photo of two statues holding ice cream cones

Inarguably Dead by Ron Heacock

I heard a story once that explains how I know. There was this missionary visiting some African tribe who observed a native mother. Children out there were carried around by their moms all the time. Every so often, with no verbal clues, this tribeswoman holds her diaperless little boy out at arm’s length over a…

photo of milk splash

Three Poems by Corey Mesler

Ghost Milk My shirt on the floor fell in the shape of me. It invites me back in. The sounds outside the screen door could be anyone’s children, even God’s. The sky is the color of Jean Gabin. I scrape the marrow from the last bone and sit alone at table; all that is left…

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Two Poems by James Bojaciuk (Bojangles)

Our Scars Sharpie-black nails Etch Celtic Carvings in my upper back; Two Tylenol and an aspirin (Which shan’t be mixed) cannot Quell the scars that creep up my back, spiderwise. Burning cedar Welters motes All through our hair; Though the hill was a highrise, we Tumbled down and down and down until you, darling, Sprained…

photo of cow wandering through the woods

New Prose Poetry Guidelines

Hello, CC fans! Our poetry submissions will reopen on July 15th, at which time we will only accept prose poems. Our new guidelines are posted on the Submissions page. While other editors have been known to deride prose poems, our Poetry Editor takes them up in his arms and rocks them beneath the lingering milky…

photo of punk baby

What Child is This by Sean Leonard

For she believes, as you do, that she has just given birth to the first strange children of the terrible new sun. You stay at her side, holding her sweat-slick hand, gauging your own emotions based on the doctors’ reactions. One nurse gasps, another screams, and you squeeze your wife’s hand tighter as she begins to ask questions.…

photo of movie concession stand

Deep Throat Deflowered by Pedro Ponce

The movies teach him secret keeping, the expedience of elision, the art of fading out. He learns kissing at the dollar matinée, four weeks’ allowance and a bus ride from the shaded room where he hoards quarters. He roots for change in the seams of the living room lounger, in sofa cushions that yield to his fingers like…

photo of different colored marbles

Scriptures by Len Kuntz

The man who came to our village only spoke English. My father, already partially deaf, cocked his head as he listened. “Mojo,” Father said to me, “what’s he say?” The foreigner called himself Peterson. He grinned a lot, his teeth clean and bright and straight, so much unlike our own, his corn-colored hair another oddity…

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Arson and Brotherly Love by Nathaniel Tower

I started my first fire when I was nine. My brother made me do it. I know every nine-year-old says that, but it really was true. He gave me the matches, the gasoline, the motive. I wasn’t an arsonist. I was just a kid trying to impress. And impress I did. “That’s the biggest fuckin’…