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    The dawn of love by Cordell Corbin

    I am the fool. The hanged man. I am the fool for being so hung Up, watching from a safe distance. I lock away my words, every time they are uttered They are brushed from your tower walls And crumble To the ground. The hanged man, the fool. Upright, reversed. My spread.

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    Forgiven by Kirsten Orlando

    I am always looking straight ahead, struggling with black on white. Lockstep letters lined up by rule, I am always drawing the straight line. I am always looking for a plumb. Some people are born with an artist’s eye – sensing more-ness, blending hues, celebrating the fall of light on faces in several shades of umber. Shadows are just shades of purple at night. Sun is shades of yellow in the morning. There is no only black. There is no purely white. The artist sees no absolute; everything is dilutions capturing the way light curves in arcs that blur the ragged edge of words that wield knives sharpened to serrate…

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    Kindness by Sharon Frame Gay

    It was a cold January day.  The kind of day when even God was snuggled under blankets, sipping cocoa.  He must have fallen asleep on His watch, because the winter skies cracked open with a ticker tape parade of snow, inches upon inches falling on our street, our yard, our driveway.  There was no filter to this storm, but rather a winter snowfall of such abandon that the dog could barely navigate his daily rounds.  There were no intriguing scents, now, just snow to his belly, and he begged to come in and stretch out a bit by the fire. My husband Ben was huddled under two quilts, shivering.   Radiation…

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    He Was Running On Fumes by Marck T. Wilder

    Okay, hang on, sorry, hon, just give me a second to breathe here and collect myself. I, uh—I just… Okay, so look, so I’m on my way home, right, and I see this car parked along the sidewalk with a garden hose running out from the driver’s side window around back to its tailpipe. I mean, I never seen nothing like that before—just like that, out in broad daylight for everyone and their mothers to see—but you know, you hear the stories, so I pull over to check it out. I run over and rap on the window—rap, rap, rap—but this guy—the guy inside—he’s just sitting there, head slumped back…

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    Inheritance by Jonny Eberle

    “You are monumentally stupid,” Parker said.  “I think that’s a little harsh,” Brian said. He shoved the door open with his shoulder. A cloud of dust billowed out. The smell of molding upholstery and musty curtains emanated from the building.  “This is the worst investment you’ve ever made.”  “You’re overreacting, Parker. Wait until you see the inside.”  “Have you seen the outside? This is bad. Chugging a gallon of milk bad.”    “You’re overreacting.”    The two men stepped into the abandoned theatre. The creaking floorboards were painted black, as were the walls. The front windows were boarded up, but some of the nails had rusted through and the plywood…