Author: Phoebe Literature

Conscience Round

Brendan Egan The pharmaceutical cocktail necessary for lethal injection being unavailable, the State had determined, pursuant to sentencing matrices, XXXXXXXXXXX should be executed by a firing squad...

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Circle of Fourths

Jessica Franken C major: Unsalted. Straight as train tracks. Children’s key. Your niece (six, with a tiny teenager inside) is learning piano, white keys first. If she grows cross, whisper that C...

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Secret Workings

Debbie Bateman This is not the first time Pauline’s tried to escape. At seventeen, she ran from her father, taking only what fit in the beat-up Dodge she’d paid for with her own cash. Her clothes...

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In Retrograde

Meagan Ciesla I wasn’t alone on that long walk when the dog came around the hedge, snarling. My friend was pushing her two-year-old in a stroller, and when she screamed, I thought she was joking...

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North of Wilshire

Isabella Welch It was Sunday night, which, since childhood, was a night of painful malaise for Jon. It started in the morning this time, that tugging. Here you are, old, unwelcome friend, Jon...

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We Will Call This Comfort

John McCarthy When we get home from working long days, we know     there are longer days ahead that do not love us. The white salt-streaks following us home in the...

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The Cult of The Greater Tuberosity

Sasha Tandlich She attacks the shirt with a dull pair of scissors. These are the same scissors she uses for everything: opening packages, cutting green onions, trimming her bangs, holding against her...

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Two Wings to Veil My Face

Kameryn Carter I say Jesus wept in placeof weeping. I say, I wasborn submerged. Proposition:wilted salad in a bag. Corollary:ain’t’a that good news? Today I farewelled my deadin the drive-thru...

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Late Bloomer

Elizabeth Galoozis My first exposure to Honey Creek School was in second grade, when our class, like every other second grade class in the county, took a field trip there. Our teacher, Mrs. Stone,...

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The Lost Coast

Jeff Ewing Bolinas, California isn’t quite there. Threads of fog drift across the middle distance, making the landscape insubstantial, the people half-formed. I can hear the thud of breakers...

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