up on
the 39th
a figure
in the
dark looks
out at the
the quivering city
never sleeping
wondering what
the new day
will ink
on the page

a man
must be alive
in this
100 years
to be
a decent


(Remember, if you’re an artist, animator, illustrator, filmmaker, sound designer and want to collaborate with us, please, click on the “artist” button from the post page.)

Let’s face it, we’ve all been in therapy over our mothers and we’ve all come to the same conclusion: they did the best they could. And while that seems to satisfy some, the rest of us continue our investigation as to WHY that was only the best that they could do by looking at THEIR mothers — our GRANDMOTHERS.
And so we present:






by Barbara Davilman


Remember, if you’re an artist, animator, illustrator, filmmaker, sound designer and want to collaborate with us, please, click on the “artist” button from the post page.


By Liz Dubelman


Rose watched as her sixteen-year-old daughter, Delilah, walked to the car parked in the driveway. Delilah was all legs. When did that happen? She was wearing miniscule snug jean shorts, a loose t-shirt and a long drapey cardigan. Rose had noticed several fashion trends. Tight on top and loose on the bottom or tight on the bottom and loose on top. Rose preferred loose and loose but she had to admit it made her look old and careless.

Delilah threw a thoughtless, “Bye” over her shoulder as she was leaving. She was happy to be going out. The plan was to hit up the thrift store because they were cheap and she loved making up stories about the previous owners. Delilah didn’t really care where she was going as long as she was going. A driver’s license meant possibilities to Delilah.

All of Delilah’s friends were getting their driver’s licenses. They were that age and it was one of the few rites of passage left. Rose was both happy not to have to cart Delilah around and terrified that a mercurial teenager had control of a 2000-pound machine. But that small measure of freedom made Delilah sort of nicer to her mother.

It was Rose’s plan that while Delilah was out and not emotionally confusing her mother with her silent demands to be close and distant at the same time, she would clean the house – clear out the clutter. Rose opened a bottle of chardonnay. It was a cleaner’s best friend, a little life hack. Rose had read that the best way to clean a house was to pick a room and start clockwise. She picked the half bathroom because it was the smallest room in the house. Her logic dictated she start with the medicine cabinet.

Rose balanced her water glass full of wine on the counter top of the sink area and, with a fine billow, shook a white trash bag open. She looked in the mirror for a moment, took a gulp of wine and opened the medicine cabinet. She tossed the stretched out



By Cathy Colman

     The night sky. Like a living body
awake. Dead starlight
reaches us, eventually, unlike our beloved
dead. The stars
fall and you’re supposed to catch them.
The jigsaw puzzle
of constellations
disjointed without our mind’s fix and flex.

     And as these galaxies
expand away
from us faster than the speed of light, we are
lost here, in
the crabgrass, in the gutted
buildings of old business, the jolt
of wars and countries
stippled back and forth
with the nocturne-fire of weapons.

What I used to mean by hurt
is no longer what I mean.

          I have seen so many disappear.
Beneath weightless loam, oleander,
the cries of rooks. The priest
has locked the door to the church. He leaves
with newsprint on his hands.

      A world where nothing is clear.
For once I believe in nothing.
All the saliences lie quiet.
There must be a sanctuary I know nothing
about. In Nepal or underwater
in the Great Barrier Reef. Meanwhile,

     the stars’ slow, divine decay, away from their mothers,
too, away from their sleepless blood,
the damage done so far back
all language becomes new

     stars with their tangled manes, their tilted chairs, their quivering bows–
I stand in the driveway at 2 am
looking up to find true north.
It’s my kind of prayer.