By Louise Moises I discover a small green object on my driveway— at first, I think it a leaf. On closer inspection, I find the lifeless body of a hummingbird, his little wings folded, looking as if he has worn out, closed his eyes, fell asleep.   I cradle the tiny body in my palm, stroke the feathers of the breast— soft, very, very soft. On this bright, unseasonably sunny day, hush of winter overwhelms me— I think of my husband folding his arms around his fading

By L.M. Hardgrave Coach always said: “Never lower your helmet during the tackle.”   I was a blocker for the most part I didn’t see much action. My threadbare spine is thankful.   But you, kid, stuck in the flash. What were you supposed to do when Cody Stufflebean, the moving beanstalk, came at you, holding the pigskin?   You bent your head, prayed, to please Dad.   * snap   You bent your head please keep praying, Dad.   As the ambulance drained the color and two more arms wer

By Kerry Burton-Galley Whenever I succumb to my depression, or become paralysed by this dissociation, I seek to find some sort of consolation in the company of killers.   I can tell you it’s just morbid curiosity or a keen interest in criminology but truth be told, it’s their relatability, especially those otherwise ‘good fellas.’   It cuts through my mental silence to listen to accounts of perverted violence being told with such mannerly indifference. I don’t see them as mon