Nighttime Hungers, Part II By Maggie D. Fedorov Published Issue 108, December 2022 His fingers are stiff and unmoving as I weave them between my own. I saw him last in February, just after he’d gotten his diagnosis. Pancreatic Cancer, stage four. I think back to the last time we spoke, only just last week. Even […]
Nighttime Hungers By Maggie D. Fedorov Published Issue 106, October 2022 I began dreaming of the hole when I was 4-and-a-half. It was the first year my parents took me to visit Nina’s tiny grave in the family cemetery on the far edge of the sprawling acreage of my childhood home that I could actually understand
Gone Walking on a Cold September Mourning By Maggie D. Fedorov Art by Patrick Rodgers I want to know What the crow is on about. A gaping hole; my senses dull. But! How the flowers piled nicely. Hushed whispers: sure seems pricey. The air be still her voice; it’s shrill. The ground I kick
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A Worrier and A Warrior By Maggie D. Fedorov Art by Dylan Fowler Published Issue 104, August 2022 Don’t just sit there with that blank expression ‘cross your face; Fight back! Yell profanities! FUCK your grace! he says. I know better than to ante up for another of his games and I shan’t let him win.
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Home Is Where The Heart Dies By Maggie D. Fedorov Art by Grant Williams Published Issue 103, July 2022 I’ll teach you how to sleep at night with all the things you’ve done. Two fingers vodka ain’t enough, sit; fight the urge to run. Born and raised in the Greater Seattle Area, Maggie D. Fedorov began to
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Decadence in Good Company By Maggie D. Fedorov Art by Jason White Published Issue 102, June 2022 Decay; at dying firelight the cardinal winds astir From my fingers, tongue, even from my eyes it seeps I weep the loss of self astounding as I turn my anger free into the fire turn my tears loose
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Vocal Manipulations By Maggie D. Fedorov Art by S. Putnik Published Issue 101, May 2022 I hear voices but it’s not the paranoia Talking; Different mouths speak, but the voice is not their own. I recognize this voice, Know it by heart. I know from Whence the whispers crept; from lecherous pit to unsuspecting minds
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