Search Results

VIEW ALL CONTENT a prayer to san pedro de atacama Penina Kessler in the strands of april sun i light the burnt end of the palo santo i bought in Chile two years ago red rocks and salt flats i asked the alien Andean sky how can you burn through something that’s already ash? it answered me in sugar with a lime tinged tongue like an unidentified object i crash landed in your life; it’s the only way i know how to come to a stop your hand is a baby bird and mine is a lizard scaly and tender together flamingos are born concrete grey they get their color through the algae they eat i tell you this for no reason at all i wish the desert could see cherry blossoms sigh to the streets like confetti the tulips splay open a private parade i molt into you do you dream about me? ceramic shards of your organs snaking like shower water my body an open sewer you polish my wounds you hang me by the roots in the underbrush lithium lined landscapes i gloat to the mountains that plants can grow in my heart Penina Kessler is a writer and software engineer living in Brooklyn. She loves plants, sometimes a little too hard, and is proud of having never learned to drive. You can read more of her work at medusawasmisunderstood.substack.com Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT the lonely blueberry Tara Labovich i hear guys in suits are making fruit illegal. they go ripping out the woman-trees at the roots, calling sustenance “mess!” yada, yada! it’s so rare now to find fruit in the mess. it’s so rare to find sweetness sticking to pavement. but! when you do, it is always sacrament. maybe it’s under the spared trees at the edge of us all. maybe you must go looking. there, find the scattery: blackberry, gooseberry, even the berry of the elder type. there is dust on this blueberry. you taste that, first, and it reminds you of long-off living and being close to that which gives you creatureness: dirt, sweat, and real mess, the kind that goes without words. then, the skin bursts, and you know, finally, sweetness belonging in the sun stretched for a moment on your tongue. Tara Labovich (they/them) is a writer and lecturer of English and Creative Writing in Iowa. Their multi-genre creative work explores questions of queerness, survivorship, and multicultural upbringing. Their writing is nominated for Best of the Net, and can be found in journals such as Salt Hill and the Citron Review. You can find them on socials at @taralabovich Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT Danse Macabre Wes Viola There are ghosts of us dancing: under a railway arch, in a graveyard in France, in a vineyard in Nebraska, in the kitchen in our new place, in the kitchen in our old place, in fields near Glastonbury, on each other's screens, in each other's dreams, there are ghosts of us dancing. Wes Viola is a pen name of Wes White. Wes is an Elder Bard of his hometown of Glastonbury, England; and now lives in London where he works in public libraries. His latest project is 'Thirteen Names for the West', a poem cycle inspired by representations of the Wicked Witch of the West in adaptations of L Frank Baum's Oz story over the last century and more. You can buy physical copies or digital downloads on a pay-what-you-want basis, and explore more of his work, at http://linktr.ee/wesviola Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT Blighted Ovum Calynn Liong Harris We gazed sightless through the warbling window of the ultrasound machine into the yawning blackness. A circle of white rimmed what we needed to know but would never have. That night we drank from champagne coupes molded in the image of Marie Antoinette’s breasts. We had saved the bottle for a father’s solitary celebration. The bubbles lucent spheres of soft popping grief churning, splitting, dissolving. Calynn Liong Harris holds a Bachelor of Arts in English and Creative Writing with a concentration in Poetry from the University of Mary Washington. She is a former professional ballerina and lives in Alexandria, Virginia with her husband and two daughters. Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT Me and My Good Humor Betsy Robinson Darwinkle cleared his throat and announced that he loved me, had always loved me, and was ravenous for my body. I replied, "Oh," and offered him a cup of tea. He said he would, thank you, with two sugars and slice of lemon on the side. We took it on the porch, as it was sunny and almost time for the Good Humor man. "It's lovely, isn't it?" I said, sipping quietly. "Yes, quite," he answered, putting his hand on my breast. "I've always thought so." We spoke of politics, pollution and the population explosion. He said that the highest point in the State of Washington is Mt. Rainier and that he would like to nibble my earlobe. I said certainly, but first would he give me a dollar thirty-five cents for the Good Humor man. He did. I bought a strawberry peach delight. We ate. His tongue was cold. Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT Father's Day Jonathan Fletcher I buy my mom flowers instead of seeds, though I want to buy seeds. And plant them. And grow a father from the soil. And root myself when I mourn, mourn the man who never raised me. For my mother, I buy a card. But also another for my father. And address it to a ghost I swear I glimpse, one I pray continues to haunt. For the postage, I use tears. And mail it off like a letter to God. And await and await a reply I’ll never get. Previously published in The Quasar Review Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT coming back Tara Labovich the awning caught a bucket of rain for you, left a dry patch big enough to stand and watch the streets turn when rain becomes snow. cat curled in bed early, left a warm spot. now she’s waiting at the window for you to come inside. streetlights try to remember names and how to catch flurries. brambles fill their arms with the last of dark fruit, the moon is growing bigger than you can hold. a voice calls your name from the oven-warmed kitchen, gifting you the spoon to lick. a song plays on the radio, just for you to cry, “this is my favorite!” the question is short. the sky is dark, but clear. the hard shape you carry in your chest pocket—now, there are moments you forget it’s there. Tara Labovich (they/them) is a writer and lecturer of English and Creative Writing in Iowa. Their multi-genre creative work explores questions of queerness, survivorship, and multicultural upbringing. Their writing is nominated for Best of the Net, and can be found in journals such as Salt Hill and the Citron Review. You can find them on socials at @taralabovich Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT The Last Remaining Inca Rope Bridge Jonathan Fletcher Long has it stood and spanned a river. Long have I waited for you to bridge my ignorance. Dark as me, hair long and black, corded like woven rope. Where others bless Pacha Mama, I offer up myself to you. This umbilical of ichu grass, I grip tight, lean into, as if I could re-braid ours. Like the chasquis who once passed through, I, too, carry a message. I, too, feel rope wiggle beneath. Steady me. Cradle me. Together let’s cross. Previously published by SHINE Poetry Series Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT They Fell Bob Gielow The first to fall were the birches, just as beguiling when horizontal. The world was unconcerned. The willows fell next, weeping. When we lost the baobabs and ginkgoes, arborists sounded the alarm, and humanity shrugged. Rubber trees caught everyone’s attention, mostly because of how commerce was impacted. In short order, mangroves and maples, alders and ashes, figs and firs all fell, too. Our shared sorrow and shame did not bring them back. Bob Gielow writes fiction, often using non-traditional formats, that he wishes were real. A college administrator by day, Bob (he/him) spins tales in formats we all use when communicating with each other: text messages, diary entries, and fictional Wikipedia posts all allow him to be clinical and thorough in describing his characters, their thinking and actions … without diminishing his ability to explore the resulting human emotions. Bob has over 40 short stories published in numerous online and print publications. Find me on Threads at “gielowbob” and Blue Sky at “bobgielow.bsky.social.” Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT One Less Treasure Nicolò Potestà on the concrete, I found something with all the love left inside, that baby bird, it was still warm, I can’t forget her pink body, didn’t even have any feathers, she must have fallen from the nest and I almost stepped on her, I did, plump belly nice and full, good mother, kept her fed at least, I wonder if she’ll notice one of her little ones is missing, one less gaping mouth staring at her when she returns to the nest, she was already dead though, when I found her, must have snapped her neck on impact, and I never cry but I picked her up and cried because she was still warm, this little thing, I brought her body over to a planter, that’s the best I could do, no time for burial, I set her down so gently so softly because she’s still a baby, this small pink thing with her eyes still closed, and I covered her with leaves and flowers, I’m sorry baby bird, I’m sorry mamma, I have to go now, you did your best mamma and she still died, sometimes it happens that way, I promise all the rest will learn to fly, but how sad, to have your neck crushed on the concrete before you ever had the chance. Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT ADHD at Nina's Aisling Cruz Consider, drip coffee, no refills, scattering of keystrokes from an adjoining table. If we’re not careful, time takes over the cup’s dark interior. If we’re not careful, we might not make it over the corner, bested again by dopaminergic material. Now Matthew is calling and I cannot avoid him, sunshine bounces from the painted windows, three playlists laugh loudly from the bluetooth radio, having cursed my coffee cold. Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.

VIEW ALL CONTENT The News Jake Goldwasser I smoked what was left of my pipe and tidied my house. I thought about how alone I would look if a camera was hidden. I folded a few months of laundry and spackled the drawers. I gathered the cobwebs and laid them onto a plate one strand at a time. I imagined a hammock’s day in the mild sun. I twisted the clock to display a time I preferred. I brushed the green-gray scum off the tap that’s been dripping onto the dishes. I wetted the five clay pots that play host to my flowers. I padded the warps in the hardwood in the living room. In the distance, a slammed garage went off like a bomb. I raised my voice to the rodents I keep on the mantle. Felt remorse. Scheduled the next 10 years of dental appointments for me and my dad. Rented the last few films that the master directed before he died. Painted my nails bright black and went out with a leash and no dog. I spoke to the big white oyster that hangs from the sky. I melted a slice of cheese on toast and called that a dinner. I posed a question to my water glass. I believed it would answer. Make literature part of your everyday life. Carefully curated stories and poems you can read in under 5 minutes, sent straight to your inbox. Email* Sign Up Yes, subscribe me to the Gotham Literature newsletter.