Prose
The Gathering/The Raid
The Gathering/The Raid Workers of Pathways Part Two The concrete of the hospital steps was already seeping cold through the knees of her scrubs. The nurse had not moved since she found the bundle. She just held it held her, Baby Sofia, though she did not have a name yet tight against the warmth of her chest, shielding her from the institutional chill.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 2 months ago in Poets
Visits From Nostalgia.
My town's closest movie store closed years ago, but the other day, I caught the scent of that place. It's a scent I'll never forget. Out of the blue, unexpected, suddenly I was ten years old again—walking into the movie store on a Friday night with my parents, older brother, and younger sister. I would always get the same movie: Thumbelina. I was in love with that movie.
By April Kirby.2 months ago in Poets
WORKERS OF PATHWAYS
I added the video because it is an important part of the visuals for this story. I am not apologizing for the video because I thought about just publishing the story but the video works for this story. My teacher friend in LA loves the videos and the visuals. I dedicate this to my teacher friend, Ms. Lidia, to my social worker therapist, Elizabeth, to my Nurse, Arapia, and to my caregiver, Rosa.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 2 months ago in Poets
The Opera House
10/24/25 4:37am I’m the most sober I’ve been since sober meant anything and Chicago must not believe in autumn anymore because I’ve already got my earmuffs attached to my bag any time I leave the house but it’s not so bad unless my fingers get itchy then it means it’s too cold too fast I just hope my medication isn’t expired because God knows I don’t have the means to pay for it or most things at this point and I’ll blame it on everything except my own will because it doesn’t weigh my arms down as much and they’ve been hurting at night so maybe it’s the breakthrough the doctors have been looking for maybe it’s the key to whatever hypothesis involves the need for a snot rag and numb lips maybe it’s ancient scripture or hieroglyphics and maybe when it’s all done it’ll reveal a map to the Opera House and I won’t have any choice but to spend the last ball on two tickets to The Winter’s Tale and I’ll remember how serotonin doesn’t have to taste like a respiratory infection it can just exist inside me and leave without any weak link or toe-holed sock or empty dispensers of longing
By Olivia Dodge2 months ago in Poets
The Glow Beneath the Ruin
I watch the final curl of flame shiver above the wood as if reluctant to surrender its trembling life. The fire has eaten all I once believed immovable leaving a hollowed shape that speaks softly with the hush of falling soot. In this dimming glow I sense the outline of my former self-rising only to sink again into the cradle of ash. It is a stillness heavy as thunder holding the last breath of all that has ended.
By Tim Carmichael2 months ago in Poets
Time is Linear. Top Story - November 2025.
Time is all-forgiving so I’ve named myself after her. I’ve built an endless soul inside of a shell and slapped my fingerprints on every inch, hoping somehow they’ll find it when we’re gone. I don’t know how to tell you that I would cut open every organ in my doll of a body just to prove the absolute fervor that flows through cells combining pink, and I don’t know if it’s too late to say it. Time would stay, so I will, too. She can’t feel conflicted because there’s only one destination, one task, one rhythm to stay awake. I thought if I created a world, it would keep its eyes open, or at least tell me when it starts to get sleepy. It’s okay to take a nap, but I don’t know what I’d do if the gears stopped turning altogether. I don’t know why the confusion is the most arduous of all these mixed up destinations, but I’ll go downtown to change my name tomorrow. That should bring me a little closer, I think. I’ve built something so exquisitely strange with all these smudges and cells and bruises of seconds, that I’m not sure I could take it apart. I’m not sure I could leave it here to be found in ruins, or ensure the glass jars of my ever-hearts will not go rotten the second I’m gone, or you, or our children. It’s not the building, nor the signatures nor the nails nor the shelves, it’s our bodies that make this collective soul breathe in time. Without us, time does not exist beautifully; or, at least it won’t while I’m still waiting for the fire to be put out.
By Olivia Dodge2 months ago in Poets
