America's Most Critical Journal since 1999
by E. A. Bourland This is a story from the land of the sun, which turned for thousands of years to the bosom of its river, before Apep destroyed both river and land — destroyed all. The people of that land called their river the Great Mother, and the sun... More »
by Jeffrey Meyers Party, a college town in Montana, is surrounded by high mountains and immersed in thin air that cuts off the supply of oxygen to the brain. The town has a weird Magic Mountain-like climate: hot spells in January, snowstorms in July and flas... More »
By David R. Bowne I desperately banged on the left rear passenger window. I couldn’t break through, couldn’t even see through the heavily tinted window. I reached into my pocket for my phone but already knew that it wouldn’t work. Whoever had abducted ... More »
by Steven Wexler Glynnis Neldman stood atop her three-story, center cul-de-sac, ivory Colonial Revival, red terry kimono open, toes to the gutter, nothing left to live for. “Don’t do it, Glynnis!” “Don’t move!” “How did she get on the roof?” Br... More »
By Basta Part One: The Scent of the Hippopotamus “Are you missing a hippopotamus?” Iris asked. She spoke quietly into her earbud as she multi-tasked, flipping through her list of sources for her actual assignment. Working the metro desk for The Washington ... More »
By Mark Budman Little Red Riding Hood was driving her Meals on Wheels car through the forest when she saw the Big Bad Wolf standing by his truck, trying to fix a flat. Big mouth and belly, puny paws. Pathetic. He didn’t even wear a mask. Asshole. MAGA hat an... More »
by Dan Geddes Arthur was chatting with his old friend, Professor David Denkins, who was visiting him in Amsterdam. They sat at the Grand Café Spinoza drinking strong Dutch coffees, and gazing up at the beams of the high wooden ceiling. Arthur and “Den... More »
By E. A. Bourland A long time ago there were an unhappy people who lived in a desolate land. They eked a living by farming and herding. The only water came from slight winter rains and a creek that ran through their land and nearly vanished in mid-summer. Ther... More »
by Timothy Braatz 1. Red Wave Tuesday night. What a fiesta! Sharon’s famous guacamole. Country music on Mike’s stereo. White string lights on their back patio. Then Sharon brought out the main course. The dishes had little labels. Trump Tacos. Pence Pozole... More »
by Helga Hewston “Being the richest man in the cemetery doesn’t matter to me. Going to bed at night saying we’ve done something wonderful—that’s what matters to me.” —Steve Jobs The Wall Street Journal, May 25, 1993 November 2017 The ghost of St... More »