“Hi, lol, xd. Hello ppl, xd.” My sister forwarded me this cryptic Skype message, received from our father on his ninety-sixth birthday. He’d apparently sent it to her daughter in New Zealand. Jokey acronyms were hardly his style, so in other circumstances we might have worried about his state of mind. We were indeed rattled, but for a different reason. He’d been dead for the last eighteen months. Our first thought was that our dad’s account’s been hacked, though it seemed a strange way to launch something sinister. And rather late in the game, since … Continue reading Tackling the Digital Afterlife by Elizabeth Bird→
Looking for Theopista who is called a saint, painted by Lippi who is called by Browning a brothel-john in monk’s clothing and, in the poem, admits his out-of-boundsness, and paints Job nearby with a label “Job” and made long love to a nun and got away with it because, rich Cosimo de Medici the Elder told anyone who would listen, Lippi was a heavenly form in fleshy flesh, no dray horse he. Looking for and finding the woman of the lost-luggage cab. And finding the woman of middle-age elegance pushing a wheelchair. And finding the … Continue reading A First Visit to the Uffizi by Patrick T. Reardon→
For many years my photography was travel-based, focusing on ghost towns and other places in glorious decline. Decay and rust attracted me because of their fabulous color gradients often found in very spectacular light, mainly out west in the Great American desert. Over time, I also became interested in spontaneously occurring subjects of funky material that might be broadly considered to pass for abstract modern art. Outside travel for me then intermittently morphed into a visit to an outdoor museum. The intensive targeted micro forage of a limited area became my modus operandi. This … Continue reading The Eclectic Photography of William C. Crawford→
My father dulled his surmise. He rang the register, count ‘em Greenback and copper upon the eye. Blue black fell on Harlem. He poured the day into olive canvas bag Pocketed the gun, flicked alarm switch Left the shop, turned key to drag His gloom, eyes hooded, pitch. He drove 125th Street to the bank Parked out front under the trestle. The bag chuted down night deposit, sank. He did it 30 years like a dog deaf to a whistle. Richard Oyama’s work has appeared in Premonitions: The Kaya Anthology of New Asian North American … Continue reading The Book of Nights by Richard Oyama→
Long, long ago when I was young, someone I knew told me how much it meant to her to read Candide. In fact, she read it over and over. It was inspiring. I wanted to say, “Are we talking about the same book?” How could the deep cynicism I’d seen in that book be inspiring? But she was old and I was young, so, instead of arguing, I filed for future reference. Then there’s this story, perhaps a koan, I first heard at one of those self-help meetings so popular in that same era. It … Continue reading Candide’s Garden by Susan Shafarzek→
We are pilgrims in the earth and strangers— we come from afar and we are going far. –Vincent van Gogh Abroad for some time now following our family’s wishes without much success or happiness. I sense their exasperation, their disappointment growing— soon there will be no tolerance left, even for an eldest son. I prefer not to speak of it except to you, brother. I hold up a mirror to the deep things which pass through me, sometimes flickering, sometimes blazing, always indomitable— feeling no connection to these plans for me. This I freely admit. … Continue reading Abroad by Brent Short→
Tim Collyer is the 2nd place winner of Streetlight‘s 2025 Flash Fiction Contest Career Day smells of bleach and gravy. Wrong and familiar at once, like medicine in birthday cake. Margaret sits on a child’s blue chair, jaw still tender from yesterday’s biopsy. The scarf over her scalp isn’t a statement, just warm. Emma twists her book bag strap round and round, marking time with what they don’t discuss. A builder talks about bricks. A paramedic shows a stethoscope and every child leans forward. Margaret once wrote columns about the sound of crisp pastry giving way, about wine that tasted of … Continue reading The Taste of Copper Pennies by Tim Collyer Flash Fiction→
So, pretty much every old saw about old age is 100% true. There’s crepitus (the medical onomatopoeia-ous description of creaky joints), and the inevitable geriatric bitch sessions where individualized assaults on the body are compared in groups of two or more, (except, of course for the unmentionable issues which are unmentionable for a reason); and the whole-scale disappearance of words from mental dictionaries (though, thankfully adjacent synonyms seem to hang on longer.) There also seems to be a universal consideration of undertaking the massive Swedish Death Cleaning to free heirs from the unpleasant chore down-road. … Continue reading Night, Night Sleepy Heathen by Erika Raskin→
You’ve been using ChatGPT as a therapist a little too much lately. We joke about it on occasion—we’ve lovingly named him “Chad,” you share, chuckling as you do so just to make sure others know that you know it’s silly. Meaningless. Just an offshoot of the word “chat”—something you obviously didn’t put too much thought into, anyway. But every time you scroll past a post or reel poking fun at our bit-too-personal reliance on the AI bot, it scratches just a little deeper than you’d like. You’re not special, you realize. This isn’t hard-hitting. Nothing … Continue reading Boxes Left Unchecked by Presley Ackeret→
William Prindle has earned an Honorable Mention in Streetlight’s 2025 Poetry Contest The Orchardist’s Lament If I spent less time in unstructured circumspection and dreadful inference I might remember that circumference is nothing but pi times diameter and I might not have to rue the mismeasurements I make in fencing these apple trees from noisy birds and sneaky squirrels. I might not keep repeating what a dolt to myself as I continue to overlook my own advice and nurse my sore thumbs from recutting and rebending this eighteen-gauge wire, when all these years I could … Continue reading The Orchardist’s Lament by William Prindle→
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