Schrader is a mixed media artist and author from Nashville, Tennessee who specializes in traditional illustration. Iz pays homage to the beauty in the mundane through colorfully cross hatched ink drawings that have been described as psychedelic portals into strangely familiar worlds, striking a cozy but disquieting balance between storybook and surreal…
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Wyatt’s house was on a hill, a small box behind another, barely a house. There were stairs from the street leading up to the first one and another set to the one behind. Each time I climbed I was breathless when I reached his door, thinking I was merely out of shape. I would walk up all the steps slowly and without noise so he wouldn’t hear me coming, so I would not seem out of breath when I would finally knock…
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