by Colleen Cable “Were you aware,” the doctor asked, tracing a line with his finger down an X-Ray, “that you’re spine has healed incorrectly?” “Healed?” The doctor stared. “This kind of malformation suggests that the spine was broken and then either healed incorrectly or that… Read More
by Kayleigh M. Merritt “We died because you would not let us live.” Annie Moore November 18, 1978 When you wake up, Jim’s voice is crackling through the speaker in the corner of your dorm. You are used to this. You work to, eat to,… Read More
Bruno was foreign: he was dark, he spoke with an accent, and he had an odd way of tying knots in most everything he came into contact with. Paper, tissue, blades of grass, napkins, banana peels. He would leave his twisted work behind: a figure eight of notebook paper on the counter of the news stand; a reef knot of flower stems on a park bench; a slip-knot of baling twine on the ground at the strassenbahn stop.
His most faithful audience is here today, still unnamed and unknown. She’s a woman who comes once or twice a week, leaves a nickel, and walks off without a word. He recognizes her by the navy blue coat, the neat curls, and her mended shoes.
It’s gone midnight and I’m fit for Uncle-Ned, but Bill he’s wide awake. Even more than usual if you ask me. He wants to see if Gillies is still there and I say don’t be daft, Bill, look at the place, London’s in ruins! But he won’t be told no, not these days.