Issue 26 Fiction
by Devin Murphy
On the highway returning east, Rory kept looking through the rearview mirror at the wrecked car he was towing. The splintered windshield was bowed out in the shape of his son’s head and mile after mile, each shard of glass took on the grief of Rory’s own life, the loss of his own parents, the losses he saw in the war, the slow death of Irma, the million immediate tragedies of his children, and now this, the flash of one of their lives snuffed out.
by Melissa Scholes Young
the census taker drinks her coffee black. She doesn’t have time for cream, for the frothing or warming of dairy. Sugar is a cover up. She sips her coffee standing at the glass door to her backyard—the one she’s never stepped foot on during the four months she’s been renting this condo—and counts birds. 34 this morning. 37 yesterday. She wants to know the birds’ types. She wants to look up their species so that she might know who they are. Labels matter.