Camp Out
By Laura Jayne Martin The sun creeps like a little brother over the field where we are sleeping. We lay in tents: combatants at rest. We won the firefight with boredom last night the way only high school seniors truly can—with underage drinking in the woods. It’s silly, I know. The woods are a temporary break from our tiny houses where we are trapped, by love, in our tiny town that no one in the whole world cares about, but is our whole world. It is for one more month anyway. It’s warm. My sleeping bag is slowly baking my body while I watch a guppy of dew swim to the rivulet at the...
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By Henry Smith Fever ridden to the day I die, underneath a pale light, yellow on the fringes. Back to nothing again; loneliness kills, swallows, absorbs. Starving for more, craving more, lying more, dying more, dreaming more, more, more, more. Lying in bed looking up at the cracks in the ceiling, following the spinning fan blades with your eyes, and then the next day arrives, and the next day after that, and somehow you fall into someone’s arms, that have always been there, secretly, waiting for you to fall, so they could catch, hold you, then whisper softly that everything will be just...
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