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Kelly: An Interview Devin Kelly earned his MFA from Sarah Lawrence College and is the author of two collaborative chapbooks as well as two collections of poetry, Blood on Blood (Unknown Press), and In This Quiet Church of Night, I Say Amen (Civil Coping Mechanisms). His work has been published or is forthcoming in The Guardian, LitHub, Catapult, and more. He is the Director of Enrichment Programming for the Sunnyside Community Services Youth Futures Program at Queens Vocational High School, as well as a teacher at the City College of New York. He is the founder and co-host of the Dead Rabbits Reading Series and currently lives in Harlem. https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/karinabushinterview monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1549394326862-8U8XPRJAW9N3S95ZAJYT/BIO20.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Karina Bush: An Interview Karina Bush is an Irish writer and visual poet born in Belfast and now living in Rome. She is the author of three books, Brain Lace (BareBackPress, 2018), 50 Euro (BareBackPress, 2017), and Maiden (48th Street Press, 2016). She has a new book, Christo & Nicola, forthcoming from Analog Submission Press. For more, visit her website karinabush.com and Instagram https://www.instagram.com/karinabushxx/. https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/levibentley monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/aidenheung monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/2019/1/20/remi-recchia-2-poems monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/michellebrooks monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/brennawebb monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/2018/12/30/akachi-obijiaku-3-poems monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/larrynarron monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/morganstephenson monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1544714834518-YVBVSGDYL37GLZFG3ZNM/Stephenson_13.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Morgan Stephenson: Yellow Roses https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1544714835232-IJ2DL2OB4R2384F0J7FD/Stephenson_10.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Morgan Stephenson: Yellow Roses https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1544714837472-MTI6P6G2RLKNPO15SIG2/Stephenson_5.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Morgan Stephenson: Yellow Roses https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1544714837886-OVW0F8MWWVU26HV1H3A0/Stephenson_12.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Morgan Stephenson: Yellow Roses https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1544714843504-7LTMKVMLJ0AU79SEJ8DL/Stephenson_9.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Morgan Stephenson: Yellow Roses https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1544714843802-DZNVA5BWDMFRFLQO063H/Stephenson_2.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Morgan Stephenson: Yellow Roses https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1544714846264-WRXZI2M8JERED2P73TX9/Stephenson_11.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Morgan Stephenson: Yellow Roses https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1544714846154-R6R7AD2WEICKSNVDYKEO/Stephenson_8.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Morgan Stephenson: Yellow Roses https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1544714850084-78TX1BESQD8BLY01OIXU/Stephenson_1.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Morgan Stephenson: Yellow Roses https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1544714851225-2GHOND49VT266IY1E2SU/Stephenson_7.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Morgan Stephenson: Yellow Roses https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/2018/12/2/glen-binger-the-voicemail monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/jennafaccenda monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/2018/11/18/joseph-sigurdson-1-poem monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/rebeccakokitusinterview monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1541907638573-U32MUWHDMPY1RISDGFBM/45805322_2115238915456369_354083151196192768_n.jpg The Weekly Degree° - An interview with poet, Rebecca Kokitus https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1541911963408-4HN4I5WHQ344PRPWIUOJ/5aefc5ed96a49+%281%29.jpeg The Weekly Degree° - An interview with poet, Rebecca Kokitus https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/buckscobookfest monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1541361712133-ZNDF04OADADNQ0WLQORD/doyles+town%27.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Josh Dale: Bucks County Book Fair Downtown Doylestown at sunset looking down East State Street, captured by Michael Brooks https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1541361903058-0TGYGLMYQTCUG9RWY6SA/IMG_8499.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Josh Dale: Bucks County Book Fair Daniel DiFranco (left) and Nick Gregorio with their displays https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1541362258929-788BXUPZHZTJ02HT1GZ5/IMG_8489.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Josh Dale: Bucks County Book Fair DiFranco describing a scene in his novel, Panic Years. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1541362370616-PVMOPT9JBYEMNBUT8IEF/IMG_8488.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Josh Dale: Bucks County Book Fair Many Hypertrophic journals and Christopher DiCicco’s latest, So my mother, she lives in the clouds https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1541362595679-FBKEADDYOFIW2JWLUBQ5/image-asset.jpeg The Weekly Degree° - Josh Dale: Bucks County Book Fair 1/3rd of the Hypertrophic triumvirate, Maddie Anthes, with her assistant. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1541362785744-A3NLJAYVGDOLMI2NF3ZD/IMG_8507.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Josh Dale: Bucks County Book Fair H.A. Callum with his latest novel, Whispers in the Alders https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1541362955963-8J8XR6LQ00GTTZOPAX8D/IMG_8512.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Josh Dale: Bucks County Book Fair https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1541363082771-O1NARQ8PXQYOPBX2CK3T/IMG_8513.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Josh Dale: Bucks County Book Fair McAllister reads an excerpt from How to Be Safe while Ingram ingests the harrowing scene. https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/edytherodriguez monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/leighfisher monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/jbradley monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/cm-crockford-1-poem monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/rebecca-kokitus-2-poems monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/joe-lynch-1-poem monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/carrollsusco monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/angelinafay monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/2018/7/29/john-ashbury-an-interview monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/poetryolympics monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1532274084904-EG5PGHJOLA7X75UAFLQY/image-asset.jpeg The Weekly Degree° - Rania M.M. 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Greg Leonard: Art Gallery https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/2018/7/8/laura-ingram-a-response-to-the-return-of-kings-article-5-reasons-to-date-a-girl-with-an-eating-disorder monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/ireneclementina monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1529871124734-7NZD0XGQ6TJZBRTWOCPR/DSCF2434.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Irene Clementina: I teach my children superstitions: Photos https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1529871125067-4T14C1MQ5735ZKC2YQG6/DSCF2431.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Irene Clementina: I teach my children superstitions: Photos https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1529871131376-N8VUORG3BMVWUISJG5M6/88840021.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Irene Clementina: I teach my children superstitions: Photos https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1529871131720-FNOW2BTSEG2KJPMF14TY/88840020.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Irene Clementina: I teach my children superstitions: Photos https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1529871139349-3MQITIVIL6YBQJM8E2HI/77860026.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Irene Clementina: I teach my children superstitions: Photos https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1529871137434-52BZ14G221586DM4W7NT/77860023.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Irene Clementina: I teach my children superstitions: Photos https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1529871141159-NOPW4KMZDDP6NK2EK37I/DSCF2465.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Irene Clementina: I teach my children superstitions: Photos https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1529871149070-JXOVKYPHWFLY2TWYQ3F5/88840024.jpg The Weekly Degree° - Irene Clementina: I teach my children superstitions: Photos https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1529871146266-2WWL6U1UPJJXSDKYJ7VW/DSCF2453.jpg The Weekly Degree° - 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Nick Sweeney: No Ball Games-Photos - No Crazy Golfing https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1527388880723-4THW9WIKTWIZ1EOU3WFW/No_driving.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Nick Sweeney: No Ball Games-Photos - No Driving https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1527388881332-QTYUQEU04QNRN0D1GZG5/No_music.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Nick Sweeney: No Ball Games-Photos - No Music https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1527388881473-MMKRKKAJRK7LB67WDTKH/No_shopping.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Nick Sweeney: No Ball Games-Photos - No Shopping https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1527388881955-3X7HSZQIUBM3VWNSB7JZ/No_sitting.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Nick Sweeney: No Ball Games-Photos - No Sitting https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1527388882138-ZM9FB1U1CXIVOT7CK6EG/No_walking.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Nick Sweeney: No Ball Games-Photos - No Walking https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1527388882649-VONLMGW5OTJWO083YXYP/Nobody_home.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Nick Sweeney: No Ball Games-Photos - Nobody Home https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/2018/5/20/the-poet-mj-spoken-word monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/kimberlycaseyinterview monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/bob-raymonda monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/2018/4/29/gideon-cecil-in-the-memory-of-guyanas-national-poet-martin-carter monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1525014982188-V99GCW4WP429T9NQ6TEV/image-asset.jpeg The Weekly Degree° - Gideon Cecil: In the Memory of Guyana’s National Poet, Martin Carter https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/senguptainterview monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/aahooelliepourang monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/milkcartonrelease monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522589567909-36C22P7IHRWTXCRO20V4/IMG_5905.JPG The Weekly Degree° - She Used to Be on a Milk Carton: Book Release The magnificent Grey Towers castle. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522589766257-0D71X1X6FL25LS7BFGMV/IMG_5911.JPG The Weekly Degree° - She Used to Be on a Milk Carton: Book Release https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522589810367-HF4PPGKQQ9DU8E2ZI6ZD/image-asset.jpeg The Weekly Degree° - She Used to Be on a Milk Carton: Book Release https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522589825034-AAY6TNHJPA9R6X6ZVUA2/image-asset.jpeg The Weekly Degree° - She Used to Be on a Milk Carton: Book Release https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522591714640-5035N5Q70B1V2FFLEVMH/IMG_5919.JPG The Weekly Degree° - She Used to Be on a Milk Carton: Book Release Kailey Tedesco addressing the crowd prior to the reading. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522702822236-WONGIBNBCNPAYMR1FURS/IMG_5922.JPG The Weekly Degree° - She Used to Be on a Milk Carton: Book Release The crew of April Gloaming including illustrator, Whitney Proper. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1523221615296-JRQDYTJQNZD7EU3EL9MQ/IMG_5924.JPG The Weekly Degree° - She Used to Be on a Milk Carton: Book Release The portrait of the artist with her new book! https://www.thirtywestph.com/theweeklydegree/tilderelease monthly 0.5 2024-11-24 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522016416528-T4ZE87QVG3VK5DLFYGMP/IMG_5788.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Tilde's release party: A recap Tilde: A Literary Journal: Issue 1 spread https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522018924293-AFKU03FLMICFRNSHKBB4/IMG_5802.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Tilde's release party: A recap Editor-in-chief, Josh Dale, kicks off with the editor's note. (Right) Fiction editor, Nick McMenamin. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522019091362-3ML5Y07TKAQ8HV0CUVRV/IMG_5791.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Tilde's release party: A recap Heath Brougher reading his intense poems in Tilde. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522019344098-L0BRYQS6ADAKFGOPB54K/Randall+Brown The Weekly Degree° - Tilde's release party: A recap Randall Brown, sifting through many short fiction pieces. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522019560320-PDCY55HN8ZPFTYARZX8E/image-asset.jpeg The Weekly Degree° - Tilde's release party: A recap Morgan Smith reading her short story, Don't Speak Ill of the Dead. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522019763293-C7ZQH4CZ0GNSO0SBX5OG/IMG_5799.JPG The Weekly Degree° - Tilde's release party: A recap Sunny Reed recounting memories of writing her Tilde memoir, The Lucky Ones. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1522020252817-BQTUVUY5J830F1CF68VE/IMG_5800.JPG The Weekly Degree° - 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Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/bbf20675-6b46-448c-bf98-a9a7e286a709/2024+pushcarts.png Pushcart Prize 2024 - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.thirtywestph.com/freshstartcontest2023 daily 0.75 2025-10-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/3cb60771-9f83-41ca-a8e4-a798e483f1d1/A+Fresh+start+winner.png A Fresh Start 2023 Winner https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/3cb60771-9f83-41ca-a8e4-a798e483f1d1/A+Fresh+start+winner.png A Fresh Start 2023 Winner https://www.thirtywestph.com/bestofthenet2025 daily 0.75 2025-10-01 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/000419fa-119c-4ab3-8599-604936533d0c/afterimages+2025+BotN.png Best of the Net 2025 - Make it stand out Congratulations JD, Swetha, Jan Karlo, and Jason! They were nominated for Afterimages’ FIRST Best of the Net. Click or tap the image to visit and read. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/000419fa-119c-4ab3-8599-604936533d0c/afterimages+2025+BotN.png Best of the Net 2025 - Make it stand out “Roscoe” as featured on Afterimages J.D. Clapp Roscoe sat on the edge of his single bed. His pug, Miss Daisy, ran across the cold floor and jumped on his leg. Roscoe patted her head and grinned. He loved the little bitch. His Gambling Anonymous buddy, Andy, gave him the dog years ago after Roscoe flushed his life down the shitter gambling. Andy, God rest his soul, named her Miss Daisy because Roscoe looked like Morgan Freeman and drove a limo at the time, and she was “a yappy bitch like the lady in the movie.” Roscoe hadn’t wanted a dog, but Andy knew he needed something. “Me and Miss Daisy are your family now,” Andy said when he handed him the puppy. Roscoe opened the blinds to a rainy day. He looked over the tops of the Embarcadero warehouses to the bay. A band of fog hung just over the whitecaps. Ocean view on ghetto prices. He looked at the clock—6:07 AM. I managed to sleep five whole hours. “Hold on, girl. Let the old man get his legs,” Roscoe said, as he got up. Roscoe shuffled the handful of steps across his small rent-controlled studio apartment to the kitchen area. He turned on his coffeemaker, then went to the small pantry cupboard and grabbed the bag of dog chow. He filled Miss Daisy’s bowl, returned the bag to the cupboard, picked up the Cheerios box, and shook it before setting it back in its place. It was full, but the box was two years old. Better get a new box soon. * * * That night, Roscoe stood just inside the doorway of the men's room at Pete's Chop House, as he had for the past eight years, his attendants' tray of gum, breath mints, cologne, combs, and condoms on a small folding table next to him. His tip jar sat on the counter by the stack of freshly washed terry cloth hand towels. Although his main duties included opening and closing the door and offering hand towels, he dressed like a patron—gray wool flannel trousers, a crisp white dress shirt, a blue silk tie, and a blue herringbone tweed vest. He kept his gray Afro cropped close and his gray beard bushy, but not unruly. He liked looking professional. He took pride in his work. But at 71 years old, Roscoe yearned to retire, to get the hell off his feet every night, to walk Miss Daisy in the park, sit on a bench, and watch the bay. Even with Social Security and Medicare, he lived on a shoestring—just enough for rent, food, and a bottle of whisky a month. Early on, when he was getting his life back together and working the steps, it helped keep him from hitting the ponies or calling the bookie. Now he needed the damn job. Roscoe only half-listened to the two drunk men pissing in their respective urinals, a three-foot steel privacy wall between them. Every night he heard the same old shit—juvenile banter about the hostess’s perfect tits, quick negotiations of how to split the dinner bill, debates about the likely outcome of that night’s game, or whether their dates would put out. And he could listen and hear anything, with no fear of being called out for eavesdropping. Ain’t nobody paying attention to an old man selling breath mints? Shit, I might as well be a piece of furniture. As Roscoe started daydreaming about sleeping in on his day off, his ear caught something. He started listening. “You took care of it, right?” said the man in the blue suit. “Yep. Wired half tonight, he’ll get the other half after the TKO,” said the man in the charcoal pinstripe suit. “I hate to see him do this,” said Mr. Blue Suit. “It’s good business. It helps the kid—he’s his protégée after all—and Champ’ll get a piece of everything the kid makes moving forward. Plus, no harm to his legacy—it’s an injury, not a knockout. Win-win-win.” The men finished, zipped up, flushed, and moved to the sink. Roscoe recognized Mr. Blue Suit—Jackson Fletcher, boxing promoter, a modern, corporate version of Don King. Roscoe stood ready with hand towels, handing each man one as they finished washing. Neither man acknowledged him. “Fourth round?” Fletcher asked. “Yeah, fourth. Champ’ll win the first three rounds.” Fletcher grabbed a mint from Roscoe’s tray, peeled a $5 off from the bottom of his money clip, and stuffed it into the tip cup. Both men headed back into the dining room without muttering a word to Roscoe. Like I ain’t even here… Roscoe wondered if they were talking about the Hanley/Miller fight or the undercard fight that also featured two former champions. Oh, man…Shit…I better go to a meeting…this is tempting… Roscoe hadn’t wagered a dime in nine years. Still, he had an addict’s mentality. Not knowing which bout was being thrown by which fighter had Roscoe’s mind churning. If it’s Hanley taking a fall in the fourth, I’d net at least 60 to 1…Shit…Shit…Andy if you up there listenin’ send me a sign, buddy. As Roscoe pondered his fantasy betting strategy, he handed out towels, sold a couple of spritzes of Polo and Drakkar Noir, and a condom to a guy so drunk he pissed on his own shoes. Eventually, he heard two guys chatting about The Champ, Hanley, partying in the private dining room with his entourage. Around 10:00 PM The Champ waltzed in, completely blotto, to use the shitter. He nodded at Roscoe, slurred, “How’s it going, pops?” and then staggered into the handicap stall. Roscoe heard a loud thud against the wall of the stall, followed by a groan, and the Champ mumble, “Motherfucker.” “You okay, Champ?” “Yeah, yeah. Just struggling to get this fuckin’ jacket off.” A few minutes later, Roscoe heard the flush and the Champ emerged. He set his suit jacket on the sill, and washed his hands. As Roscoe handed him a towel, the Champ asked for help putting his jacket back on. “Right side first. That shoulder is trashed…er, I mean sore from training. Yeah, training.” Roscoe could see the Champ had almost no range of motion in the shoulder. He finished helping the prizefighter, who thanked him by pulling two Benjamins off his fat cash roll and handing them to Roscoe. “I appreciate your help, my man,” the Champ said, then patted Roscoe’s shoulder as he walked out. Better than the two-hundred-dollar tip, Roscoe had his answer. Champ can’t fight no more…It’s time to sell the watch…Just one more play and I’ll be flush and done. The night he found it, Roscoe had been working at Pete’s for only a couple of months. After closing each night, Roscoe dumped the dirty terry cloth hand towels from the bathroom collection basket into the laundry bin with the dining room linens. That night, his eye caught something shiny and gold amid the sea of soiled white napkins, tablecloths, and towels. He reached in, grabbed a gold watch, and quickly stuffed it into his pocket with his tips. Roscoe didn’t look at his find until he was safely locked in his apartment. He hid the watch inside a bag of cereal in a Cheerios box. Roscoe decided he’d return it if it was claimed. He waited two months, and when nobody returned to Pete’s looking for it, he figured it was fake or stolen. Eventually, Roscoe took the watch to a little shop off Union Square. The old horologist looked at the timepiece through a loop. He took the case back off and examined the movement. “This is an authentic, solid gold, Rolex Day, Date model. Collectors call it the “Presidential.” It’s worth about $8,000. Would you like to sell it?” the jeweler asked. That kind of cash is trouble. “No, I think I’ll hold on to it.” Roscoe decided the watch would be his retirement fund and a symbol of his willpower and commitment to recovery. It sat in its hiding place for eight years. Two weeks after he’d helped the Champ struggle into his suit jacket, Roscoe called off from work. He fed and walked Miss Daisy. He filled her water dish and food dishes. “See you late tonight, Miss Daisy. You be a good girl and guard the apartment.” Roscoe headed to SFO with a round-trip ticket to Vegas and $22,000 in his pocket. If the fog didn’t roll in, and nothing went wrong, he’d be home around 1:00 AM with a big check. After landing, Roscoe moved through from the gate to ground transportation as fast as he could walk. The cling-clang bells and electronic bloops, the flashing lights and shiny machines, and the sounds of gaming beckoned him like some cruel temptress. His stomach churned as the taxi drove past The Strip to the Golden Nugget downtown. I gotta get in and out or this gonna be trouble. He headed straight for the sports book. “Twenty-two thousand on Miller to win in the fourth. Miller at +800,” the teller said, as she counted out Roscoe’s cash on the counter and handed him a ticket with his bet. “Yes ma’am!” Roscoe said. “Good luck!” the teller said. Roscoe made his way out of the casino. He grabbed a cab and headed to a café off The Strip in a little strip mall near UNLV. He lingered at his table until 1:00 PM then walked across the parking lot to a small bar populated by students. He sat at the bar, nursing whisky and chatting with the bartender until happy hour. Then he headed back to the café for dinner. All day, as he waited for the fight, he alternated between imagining finally being done with work and a nagging worry the thing might go south. This is a one-and-done bet that became his internal mantra. He felt some guilt, but worse was the anxiety. What if it’s a Pulp Fiction double cross? What if the Champ takes a shot to the shoulder too soon and can’t make it to the fourth? What if…What if…It was a long day of waiting, not gambling. When the undercard started, Roscoe left the bar and headed back to the Nugget. Miss Daisy stood on the bed looking out onto the first rays of sun shining through the window. The wind blew big puffy white clouds across the sky above the choppy bay. She cried and pawed at the window. She ran to the door and wagged her tail as Roscoe turned the key. Roscoe tossed his coat on the bed and lay down. Miss Daisy jumped up and licked his face. “Easy girl. I need some rest. Then we can take a long walk to the bank. Tomorrow, we gonna spend the whole day at the park just resting on a bench and watching the boats.” “On a trail” as featured on Afterimages Swetha Amit I walk on the lush green trail, watching the pearl white egrets in the water plonk on either side. The gurgling sound of water has a soothing effect on my shoulders, bearing the weight of my backpack and the stress of a fifteen-year-old marriage crumbling like the pebbles on the trail. I balance myself lest I slip, and my feet find their way into the marsh water, where the reflections of white clouds appear like illusionary cushions. However, this accidental landing in the slush would feel adventurous to my forty-five-year-old self, who has wanted to disappear into the depths of the unknown for a while. I’m hidden behind my large group of hikers, navigating this strip of green until they reach the foothills of a mountain on the other side. I’ve longed for this kind of getaway since I heard about putting up tents and gazing at the night sky’s gems from my friends in college. Life’s responsibilities of being the sole breadwinner after my father’s death got in the way. I now have a receding hairline, grey streaks in my stubble, several years of corporate experience, a ten-year-old girl scared of spiders, and a coder wife uninterested in nature expeditions. I am on the verge of a separation. My head feels light like the floating reflections of the clouds, and yet my heart feels heavy as though laden with a bag of stones. My phone rings. My wife’s name flashes on the screen. Is it about seeing that marriage counselor again? When she suggested this option, I said I needed time to think. She was baffled about my wanting to quit my corporate career and start a travel company. “It’s too risky,” she exclaimed. “I have enough savings to bank on,” I retorted. Now, I tried to make sense of the snippets of words on the phone call. “Home…understand…date…” Her voice sounded distant and patchy, and the call was cut. I put the phone on silent mode and let it cradle inside my pocket. The trail is a sparkling green, freshly washed from the light rain the previous week—the perfect spring flush. There is a mix of smells—the dampness of the mud and the morning dew from the green patch wafting into my nostrils. My skin feels rejuvenated with the brush of the gentle breeze. The humming sound of a bee rings in my ears. I watch it hover around me before it moves away. My wife wonders why I often feel restless whenever we sit on the couch to stream the latest Netflix series or when she asks me to accompany her to family dinners. She does not understand when I tell her I am tired of conversations revolving around children’s class schedules or the fluctuating temperatures in the Bay Area. “What’s wrong with such conversations?” she raises her eyebrows incredulously. “It’s just mundane,” I tell her. She would curl her long black hair around her fingers with a sulky expression. “Does this mean you don’t want to watch television anymore?” “There is a world beyond these superficial talks and redundant, overrated flicks,” I sighed. “Besides, I’d like to know more about people’s experiences and their purpose in life.” “Those can get intense,” she would say and shrug. Whenever I suggested nature walks, she complained about her knees being too fragile for such rough landscapes. Neither was she benevolent enough to let me hike alone until now, after a massive showdown that made her burst into tears after I pointed out how our holiday getaways were mostly at exotic resorts, fancy dinners, or mall expeditions. I take a deep breath and trudge on the trail, where I spot little slabs of rocks on the stream, patches of green, like little islands. At one point, I see the sky and water merged into one. I feel like I am enveloped in a celestial embrace of the cloud-studded sky. This journey has just begun, along with a group of strangers. Soon, we will put up our tents near the foothills, light a bonfire, and maybe hear a coyote’s call. I’ll get to gaze at the night sky, count the stars, and try to spot the constellations. In the meantime, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I can almost hear my wife’s frantic voice asking me to return. I think of her slamming doors and banging the dishwasher in exasperation while my daughter would play video games in her room with the door shut. My hiking boots squelch on the mushy trail as I watch one of the egrets flap its wings and fly. Not too far. Just to the other end. Another gust of wind blows. Goosebumps prick my skin. My phone continues to vibrate, and I let it ring. I continue on this trail, hoping to reach a point when I can no longer feel the phone churning in my pocket, and see the sky turn into a glorious shade of orange. I wait for the time when this little world is plunged into darkness when all I can hear is the chirrup of crickets and the coyote’s call piercing into the stillness of the night. “From Scratch” as featured on Afterimages Jan Karlo Lopez Trying to cook by using a family recipe, but there aren’t any. No measurements, only directions. Everything from scratch, from memory. The ingredients don’t change but the quality does. From milking the cow on the rancho at 4 AM to picking up the milk at the tienda on the block, then crossing into America where vending machines sold milk on street corners. A place where milk is right next to almond milk, soy milk, lactose-free milk, skim milk, and milk that doesn’t fit the definition of milk in the nicest grocery store Oak Cliff has to offer, (Tom Thumb) because even though property taxes doubled it’s still not nice enough to get anything better on this side of town. The Whole Foods, Trader Joe's, and Central Market sit across town, where the rest of the nice things are. Off US-75 by North Park Mall, it is one of the most visited malls in the country. They advertise an HEB coming to Dallas that lands in Frisco because of course they need more, they always need more, and they always get more. We settle for Wal-Mart but avoid the local one because of the locals. Avoid another that closes early because of the crime. And then there are the Cost-Plus grocery stores that add a surcharge to shop there. Why support local businesses if the local businesses don’t support the locals? For the most part, the recipe stays the same, the changes over generations are minimal and unnoticeable, like the minimum wage. Fill it up to put it here then in there, a one size fits all measurement. If the bowl is bigger, add more. They always add more, more hours, more interest, more payments, more taxes, doing more, getting less. To leave a third-world country for a developing city. To leave the motherland for the ghetto/barrio/hood. To leave everything known for something unknown. Hope with no promises, but the reward overshadows the risk, and the risk is everything. Start all over from scratch with whatever can be carried across the river. Over their head, on their back in the desert, pay extra to be smuggled in plain sight over the border, or ride with the rest of the group under the truck, hidden until clearing the checkpoints. Waiting and saving for years to bring family over like pieces of a torn picture, saving up for another, choosing between who to risk bringing and who to risk leaving, saving up for another, then another, only to get raided in the middle of the night and deported. Far from anywhere called home. No pesos. No dollars. Having to start all over from scratch to do it all over again and wait more years to have the picture taped back together, risking missed pieces. There’s no recipe for the American pie, it’s all from scratch, scratching, and clawing; the blood, sweat, and tears turn the dirt into mud. It is stiff enough to crawl out and start from the bottom. A chance at something stable. Options are limited without proper documentation. Gotta know someone who knows someone who works for someone who will act like they don’t know. They’ll come disguised in the same skin color to soften the blow. Wake up at the crack of dawn to clean houses, and hotels, clean after kids, then clean up and get ready for bed to do it all over again. Everyone sleeps together on the cold nights and alone on the hot ones, the weather seeping through the warped windows with ease. Landscaping until sundown. Still can’t speak English, so gotta point to the menu to order. Sleep comes abruptly after the sixteen-hour shift, but lightly because they’ve been breaking into cars at the apartments. Can’t risk what little they have. Wake up the kids before the shotgun blasts. Better to expect it because the movies don’t show how it goes mute after gunshots. Then leap into a house, back to scratch, no more rent, now there’s a mortgage, with high interest, insurance with a high deductible, a sixty-year term contract, where generations benefit from the interest paid so generations later the home can be owned, but property taxes are still due annually. They rise but so does the murder rate. The murder capital of the country, the most dangerous place to drive, but so expensive to live in. Back then they went west looking for gold, now they came here for lower property taxes. Are they too late moving, or am I? The locals can't afford to live here because the hood is worth the money. There will be ones who will profit from it say it is. They knock it all down to start from scratch. Price out all the local businesses and bring in the small shops, financed by out-of-town money. Slap a modern look that resembles a mom-and-pop look but not like my Ma and Pa. The smoke shop down the street has a stigma, but the CBD store is accepted with open arms. The overpriced grinder and locally made drink both leave a bad taste. Somehow, some way, the black sheep makes it through the rebellious phase. The yearly one-on-one parent-teacher conferences. The in-school suspensions, the out-of-school suspensions, and the expulsion until the sixty days of alternation school are complete. Where everyone had it for cheap and crossword puzzles were the only assignments given. Came out and got addicted to heroin, switched schools, dropped heroin, got charges pressed, then charges dropped, and graduated in reconnect by doing one class in one day. Not unintelligent, uninterested in the school system, the hierarchy, or the establishment. Graduated and picked up my diploma. Stopped working to go to college, dropped out, and went back to work. Haven’t stopped since. I somehow stacked it up, legally, and got a house, to start all over from scratch. “Abandoned Pets and Empty Museums” as featured on Afterimages Jason M. Thornberry I closed my eyes for weeks—the night a pair of strangers pummeled, kicked, and curb-stomped me. Like an atomic blast, my traumatic brain injury erased me from the world I knew and loved, hurling burning chaos across the landscape of my life. A mushroom cloud obscured my reality—and the subsequent black rain soaked me to the skin. When the nuclear winter of my coma subsided, I returned to the world with so much to learn about my new self. For a start, my mouth didn’t work. When I opened it, emerging words fought for the front of the line, coalescing in a distorted jumble—a traffic jam encamped along the highway of my helpless tongue. My words swerved violently into one another, edging for clearance, plummeting over the side, and landing at my feet. Their intended recipients—my mother, doctors, therapists—stared, open-faced. They asked me to slow down; they asked me to repeat myself. I learned to pick my words up, dust them off, and use them more carefully. My left arm didn’t work. Doctors said I developed contracture. I didn’t understand, but I felt this contracture shortening and pulling the muscles and tendons of my arm inward; it curled at the elbow, fist touching chest, wrist bending downward, bringing fingers in contact with the underside of my forearm like a broken wing. As agonizing days drifted, I watched my arm become a grotesque knot, remembering I was left-handed. Lying in bed, I felt tendons contracting beneath the cast covering my arm. I always wanted a cast as a little boy. Getting one meant you did something courageous, like crash your BMX bike. And I loved signing my friend’s casts in elementary school. But now, a plaster sheath remained on my arm less than a week before another took its place. No one bothered signing. With an electric saw, doctors sliced open my casts like warm bread, freeing me momentarily before applying a new one. I wore twenty-three. My left leg didn’t work. Contracture twisted my hip, contorting the limb into a question mark—the pain a battalion of exclamation points fashioned into spears. In the evening, I rolled in my wheelchair to my mother’s desk, where I typed with my right hand. After an hour or two, I transferred from my chair to the couch, watching TV and playing with my mother’s dog, careful not to bump him with my cast. For a time, my memory refused to work, details eluding me like bandits. I learned to write everything down in an unreadable right-handed scrawl. I learned to carry a pen and notepad. I learned to become right-handed. With practice, my messy new handwriting matched my messy old handwriting. My memory improved because I wrote constantly—and I learned to write by living in my memories. I remembered that I used to play the drums—for twelve invigorating years, pursuing a music career. I suspected I might never touch them again because playing hurt too much, physically and emotionally. Coordinated independence, which all musicians develop, allowed me to play distinct rhythms with each limb. After my injury, I could hardly hold my drumsticks. After my injury, I banished my musical equipment to the garage—to the unvisited museum of my former self. Years later, I practically gave it all away: I sold my drums and cymbals, my snare and my chair; I sold my drum cases and the wooden dolly I used to transport them from van to backdoor to stage. I emptied the museum. After my injury, I lived alone, writing and remembering. As a musician, I kept a sporadic journal. Now, it was a repository for stories, conversations, letters, lists, and linguistic keepsakes. After my injury, memories flickered until I captured them on the page. I described watching purple blood ooze from the staples lining my little brother’s head when, years before, the same thing happened to him: he was assaulted arbitrarily. My brother once called me his hero. Now, I sat helplessly beside his hospital bed, wondering if he’d ever be the same. Later, I wrote about our hometown where he was attacked: a polluted, bankrupt wasteland deteriorating as it sank into hopelessness, its desperate inhabitants wet-mouthed, wide-eyed, and lost, like abandoned pets along the side of the road. Writing about my hometown sharpened my memories. I moved away years ago, but my stepfather told me I was a product of my environment; I would always be a part of that place. My traumatic brain injury taught me how to live by teaching me how to adapt. To survive. I took a job in a bookstore, eventually meeting and working alongside the woman I fell in love with. The woman I married. The woman I cherish. The woman who encouraged me to play the drums again. We relocated, and I returned to school in my forties. Today, I teach a class called, “Writing Our Memories.” I show my undergraduate students how writing about your past brings it back into focus. I tell them we learn from our past by studying it and examining it for clues about who we might become. When I lived the life of a struggling musician in the years leading up to my injury, I had no idea my past informed my future. In class, we study personal essays about love and pain, excitement and loss, triumph and disappointment. Together, we write in response to these essays. And I hope that as they learn, I do too. I still wonder if my injury has taught me enough. https://www.thirtywestph.com/maison daily 1.0 2026-03-31 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/1731887886859-QVAU0WAKX0OBOXR85420/TW+Classic+Woods+Header.png Home https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/5a4432ef-b861-4ad4-a206-d5d2923fb75b/TW+Grey+Sticker.png Home - About us Founded in 2015, Thirty West has published over 65 single-author books, four collaborative novels, handfuls of limited-edition chapbooks, hundreds of broadsides & countless readings. https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/aff9887c-7be7-4178-8117-66bc14e8dc59/2026+SPRING+COHORT+COLLAGE.png Home - Coming Soon The Spring cohort, featuring Mallory Smart, Mike Bagwell, Liz deBeer, and Esénia Bañuelos launches on 4/24/26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/f95c13ae-e909-4bfc-9e99-cf5dad1c07a5/Pepperleaf+promo+card.png Home - Coming Soon Pepperleaf, the new novel by Ross McMeekin, out on 5/22/26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/4cef46d4-4931-42f3-9755-83af2f1fe73b/Afterimages+April+2026+names+and+dates.png Home - Afterimages Welcome to our Poetry Blitz! 10 poets + one craft essayist on the 15th. Reading for June now! https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/5a4432ef-b861-4ad4-a206-d5d2923fb75b/TW+Grey+Sticker.png Home - What is TW? Founded in 2015 70+ titles & counting 4 collaborative novels 3 online journals 2 editpurr-in-chiefs 1 passionate masthead Royalties + author copies Chapbooks by hand Limited edition projects Global distribution Select bookstores Value shipping Excellent customer service https://www.thirtywestph.com/pushcart2025 daily 0.75 2024-12-07 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/6af69139-3160-464c-876c-0eedf37e7e3a/2025+Pushcart.png Pushcart Prize 2025 - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.thirtywestph.com/bestmicrofiction2025 daily 0.75 2024-12-23 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/639c7dc8-d9d0-44dc-84a7-13853ff154fc/afterimages+2024-Best+Microfiction+2025.png Best Microfiction 2025 - Make it stand out “Best in October” as featured on Afterimages Sophie Kearing Long walks are best in October. Branches are dressed in finery of red and orange and gold. Ravens call to you, dark and proud, the guardians of the trees. Turning your face up to the sky is best in October. The blue is vast, and the sun is kind, a splendor to behold. Falling down an abandoned well is best in October. Your hands claw at walls that are soft with the wet roots and fragrant moss of autumn drizzle. Landing at the bottom is best in October. The leafy deep is bouncy under your length and limbs. You’ll find random treasures like an old Tootsie Roll or a piece of pumpkin rind, smooth on one side and moldy on the other. Dying down there is best in October. It’s not the season for insects, nor humidity or snow. You can fade away in peace, embers of distant bonfires floating down down down to light your way through the gossamer veil: a conspiracy of convenience for your departing soul. “When She Was…” as featured on Afterimages Sean Ennis WHEN SHE WAS HIGH AT THE SUPERMARKET and hungry, she imagined crazed recipes and waved at each camera on the ceiling in its black orb. The Black Orbs! she said. She spun and pointed—vinegar? vinegar—and headed to aisle 5. No matter what store we went to, that’s always where it was, she always checked. She was not shopping for vinegar. She zoned out at the butcher counter. She said, doughnuts. It was like 10:30 on a Sunday morning, loud thunder but not much rain. She said, Lover, doughnuts, and pushed herself towards the bakery through the church crowd. The idea here should remain simple. She really was pretty normal otherwise. It was a good day. This is just a fun story. I was high too. We did it on purpose. But this is a difficult story to punctuate. WHEN SHE WAS HIGH DURING THE POWER OUTAGE and the severe storm, she suggested we play a card game she called Paradox. It required three decks, which took us forty minutes to find. She was inventing the game on the spot. It seemed like poker mixed with spin the bottle and a drinking game. The rules were contradictory. I drew three of diamonds, and she claimed I had to remove my shirt. The rain and wind were still knocking on the door, and it was getting hot in the house. She didn’t laugh. Then she fell asleep holding her cards. The power came back on, hours later, with a clang. And every light in the house. And the TVs were talking. I woke up upside down, but she remembered everything. WHEN SHE WAS HIGH AT THE AIRPORT punctured by paranoia. I don’t remember where we were going. She thought security knew that she was high, that they could see it in her bones, but there were no alarms. I gave her a nudge through the magic threshold. Now I remember where we were going. We were very young. “Grandpop Lives Alone” as featured on Afterimages Tim Lynch A maple’s branches bangle in soft, Spring gusts, late sunlight sifted through its budding arms. The sound is like a distant, breaking wave, that fathomless breath. Dormant for a season, this tree lives on, here, on the block of the city, as in every city, where district lines become apparent, where potholes lead to Hell, and infected guts of rowhomes spread their sepsis down the line, nothing to do but set plywood on porch windows like pennies on a body’s eyes. In the liquor store window, a cardboard Easter egg goes on getting pale. His body stands on the strip mall sidewalk between the parking lot and the road. Sunlight through the latticed branches dapples his cheeks, and the shadow of the maple’s bole blankets him below the neck. Nothing-eyed, his lids hover asymmetrically open, the wider hardly open at all. Cars shush loudly, sharply by. Then, the ballet begins. First, the bending at the waist, slowly. Slower. Slower even than that. A robin in the maple sings entire operas in staccato chirps of two, its cacophonous flock chirping back, while the torso, impossibly counterweighted by each foot, creaks toward the ground, arms slack, legs stiff in crooked balance, until the fingertips hang finally still and kiss the sidewalk grit. And then, an old story. A white man in his forties leaves the liquor store and lets the door fall shut, even after noticing an older Black man reaching for the handle. He isn’t quick enough and can only keep pace, fingers trailing just behind. Who tells the story is what matters now. Slowly, the body on the sidewalk unfurls upright. A woman clops straight-on, talking down to her phone, saying, “—which is fine but—,” then stutters, glancing up, and steps around, continues, “—but she’ll be weird about it, she’ll be, she’ll be like…,” fading down the block. His body wavers in place, a ghastly shape glimmering in the unfit shade of a gold-lit tree. https://www.thirtywestph.com/bestsmallfictions2026 daily 0.75 2025-12-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/db897bf9-0677-4a88-9194-aff3f4aceae7/2026+Best+Small+Fictions.png Best Microfiction 2026 - Make it stand out “Silent Night” Swetha Amit When I answered the call, it wasn't good news. The phone and the steaming cup of hot chocolate slipped from my hands. I watched the burning brown liquid splatter on the wooden floor. I didn't have time to clean up. I grabbed my car keys, phone, and purse and rushed out the door. The town was lit up with holiday lights glistening obnoxiously in the backyards. Soon, a crowd would gather in the church at midnight. Prayers would be said. Presents would be opened later. Here I was, driving feverishly to the hospital where my ailing grandmother was admitted last week after a continuous bout of illness. A runny nose, chest congestion, and incessant coughing. She barely slept, imprisoned by the coughing that refused to let go of her. No amount of honeydrops or cough suppressant that I gave her helped. Last week, her lips turned bluish. She began to experience breathlessness. I immediately called an ambulance and accompanied her to the hospital. Later, the doctor told me that he and his team were monitoring some tests on her. I spent the entire week praying at my office desk, wishing my seventy-year-old grandma would survive this ordeal. Surely she'd live to see my wedding, which was in two months. I'd visit the hospital during visiting hours and sit next to my grandma. Her eyes were closed. Wires and a beeping machine surrounded her. I hoped that she was catching up on her much-needed sleep. The walls in the waiting room were pale green. There was a tangy smell of lemons, probably from the room freshener sprayed by the hospital staff. I sat there listening to the clock ticking seconds, every minute feeling like a month as I waited for the doctor to come. I checked my phone and read a message sent by my fiancée two hours ago. A huge Christmas tree was placed just outside the waiting room, decorated with multiple-colored ornaments and a golden star on top. Grandma once told me that if something ever happened to her, she would turn into a star and watch me from the sky every night. I stared at the bright star twinkling at me from the top of the Christmas tree. The waiting room was empty except for the nurse in charge. The last time I celebrated Christmas at a large gathering was before the accident ten years ago when my parents drove cross country to attend a wedding and got caught in a storm that tossed their car into the river. It was two months after my sixteenth birthday. I remembered clutching my grandma's hand tightly, weeping, while she swallowed the pain of her only son's death. I had no siblings or cousins to lean on. Both Dad and Ma were the only children of their parents. Ma's parents died when I was two. All I had now was my grandma and my fiancée. He was on his flight from the Midwest after finishing his business meeting, worried when he heard about Grandma's condition. He would land anytime soon. Just then, the nurse mentioned the doctor would see me. I clutched my purse tightly until my palms hurt. I toyed around with my car keys before the doctor appeared in front of me—a tall, sturdy, middle-aged man with a beard wearing a white coat. He cleared his throat before addressing me by my first name. "Maria," he began. I observed the creases on his forehead and the look of his eyes. "I am afraid…we tried...but…" "How long?" My voice surprisingly bordered on a tinge of rudeness, unlike its usual polite tone. "Not much time…" he began. "How long?" I asked, sounding more aggressive than I intended. My heartbeat was as rapid as the ticking seconds on the clock, and my palms were becoming sweaty. "Maybe until midnight," he said softly. I took a deep breath. Everything appeared like a blurred dream. I wished this was just a nightmare, and Grandma would be by my bedside, stroking my silky black hair with her creamy, wrinkled hands and assuring me she would always be by my side. I steadied myself as I stood up and made my way toward Grandma’s room. She lay on her hospital bed, looking small and fragile. She peered at me with her black currant eyes and smiled faintly. Her coughing had reduced, but she still appeared tired. My emotions were a whirlwind, a mix of fear, sadness, and a tiny ray of hope that she'd somehow miraculously survive. "Maria," she said in a hoarse voice. I sat down next to her and leaned forward. She stroked my hair and wiped the fat drops of tears running down my cheeks. "I must go," she almost pleaded. I clutched her hands tightly and nodded. "You have been a good girl, Maria. May God gift you with abundant happiness…" she paused. "Remember, I'll always be watching over you," she began. "Before I go, there is something I've been meaning to give you." Amidst those stutters, Grandma revealed she'd left something for me in a wooden chest in her cupboard and also told me to contact her lawyer. The monitor began to beep, and she began to pant heavily. Her eyes crinkled as she flashed her one last smile before she closed them forever. There was a peaceful look on her face. The nurse ushered me out to complete some formalities and offered me some coffee as well. It was hot and bitter, almost scalding my tongue. Just then, my phone rang. I could feel it shaking inside my purse, and I spilled some coffee on the white floor. It was probably my fiancée who must have landed. But I couldn't speak the words—I had none. I let the phone ring, heard the clock strike midnight, watched firecrackers in the sky, and saw the golden star glistening atop the Christmas tree. But I felt numb. All I could feel was the phone trembling inside my purse. “Vibration” Kerry Sutherland “Don’t make it harder than it has to be.” Stevie mumbles as he pushes me out of the way and thumps the vending machine. A bag of wavy potato chips flutters to the tray at the bottom, tapping the glass on its way. I wanted salt and vinegar flavor, but I kept my mouth shut while Stevie walked away, shaking his head. He never says much, and I wonder why he’s here. We aren’t supposed to ask each other this question, so I don’t. I’ve learned how to play by the rules. The fluorescent light overhead flickers, igniting the space behind my eyes into a dull roar. There are migraine triggers everywhere; no place is safe. I rub my eyes and absently crinkle the chip bag in my hand. “You’ll ruin those, and then what? Whine about being hungry when we have dinner in an hour?” The new guy chuckles, his lip curled in a sneer. Who does he think he is, Elvis? I glance back as Stevie disappears down the hall. Everyone is supposed to be here, right now. It’s mandatory. So where is he going? “That your boyfriend? Isn’t he a little old for you?” Elvis slouches in his chair and crosses his hairy arms. His skin is dotted with dark patches, as if he’s spent too much time in the sun. My mother, who had a velvet Elvis painting in her bedroom, used to spend hours oiling herself under UV rays on a pink plastic lounge chair in our backyard. The back of her legs would smash up against the loose weave of the polymer threads, sticky and sweaty like the glasses of powdery lemonade she loved to drink while she napped in the heat. I would stare at the red lines that marked her legs for hours afterwards, until she yelled at me to stop. She’s dead now. “You dumb or something?” When Elvis claps his hands in front of me, I slap at them so hard he falls sideways, out of his chair, and onto the cold tile floor. I smile because he wasn’t expecting this, and the floor is filthy under his ugly hands. Before he can get up, a guard has my arms pinned behind my back, and another shouts at everyone in the room. “Nobody move!” The chips slide from my fingers, but when I turn my head to ask if the guard will pick them up, he shoves my face until I look forward again, at the man on the floor and the others watching eagerly from the circle of chairs around me. I squeeze my eyes shut and think of the last time I saw my mother, when she pushed the vacuum cleaner into my bedroom while I was watching my favorite episode of Ren & Stimpy. The vacuum cord was stiff and thick, but long enough to stay plugged in while I wrapped the middle of it around her neck, the annoying hum of it egging me on. If she were here now, she’d tell me to do as I’m told, so I keep still and listen to the vibration of the light. “Aphrodite In An Open Casket” Kenna DeValor I take the scribbled note from my hands and check it one more time, making sure I read the note correctly. It looked like a tendril of spilled ink, with a shaky hand that fervently wrote: “Garden, near the brick and stone.” My warm breath creates smoke signals around me in the cold air. At least I’m sure I’m alive. I enter a gated square with lines of stone to catch each footfall. The smell of floral rot: the rose, peony, and soil swirled around me in a delicate game of tug of war. Baby pinks, passionate reds, sickly browns and greens, a kaleidoscope of a garden on the edge of a bustling downtown. The rot condescends the brick mansion, its permanent partner in decay. It feels peaceful at a time like this, the day feels a little bit like night, while birds still sing their sonnets. Suddenly, I hear a voice call out to me, dark and deep, so much so that I feel it in the depths of my chest, like a bass drum. “You’ve found it.” He says. I turn to face him, the teeth grinding in my jaw being the only stable bravery I own. “Yes? Of course I did, I’ve compared every piece of this city to this very description.” I hold up the note as I shake my head, ignoring the sly smile peeling across his face. He leads me to a patch of flowers, fallen and rotten—I could taste the nausea boiling in my stomach. The stranger points a pale finger to a particularly macabre flower, white and grey as ash with patches of pink that still made it look beautiful in its fate, lying beautifully like Aphrodite in an open casket. “There,” he says smoothly–but sharp as a knife, “See that? In the study of plants, whenever you see the rot, you cut it off to save the other plants.” My body stills as I peer down, frozen, feeling as helpless as the garden itself, the fog-turned-rain adorning their petals with pearlescent teardrops. “This one, a shame, couldn’t be saved.” He continues. His hand snakes around my neck like a python, and I am its prey, his breath warm against my freezing neck. “Sometimes, you must sever the blight at just the right time, so nothing else is affected. Will you be that beauty saved, or will you lie in rot— like that poor thing there? The choice is yours, but sometimes nature does it for you before you can cut the rot out.” His voice softens, almost apologetic. I swallow hard, my insides twisting and turning. I sigh, but it comes out more as a heave. My mind begins to play tricks on me, my head swirling with begging whispers of escape, escape, escape. “How to Remember Your Dreams” Matt Leibel Before you go to sleep, swallow three memories. These could be anything: the time you made S’mores in Iceland; the time you were set up on a date in a new city and the woman brought her sister and her mom along, and also their dog tried to bite you; the time a neighbor kid played you “Christian Rock” and for months, doggedly tried to convert you. Imagine the memories in capsule form and wash them down with artificial dream water (available over the counter at selected Walgreens). Dream a stenographer, park them in the corner of your dream with an old-school Smith-Corona typewriter, a coffee, a muffin, and leave them there throughout the night. Proceed to let your dream wash over you like an image tsunami. Don’t worry if any of it makes sense. Don’t worry if it’s traumatizing (your great-grandmother being reincarnated to sing L’il Nas X’s “Old Town Road” loudly in a Kosher Deli, for instance). Just let the stenographer do his/her/their thing. When you wake up, there should be a full-color printout of your dream waiting on your nightstand. Take this to your therapist’s office and ask them to analyze it. It’s probably about your fear of failure, your fear of losing teeth, your fear of flying insects, or your fear of your mother. You might also have accidentally dreamt the nuclear codes, in which case your therapist is legally obligated to report you to the FBI. To avoid situations like this, try to control your dreams in advance by “pre-dreaming” while still awake. On a sheet of paper, draw a line down the middle and label one column “what I do want to dream about” and label the other one “what I don’t want to dream about.” Fill in both sides. Just before you go to sleep, reverse the column headings so the “dos” are in the “don’ts” column, and vice versa. Because your dreams are not going to give you what you want: that’s much less fun for them. If the paper is blank in the morning, it means you dreamt of nothing at all. It could also mean you literally dreamt of a blank sheet of paper all night, which could signify (no therapist’s interpretation required here) that you have writer’s block, which I’ll admit I’m feeling a bit of, trying to find an ending to this brief disquisition on dreams. Maybe I’ll sleep on it, and the answer will be clear in the morning. Or maybe it will be a four-headed dog, singing the Gettysburg Address, barbershop-quartet style under a full moon—which, in the moments just before waking, morphs into the face of every writing teacher I’ve ever had, imploring me: DON’T PUT DREAMS INTO YOUR WORK. https://www.thirtywestph.com/pushcart2026 daily 0.75 2025-12-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/429196c4-b03a-4730-a8af-c81ed3ec5c39/2026+Pushcart+Prize.png Pushcart Prize 2026 - Make it stand out Whatever it is, the way you tell your story online can make all the difference. https://www.thirtywestph.com/bestmicrofiction2026 daily 0.75 2025-12-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/0e5a7f4e-19f4-4711-83dd-0ef764f61e5f/2026+Best+Microfiction.png Best Microfiction 2026 - Make it stand out “PUSHED, NOT LEADING” Gabriel Hart Someone I was forbidden to have let in. Someone parasitical, a hanger-on. Someone overbearing, high-maintenance, and manipulative. Yet I remained by their side, loyal to the oncoming fault. Caught between forces of repelling, magnetic, paralytic. Shady with secrets, and because he trusted me, he told me every last detail. I did not witness him kill the young woman, but he cornered me to tell me how he did it, every last step, nothing left to my imagination beyond this interpretive abomination. Leading us back to the scene of her initial abduction, carrying me through every subsequent step: her death, her dismemberment, her burning, his surprise and unpreparedness for not exactly every bit of her becoming ash in her last trip in the wind; her teeth and splinters of femur lay in the pile as if bone had eyes, holding him accountable, and now I, just for knowing. All the while, our psyches now quartered, we were being questioned: where was he in proximity and time to the place she was last seen and where was I with keeping his—now my—story straight. In parallel: a cartoon sequence further expressing the conundrum, uncertain who was playing who. An anthropomorphic bunny combined with Roger Rabbit and the Pink Panther, whimsically strolling through sceneries of criminy, unaware of its silhouette mocking him. The rabbit shaped shadow demurred into a single black circle bouncing in rhythm with the pink rabbit’s pacing. Follow the bouncing ball, it knows everything the rabbit is leaving behind. The rabbit thinks he’s leading, but the black circle is the one pushing the rabbit to the scene of the crime where everything was being exposed and exclaimed. All mysteries explained except what was inside the void of the black circle, a hole of sacrifice, of negative, of every secret still quivering. The rabbit unaware we could all see the black circle beside him in pursuit of its hubris. “Be At Leso” Julián Martinez I followed the instructions on the Sgt. Peppers’ Lonely Hearts Club Band cover and arrived at the Greek island of Leso as the sun rose over the misty beach. The ghost of Paul McCartney, the real Paul McCartney, was signing autographs. When it was my turn, dumbfounded in his cherubic glow, I blurted, “you’re barefoot!” “Sand’s good, yeah,” murmured Paul. “Like on the Abbey Road cover! The clue?” He shrugged. I cleared my throat and said, “?eulc ehT !revoc daoR yebbA eht no ekiL.” Paul smiled, winked and said, “Very good. Right. Want me to sign something now?” I didn’t know where to start— fake Paul’s black rose from the ‘Your Mother Should Know’ video, fake Paul’s walrus mask from Magical Mystery Tour, the White Album insert poster of fake Paul in a bathtub with his hands around his head, representing the decapitation of real Paul. He massaged his neck, staring at the picture of his impersonator. I saw his eternal sadness. This journey had been in vain. I took Paul by his weightless waist and, with him over my shoulder, bolted to rescue him from the island of Leso, but he pointed out that he couldn’t leave without his remains, and that was a whole ‘nother mystery I had to go get high about. “DREAM OF THE ABSENT” Ali Huff It was a night stuck in time. The pizza was warm, and biting into it myself felt like a sin. I let the grease slide down my chin. I knew no one would care because I was the one no one cared about. I watched my mother in the kitchen with a spatula in her hand. My stepfather was getting bigger and bigger in presence. He would talk, and the newspaper on the table would multiply. He would boast, the trash on the floor would double, and he would yell, the clothes and blankets on the sofa tripled. I stuffed a scoop of melting vanilla ice cream into my mouth. They both left to get more food at a high-end steakhouse. They had the munchies. I ate four dark chocolate-covered almonds on the couch. I was overwhelmed by the blankets. The floors were toys, newspapers, magazines, pizza boxes. The television ran its news report and I looked up towards it. “I trusted you…” I heard garbled in time as the rooms all swirled into their own frenzy of chaos. I knew the stomach ache would never come because I was not really a human to anyone. I was discarded material observing ghosts enjoy their high. I woke up before the couch turned into a blanket ocean and the news report sank slowly into analog static. My hope is that whatever departed people do, that they always eat well. “Three Dreams” Benjamin Niespodziany a triptych [1] A party went into the night and well into the next morning and proceeded to overtake many days and nights until the host of the party was nothing but a party host so he wore the hat and packed the cakes and ordered more hors d'oeuvres and ignored calls from his former corporate job because he was only employed as the party host and even after he became a ghost this was what he continued to do. [2] “You were talking in your sleep last night,” my wife told me over breakfast. “What did I say,” I asked her. She stirred her cinnamon into her porridge. “Something about how the graves are out of order.” I quickly turned to look through our front window. The stones were little in their alignment, hardly visible from our kitchen table. Moss was beginning to form, a porous witness to the beginning sickness beginning to ravage us all. [3] We stayed the night. Had dinner. Put it on the room. We walked to the nearby plaza and had a snack. Put it on the room. We drove an hour to a golf course and feasted near hole seven, the country club offering no objection when we put it on the room. While we were swimming in the manmade lake, we were asked if we wanted to put it on our room. Put what on our room, we asked. The lake, they said. Of course, we said. Of course. On our way home upon checking out of the hotel and saying farewell, we stopped at the toll booth and asked if we could put it on the room. “What are you talking about,” the tollbooth worker said. https://www.thirtywestph.com/bestsmallfictions2025 daily 0.75 2025-12-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/cf2f6184-8873-42af-84d7-5466448f6a43/afterimages+2024-5-Best+Small+Fictions+2025+%281%29.png Best Small Fictions 2025 - Make it stand out “My Fathers” as featured on Afterimages Micah Muldowney My dad was a hard man. Angry and lost. Understand I don’t blame him for it. Oh no. I loved my father, and he had redeeming qualities too. My mother left early, you see before I can remember and I can’t help but think he never got over it, the poor man. It was the story of his life in microcosm. It was hard and without reward, carting lint from one factory floor to another twelve hours a day, coughing, always coughing, always under somebody’s thumb. There was always some menial little thing that had to be done, over and over, forever. And I was the trap set of that horrible world. I think if I weren’t there he could have just run away or died and been happy. But I was there, and all he could do about it was drink. When he was sober he was distant, hard-bitten, prone to sudden anger over little things. Or sometimes he’d sulk, or give way to a muttering secretiveness that I could never understand—I don’t think he had anything worse inside to hide than what he showed me. But when he was in a mood, he’d watch me out the corner of his eye and complain and protest about what I’d done to him, how I’d ruined his life, driven her away, how he always had to pick up the pieces and what was there in it for him? And he’d be after me with his belt at the slightest imagined provocation, or even without it. But when he drank it was worse. Far worse. Terrifying. At first, right when he started he’d relax; He’d loosen up and smile and talk sweet to me, hold me on his knee, kiss my hair, and tell me stories about when he was a kid. A part of me lived for those first moments, to see that piece of him he’d tucked away against the harshness of his life, to feel real tenderness, like I was his real daughter and not just some Cinderella skulking around the house of almighty god, making his food and taking his whippings. But I also hated and feared those moments most of all because of what I knew was going to come. Because after a few drinks, he was no longer happy. I could feel it creeping in along the hairs of my neck. First, he would grow petulant, then angry, then cruel. I’ve never seen such hard eyes, such pleasure in suffering, and he was far too strong for me to ever escape. To this day I cannot see good things happen without feeling a pang of fear, like an episode of vertigo, that the other foot is about to come down. Those awful rages, after the drink had gotten to him, the violence of it, I won’t tell you more than this; he was cleverer mad than he was in his right mind. He never did anything that could be tied back to him, never hurt me but he tied me with a thousand invisible strings not to tell. He’d cut my wrists and laugh and watch me scream and bleed, and I had to scream for him or he wouldn’t stop. I just didn’t have it in me to harden myself against it, to grit my teeth and stay the course, even though I hated to see the pleasure he took in it. It burned me to see it flare up and leave my father for a moment before seared to ashes. I could see that he was dead then. That someone else was there behind his eyes. He cut my wrists because it could be explained. I was troubled, he’d say, suicidal. A danger to myself. Not to be trusted. They kept me away from other kids. I think they were afraid I’d be a bad influence. That they’d see something and it’d rub off. I was alone a lot, even at school, and it hurt me. I love to be with other people. That was maybe the cruelest thing my father did, the way he erased my life to cover up what he did to me. Not that it was the worst thing he did, mind you. I mean the worst actions. There are worse things you can do than that. But somehow it was the cruelest. That’s when I started to read. To escape, at first. To connect. To live as long as I could in the imaginary world between the pages where life was hard maybe, but also beautiful and held meaning. I read every minute I could, though I would never let my father see. He would never let me keep anything that was my own, anything that pleased me. So I’d hide library books under the floorboards and read them before he got home from work or after a row when he was passed out drunk and I knew he wouldn’t see the light. They kept me alive. I was never the type to be angry. I don’t know why—maybe I was afraid when I saw what it did to my father all those years—but I was often afraid and always heartbroken. I felt wounded to the soul with a hurt I thought could never be recovered until I started to have the dreams. They started before my dad died, after I left his house, but got more frequent and vivid after he was gone. In these dreams I would be sitting in my room, only it was a beautiful room, and all the things I loved were in it out where anyone could see them and be happy. He would come, and knock on the door and ask me if he could come in, and I would let him. He’d come in, careful as he never was in life, and he’d kneel and hold my face in my hands and look at me with these beautiful eyes like I had never seen, filled with joy and deep sorrow and regret and hope for the future, all at once, and he’d tell me he how sorry he was, and how much he loved me and what he would do to make it better. Or sometimes he’d tell me funny stories about when he was a boy and promise me that my life would be just as carefree, just as good. That he’d take me there, protect me. No one would hurt me ever again. And he’d rock and cry and kiss my hair, only with clear eyes and in his right mind, and sing to me songs from his hill country childhood that I had never heard in waking. I thought about those dreams for a long time. Why would he come to me like that? What did it mean? Was it simple wish fulfillment? I don’t think that it was. Slowly, the conviction grew inside me that that was my real dad. That the father who shook the house wasn’t a real person at all, that everything real about him had been stripped slowly away under the weight of broken dreams and heartache and the endless grind of meaningless toil. His body, his husk, had become as unreal as the world it lived in. But my dad existed, always would exist somewhere else. In my dreams maybe, but not from me or by my design. After all, the songs were real—I looked them up. That song, Poor Wayfaring Stranger, was one of them. He was independent of me, you see. The dream was the place where he was restored to life, to being, to personhood. And my world opened up. I started to see and feel traces of the dreams that others dreamed of everywhere I looked. Poets long for it. Children run to it when the world holds too much tedium for them to bear. I used to do it myself without knowing when I was shut behind closed doors at school with nothing but a sleeping classroom aid, and I’d fly far away and live the day dancing behind my eyelids. Sometimes I’ll still see someone on a bus or walking the street, smiling and looking around and whispering words to people I cannot see, lost in the dream. Because I know what they may not—that the things they commune with are more real, maybe than the seat at their back or the post in their hand. And I’m not saying that I don’t know that there is a world we live in, or that I don’t believe that it exists. I just know that it isn’t the only thing, the only place that is real, and it’s certainly not the realest. I see my dad’s face, and it is the man from my dreams. Gentle. And I can move on. I can smile and laugh and breathe deeply and go to University or to work and write this to you now because the man in my dream is real, and I know that there is another world right alongside this one, just out of reach except when we need it, where it is all going to be alright, even if was not alright then, and I can forgive and I can love him anyway. That’s what parting the veil has been to me, and this is what I intend to do: shake people until they can see and hear it. “We Vanish” as featured on Afterimages Mileva Anastasiadou Girl meets boy and love blooms, the sun shines, time stops, because that’s how it goes, the Big Nothing is broken, defeated and shattered, dissolves into the background, when two people collide and fall into bliss. Sheila is bedridden and can’t do much but she writes. She’s working on a story right now, time flows better when Sheila writes, otherwise time stands still, like Sheila stands still, and Sheila is trapped, like time is a prison. @sheilaissickbutshewrites about how she once had it all, she didn’t need stories back when she had a functioning body and time was on her side. She watched time steal life and she didn’t mind, because she was still safe, invincible, time-proof, until everything changed. Girl fears love and runs away, because that’s how it goes, logic feeds fear, beats hope, kills love, for love isn’t logical, or concrete, or certain, and unimaginative reason is the Big Nothing’s deadliest weapon. @sheilaissickbutshewrites about her body, the body she once took for granted but now is failing her. Soon her mind will follow, the mind she now takes for granted, like we take for granted things, while we still have them. Her mind comes up with stories, tiny little warnings to those who are naive enough to think they have conquered time, she posts stories that free her, in them she becomes ethereal, if only for a while, and Sheila thinks that she’s cheating sometimes, but she can’t commit to reality as it is. She writes about him, and she grabs his hand and holds it tight, she wants to feel it while she still can, she wants to devour the touch, before time steals it away, but he pulls away, oh, the arrogance of the living, who think they own the world and that this power lasts forever, Sheila now smiles, like she knows better, now that she’s tired, exhausted, half-dead. Boy searches for girl, because that’s how it goes, sometimes in youth you are fearless, and strong, and invincible, you go on long, futile quests, certain the Old Nothing can’t ever touch you and that time will forever be on your side. @sheilaissickbutshewrites while he is feeding her, while the love of her life, in sickness and health, is now trying to put food in her mouth. She knows he means well, she knows his hand forcing the food inside is moved by love and care and tenderness, only she isn’t hungry, she’s spitting out the food, the love, the sickness, and the remnants of it all are now all over the sheets, her clothes, his face. She writes about him, about how he changes subtly, about how he stays calm, but then he gets tired, and he yells, and she yells back, and then they cry for a while and wonder silently where love goes when sickness comes, but then they make up, and Sheila can’t wait for those precious moments, when love storms back into the room, because she knows that he sometimes hates her, but he also loves her. Boy finds girl, and girl stays with boy, because that’s how it foes, love finds a way, it always comes through, it conquers the fear, and the Old Nothing falls apart into a million little Somethings, when hope is restored. @sheilaissickbutshewrites about how she once fantasized how it would feel to arrest time, to be running after it, and scream, freeze, at it, and time would be dead frightened and it would freeze, but time ran faster, like it always does, and she never caught the bandit. In stories she’s bodiless, faceless, a spirit, in stories she’s free from all limitations, in stories she walks and runs and flies, and the Old Nothing is a pitiful monster she beats all the time, and she posts the stories for people to read, she posts them online, and her stories float like they’re part of the universe, they’re ghosts in progress just like her, only they’ll still be there after she’s gone. She writes about him, the love of her life, and in her story he’s sick, but he doesn’t yet know, he coughs, he coughs badly, and he says, I’m fine, only he isn’t and he will never be fine again, he’ll only end up like her, it’s a matter of time before he’s caged too, until time captures him, and then he will know how it feels to be her. Then things get hard then come disasters and hardships, the bad wolf appears and knocks on their door, because that’s how it goes, you grow old, and life happens and the Big Nothing is out for revenge. He thinks he’s in charge, he takes time for granted, and Sheila is grateful he’s still there, for the last sparks of love, of a dream, a shared life, there is this line in ‘The Age of Adaline’ about how love is heartbreak without a future, and Sheila knows that love is heartbreak with or without a future, like the future is heartbreak with or without love, and this is a sad ending, but Sheila knows that all endings are tragic and that we have invented happily ever after, like we have invented God, because we can’t live without hope. @sheilaissickbutshewrites about how we come and we go and we vanish for people who think that we come and we go and we stay, and she ends the story before the Big Nothing swallows them whole and love tears them apart, and she grabs his hand and holds it tight, and she wants to speak, because that’s what you do when the game is rigged and you know you can’t win, you can only speak out, but she only stares right into his eyes, no fear, no regrets, no hope, because Sheila won’t talk, she only writes. “Millennial” as featured on Afterimages Sophie “Knox” Peters I'm a millennial, of courseeee I have cuboid irises, thick legs, and acrylic nails. (I'm a millennial.) I watch warships and retweets, and I hold gossip, where my prayer hands could be. I take airplanes, I doom scroll, and I am not dissimilar to a heat lamp, a bowl of soup, or yes, a snowflake. I'm a millennial! I was told I could save the world. Last week in the shower, I transmuted, (I’ll walk you through it.) To do this, you gotta squeeze your muscles tight, all of them, the ones you didn’t know you had. I did this and opened a door to the earth and called out. My silly little transmutation worked. A man stepped directly into me, coughing. He entered through a small door at the back of my skull, the way one steps into an embassy. As my hands rubbed soap over my chest, I could feel everything that he felt, from the sharp bones of his arms to his tight dusty skin. I could feel him. He had arrived from an oily desert far away. He was war-weary, his eyes were burnt umber with yellowing whites. He was battered. His nails were thick as teeth, his soft hair coated in rubble, powdered with the grey dust I have been seeing on my iPhone, I could feel his world, and he could feel mine. He began breathing through my lungs, and felt my hands reaching for a sponge, my fingers handling Tresemé, he observed the shifting wobble of my flesh as I scrubbed, and stared through my blue eyes into new, white, washed, surroundings. The man was exhausted. His liver had shut down, his abdomen was swollen. He was starving, thirsting, and bedraggled. His eyes had dehydrated and lost their roundness, you can imagine his sigh of relief, as the glucose in my bloodstream began to pump to his body as well as mine. He was fusing with my biology, his cells absorbing my water and my salts, I heard him groan with pleasure as warm soapy jets washed over us. As he drinks in the bright light of the bathroom through my eyes. I'm a millennial, I try hard. And a good host, damn it. I must greet him. I fall back inside my head and the shower water becomes a distant, muffled thrum—I enter my skull like an apparition. He stands inside me still and hollow, knees wider than his thighs, his wrists jutting, head spindle on the skinned turkey-like arch of a neck. I lead him through the regions of my brain, the lyrical shape of my thoughts—until we come to a mental hallway. In front of us, there are two doors, wedged into the flesh walls of my limbic system. One is small, the other large. I walk him through the large door. Inside is a messy bedroom. Toys, empty drug baggies, trash, and snack wrappers litter the floor. It was the remnants of my post-festival comedowns. The walls are red and humming with blood, they are coated in a sticky layer of song lyrics (I’m a millennial, of course, I listened to the Gorillaz, Britney, Beyonce, Red Hot Chili Peppers, MGMT, LCD Soundsystem, Tame Impala, The Killers, The Cure, My Bloody Valentine, and Rihanna.) I tell the man to make himself at home, we share no common tongue, (besides the one between my teeth), but he understands. The only rule here, I explain, is that he must be gentle to the girl in the other room. The one behind the smaller door. I explain that her body is deceased, and she never speaks a word. I tell him that she arrived the day after she was sold to a billionaire (sold under the name of ‘1 Disney Princess: Jasmine’.) I tell the man to do what he likes in my head but that unfortunately, I can’t give him motor control. I will be in charge of where my body goes and what it does, (and doesn’t do). He looks around my room at the drug paraphernalia and back at me, doubtful. I tell him—you will be like a quadriplegic, able to see everything I do through my eyes. You can expect a reasonably long life if you decide to live within me. I don’t make so many bad choices these days. I don't exercise, my family doesn’t call much, I am single and I consume a lot of butter. You can count on me to feed this body and keep it watered, of course, everything inside me is in English and there are no religious texts (besides anecdotal Christian myths,) I might learn your language one day, perhaps. He still looks as forlorn as when he first arrived, I notice his skin is a little less tight to the bone though. Furthermore, I can feel his swollen belly filling with the risotto I ate yesterday. I decide to leave him to settle in. Back in my shower, I turn off the faucet. A little numb, wrinkled, unnaturally cool. I wonder if there is a way I can take anyone else in? I feel that the man’s body has absorbed over half the blood I had to offer, and I feel tired. But nevertheless…I’m a host, I’m a saviour. I’m a millennial. I wonder, could 8 billion of us witness this one, warm, steamy room? Just for a moment? I wonder what it would do to me, to them, to let everyone in? There is one way to find out. “The Moses Stitch” as featured on Afterimages Amy Cipolla Barnes Terra was born with a horn poking out of her forehead. The nurses were amazed. The doctor was too. Terra’s mother Susan was less pleased, especially as the forehead horn grazed her insides, requiring an extra-large stitch. “She really scraped you,” the doctor said, shaking his head. Susan studied art before Terra was born unexpectedly. She told the doctor art history facts to distract from her postpartum pain. “Did you know there are paintings of Moses with a horn too? It’s because the French word for horn was mistranslated.” “This isn’t quite the same thing,” the doctor said. After he was done, Susan called a birth photographer who came to the hospital in a black tent of a dress. The photographer tried to pose infant Terra in the sterile shadows with her hospital cap pulled down. “Can you add a gold halo afterward?” Susan asked. “I think so,” the photographer said. When the pictures came back, Susan focused on Terra’s brown eyes and long fingers. The horn was part of her daughter. She loved her as much as a non-horned child like it was simply an arm or a nose. The photographer secretly mailed the photographs to their town’s newspaper, but Susan wasn’t having that. She sent a terse note to the editor and the story didn’t run. Terra’s life was mostly normal, but there were differences. She wouldn’t nurse in a traditional way. Susan found herself on all fours, with her breasts hanging down. She didn’t know why she offered milk like that to her newborn, but it was instinctual somehow. Susan had read parenting books and was aware children ate mud and grass out of curiosity, but Terra refused all other foods when it came to solid foods. Terra crawled with her hands and feet, back arched, fingers and toes tightly together to better grip the ground. Susan often found her like that in the backyard or the park or on her parents’ farm, with her head back laughing. When Terra had her first birthday party, Susan only invited friends and family. However, there were many uninvited guests that arrived as if Terra was the baby Jesus in a manger. A long line of lambs, kid goats, calves, and ponies came up their suburban driveway, wrapped gifts in their mouths and parents lingering nearby. Susan baked an alfalfa-flavored smash cake, and everyone sang, brayed, or snorted their best wishes before running circles in the backyard paddock. There was obviously no “Pin The Tail On the Donkey” game. That felt like a step too far and the foal’s parents gave her a pleading glance when they arrived. For the next four years, Terra’s life was happy outside of a few stares and whispers in the grocery store. There was fingerpainting and visits to the local art museum. When it came time for kindergarten, Susan set her down to explain school and that the other children might notice she was different. Terra smiled as her mother packed a lunch of granola and sprouts. “It’s okay, Mama. I’ll try my best.” As Susan dropped Terra off for her first day, she smiled at the familiar trotting gait. She saw Terra swept her bangs to the side when she met another little girl. Susan felt an urge to run after her on all fours, but resisted because that’s what mothers do. https://www.thirtywestph.com/bestofthenet2026 daily 0.75 2025-12-26 https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/57961a8546c3c46fbe8493c2/9c344007-55c4-463a-9f08-cbfc49099ded/AFTERIMAGES+BOTN+2026.png Best of the Net 2026 - Make it stand out “An Asymptote of Halves” Raechelle Yballe Meet me halfway, Mama, beside the Bangka gravid with sardines. Where I drowned in a galaxy of starfish and Daddy’s breath saved me. Love and labor were inscribed at our start. Meet me halfway, along the sandpiper’s chase, where the boy unhooking lace discovered my Miraculous Medal and Scapular. Almost succeeding. Never quite touching. Then, meet me halfway. Halfway once more. Meet me beside the flaming mimosa—the caterpillar’s nursery, the firefly’s tophet. On this strand, among shells of infinite halves. Where there is love. Where there is labor. “Yule Palm Reader” Erin Matheson For you, she pulled the universe— moonbeams sunny side up, redwood cathedrals swathed gold, spring chlorinated smiles— your light I bask in daily on full display for the cards. For me, she drew the four of cups. I pushed it away before she could study my palm, trace its stuttering heartline and pronounce me closed, deficient, too cold for your glow. “I make (or Moonshining)” Georgia Hertz moonwater at the full moon and pray it fills me up, or that it teaches me to glow from within – bioluminescence doesn’t only belong to the sea, does it? I ask again: does no one care to trawl along the shoreline for illumination anymore? Search lights aim for any fellow ghosts we left behind, so how, then, does the spirit shine in starless darkness? in the eager void that gulps all down its great hulking maw? not for its sustenance — worse — erasure? not an excavation but instead a slow suck, a thieving glimmer of joy once close, now wrenched away — all ripple, all sway, all sundry — a glint on fickle tides and me, an anchor in newly wetted sand? “Grandpop Lives Alone” Tim Lynch A maple’s branches bangle in soft, Spring gusts, late sunlight sifted through its budding arms. The sound is like a distant, breaking wave, that fathomless breath. Dormant for a season, this tree lives on, here, on the block of the city, as in every city, where district lines become apparent, where potholes lead to Hell, and infected guts of rowhomes spread their sepsis down the line, nothing to do but set plywood on porch windows like pennies on a body’s eyes. In the liquor store window, a cardboard Easter egg goes on getting pale. His body stands on the strip mall sidewalk between the parking lot and the road. Sunlight through the latticed branches dapples his cheeks, and the shadow of the maple’s bole blankets him below the neck. Nothing-eyed, his lids hover asymmetrically open, the wider hardly open at all. Cars shush loudly, sharply by. Then, the ballet begins. First, the bending at the waist, slowly. Slower. Slower even than that. A robin in the maple sings entire operas in staccato chirps of two, its cacophonous flock chirping back, while the torso, impossibly counterweighted by each foot, creaks toward the ground, arms slack, legs stiff in crooked balance, until the fingertips hang finally still and kiss the sidewalk grit. And then, an old story. A white man in his forties leaves the liquor store and lets the door fall shut, even after noticing an older black man reaching for the handle. He isn’t quick enough and can only keep pace, fingers trailing just behind. Who tells the story is what matters now. Slowly, the body on the sidewalk unfurls upright. A woman clops straight-on, talking down to her phone, saying, “—which is fine but—,” then stutters, glancing up, and steps around, continues, “—but she’ll be weird about it, she’ll be, she’ll be like…,” fading down the block. His body wavers in place, a ghastly shape glimmering in the unfit shade of a gold-lit tree. “Jimmy” Elijah Sparkman Jimmy died in the truck, but I kept thinking about the little bugs in my bathroom sink. I didn’t think they could be bed bugs because I thought bed bugs were invisible. I thought they might be fruit flies, but where was the fruit? Jimmy died in the truck while I was cutting Mrs. Sampson’s house. Old woman always had her gardening gloves tucked into her khakis. A visor on her head, gray hair eking out the side like an octogenarian octopus. The last thing Jimmy said to me was: “I don’t feel so good.” I left him in the truck with the AC on and said we’d figure something out if he still felt that way when I was done. You have to give me a break. Jimmy said he didn’t feel good every day. And there was usually a Big Mac or a bad memory to blame for that. Now I’m signing his death certificate, as a witness. Everyone has one, or gets one eventually. It proves you're dead to the future. Now he’s going to the morgue. To keep cool. While they figure out who the people are who are supposed to be figuring out what to do with him next. Tucked between his legs was a fountain pop from 7-Eleven. By the time the cops got there it was beaded with sweat. Jimmy’s neck was cold and pulseless. Only people have death certificates. It makes me rethink the mornings when I squish those little bugs into the side of my sink. Their remains graffitied on the porcelain canvas where I clean myself. I lied: Jimmy’s last words were: “You always say that.” He said it like he believed it. “Manolo” Esénia Bañuelos It was the first night Papá had ever allowed me in his space. The pine gateway struggled emptily beneath my childish weight; what seemed like decades of merciless receipts crinkled a passage towards the nightstand. What was José Manuel’s terreno had melted into a play desk for his son to fold the legs of his glasses and the fingers of his soul into a taut bind the size of what then seemed like cousin Lichi Lichi’s mansion in St. John’s—which is to say, it was quite the sight for a little worker’s elf to see my Father basking in an inherited Gooseneck from his nephew and scowling out towards the banalities of a capitalism writhing and crawling endlessly towards him. In many ways, Abuelito’s odd construction burdened him and simultaneously supported my Father as he leaned his hardy disposition on his face. Many men before him, like him, had sworn their bodies to the oak—what was merely a nightstand with not an inch to give for his legs became a place of sincere glory. Papá was never one to speak. I was meaninglessly six years old and mute. What he and I did not know, we shared in some non-linguistic tongue—that of endless creation, one that was not so limited to this sanctuary of desire. Like his workspace or oficína St. José, as he earnestly urged Mamá and I to call it, the mustard yellow Ford Expedition was not so much a landscaping mobile and was instead more of a banana buggy—a horse-drawn carriage fashioned in the Perrault shape of only the finest golden vegetable. It collared breathlessly into the Hoover parking lot and squealed into a blustering and belabored halt. Bañuelos Lawn Service. Without a word towards the day, Papá was the conductor towards a beautiful palace sheerly bordering the lip of the Calumet River and 173rd—Lansing, where thousandaire Mark (Már) throned an impossibly gorgeous and derelict playground. A reward for all the good I had probably done that week, like get my card flicked to an admonishing yellow, or climb the stout railings to the stairs, pitchpole onto my stomach, and nosedive into the oblivion of a five-stair flight and straight into a heavily pregnant Mrs. Jordan. Whatever it was, he hoisted me up from my armpits and nervously placed me at the mouth of the slide, and that was as much conversation as he and I had before the stirrings of guïras singed my nose and married my ears with the low hum of cicadas. It seemed that wherever he and I made a space, it was from the remains of another. The workspace was no different in that sense. An ocean of inheritance swarmed my heels and often licked feverishly at my ankles like a mutt Mamá would die before ever letting me explore the porch. Papá did not seem deterred by my interruption of his little workspace and had continued his endless tinkering at the desk, wrangling the plump black vein of some unearthly device beyond my comprehension and making the waters of Lethe flush aglow with light. I knew nothing of what I was watching when I flanked him to see the magician, the craftsman in perfect peace. I only noticed, for the first time, that when he spent that anthemic grin, he sported a little void between the canines. He squinted, rolled his jaw into the burrow of his throat, and beamed a whistling cardinal when he smiled. I had never noticed he was missing something. Papá was never one for farmer’s decorations. The walls were still aching and painted a tortured beige, a little tribute to Calumet City from the last family to flee towards the gorgeously haggard bungalows of Hegewisch. What could have been the arena for a couple of portraits of starlings and quotes from Matthew—a bursting cinematic of the Final Supper blessing the grounds on which we feasted pearl haricots and carbonized guajillos—a gingham tapestry, anything that would make heaven a little less industrial—was instead ripe with wonder. It seemed more like he wore his California cholo beginnings paged over his head in an uneven, amateur fade than anywhere where he could nestle in at night and become a child again. He unfolded his beloved Dell Inspiron from Tío Hector and gestured ferociously at the cable extending from the paunch monitor he managed to wrestle from a garage sale out on the South Side some years before. What I was about to witness inverted the state of technology as we knew it. Papá was a Da Vinci fashioned from the whit of Guadalajara. In a split second, there was a versant and severe twinge of light that blinded both my Papá and I in a gruesome inception—all I could translate then with my childish capability towards discernment was that I was seeing. I was effectively seeing two portals squealing—demanding—explicating and inundating me with the same proverbial light. Papá hitched a gasp and crowed, slapped the boundaries of his hands against the fatigued desktop, and proudly stood up amidst the sea of decadent wrappers. My God, I could read his congested pupils below the burden of his brows, I had done it. I found out what happens when you plug an HDMI cable from a laptop into a monitor. Him and I swirled the confines of the oficina, kicking against the burdens of receipts, demands, labors, pain, inheritance, genetic disease, insurance, mortgage, and pain, and pain, and pain. Amid the paper chaos, there were no manuals—no set of instructions—no means of knowing, at least not one available in our language (or lack thereof). Just pure ingenuity. The greatest engineer—the designer of man. Father, bright in the flesh. Papá. The son. José Manuel. — Manolo! I am standing in front of a vacuous abyss at the edge of where Heaven once remanded the loan. Where the Calumet River stood, a couple of pebbles shouldered nothing but the dryest air—some weeds, unattended and forlorn for a trim, whimpered among them. What lifted me from O’Hare this morning was not a banana buggy, but a simple burgundy, faceless landau from the Facebook Marketplace. The return is obligatorily silent, as is typical in the avenues of death and destruction. St. José is no more, and his funeral mass is imminent. A little piece of childhood seems to fill in the driveway cracks. Papá—Manolo—a child joins me at the ledge and pulls a red filament where the desktop once stood. The columnar tree whines, weakly mithers, and ultimately straightens his spine. It seems the harsh Chicago summers have made for stubborn, humid children. “I never noticed him before,” A little breath stifles and struggles through my teeth. The thing was impossibly tall and disruptive—so unashamed, yet so skinny and fragile. His leaves hadn’t even survived the mild September weeks, and he was undeniably exhausted. An easy Chicago wind would send him over to the Lansing plains—after that, everything else is just another way to say hell. “He started growing a little bit when you left,” He wrestled the ends of his lips from flying away, sheepish of his pride. “I watered him a little bit sometimes, but often, I forget about him. He’s strong,” His brittle palms are simultaneously caressing and choking the thing, “but he needs me to feed him a little more. What do you know about trees?” I act the fool. “Subtle Damage” Erin Jamieson A week after I was born, you had seizures. You’d never had anything like that, nor had you displayed any abnormalities after you were born. Mom didn’t know what to do, she had a newborn baby and for some reason, Nana and Papa must have been away or somehow unable to help. She was terrified, I think, that she was going to lose you. I wonder if that week, that fear of losing you, and not knowing what to do with me, stayed with her more than she or any of us will ever fully know. So she took me to her best friend’s house, who herself had had a son only about a month before. And she took you to see if anyone could stop the seizures. But the thing is, they stopped on their own. It was a miracle or a nightmare, depending on how you look at it. A miracle that they stopped, bad luck that they started in the first place. I of course cannot remember any of this and maybe that is a good thing. I would not have wanted to be there to witness Mom getting so upset. I wouldn't have wanted to be there to see your tiny scared face as seizures rocked your body. If you were able to be scared at all that is. I doubt you fully understood what was happening at all. I imagine how things went. I imagine Mom came home with you in her arms, I imagine she did not ever want to let go. I imagine that was one of the most frightening times of her life, and I can tell in part by how often she tells it. But eventually, time passed and you had no more seizures. Eventually, even Mom let you start to resume your normal toddler activities. You went on play dates with her friend's older children as I stayed wrapped up in a blanket stroller. As you got older, the two of you went to garage sales where you selected action figures, or “men” as you called them. You lived as any toddler would, with the exception of having at times an overprotective mother. She did ask, many times, if there would be any lasting damage. Suppose the seizures had done anything to harm you long-term. I imagine this as a stressful time, although I have no way of knowing if she poured over articles the way she looks up symptoms and cures on the internet for various aches and pains to this day. I know she did everything to find her own answers herself. She never did believe in trusting physicians completely just at their word, and while sometimes she was wrong or paranoid, later, as we both know, her insistence would prove her right and quite possibly even though I don't want to admit it, in part saving my life. But then it was a toss-up, the way things always are. It was a toss-up whether back then she had a reason to doubt the doctors or something about her was terrified, even then to lose you. Even though the doctors insisted there would be no damage, she did everything she could to make sure you would be safe, and I suspect that trickled down to me by default. This is all speculation. Of course, I have never had a child, and you have not when I last checked. But when the doctors said there would be no lasting damage, they did truly believe that. And there is no sign that they were wrong, from a medical perspective. There is no evidence, for example, that the exhaustion seizures you would suffer from shy of two decades later were related in any way, though Mom always insists that they were. The problem is this: when we talk about damage, we all sound like we are having the same conversation but we really mean many things at once. There are too many ways someone can be damaged to put a firm label on it, to quantify or qualify it. There is no way of estimating emotional damage, invisible scars we wear every day as we put a good face on others. Those seizures may not have changed you in any way the first time, but they changed Mom. They showed her just how vulnerable a happy life was. They showed her that the most terrible and unexpected can happen no matter what you do. 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