Issue 26 | Spring 2022
Woodwork
James Miller
Mitch makes each finger in the garage. He takes a block of cheap Home Depot pine and carves out the shape of pointing. I like to say they’re all index, homing for the Forms. Mostly life-size, a bit crude at the joints, unstained.
I address the boxes, sitting at our dining table. Slow work, hard on the back. My black marker’s squeaking makes me think of kids in Shakespeare revues, wiry mice playing at witches, murderous kings.
I can hear Mitch out there, listening to 70s King Crimson on mix cassettes. Obviously we’re doing this shit on the weekends. We’re both plenty busy at Buckingham Retirement—hanging birdfeeders for the residents, chopping celery for chicken salad and crackers. On our time, it’s piles of wood shavings, white or pale-blue tissue paper folded wisely to protect the darlings in transit.
About fifteen fingers a Saturday, now that we have our system down. We’ll never finish, there are too many in need. I used to tell Mitch how much I love them. His half-assed woodworks and the folks who will most likely not grant them a spot on their mantels. I get it—so many grandkid graduations there’s no room for us. Sometimes I slide a finger in my mouth, let the wet grow till I can’t hold it in. Then drop the thing in its coffin to swallow, hard and gulping.
Last week Mitch caught me doing it. I gotta pee, he said. When he came back, I was busy labeling the last batch for the day. He kissed me on the back of my neck. Folded a tag on my shirt back into place. I lifted another finger to my lips.
About the Author
James Miller is a native of the Texas Gulf Coast. He won the Connecticut Poetry Award in 2020, and is published in the Best Small Fictions 2021 anthology from Sonder Press. Recent pieces have appeared or are forthcoming in North Dakota Quarterly, Scoundrel Time, Phoebe, Yemassee, Elsewhere, West Trade Review, Sledgehammer Lit, and Daily Drunk Mag. Follow on Twitter @AndrewM1621.
Prose
The Golden Hops Alberto Ortiz De Zarate, translated by Whitni Battle
The Woman in the Murder House Darlene Eliot
Excerpt from Eva Nara Vidal, translated by Emyr Humphreys
Three Propositions of the White Wind Luna Sicat-Cleto, translated by Bernard Capinpin
Iron Cloud Suzana Stojanović
Buffalo Siamak Vossoughi
The First Ghost I Ever Saw Was Marshall Moore
The Lion Farhad Pirbal, translated by Alana Marie Levinson-LaBrosse and Jiyar Homer
The Good Man James Miller
The Teacher
Woodwork
My Wife Was Drunk at Hobby Lobby
Oranges; Charcoal Michele Kilmer
Ode to Zheka Olga Krause, translated by Grace Sewell
Padre de Familia John Rey Dave Aquino
Excerpt from Dictionary John M. Kuhlman
Gospel of Mary Michael Garcia Bertrand
Poetry
There are No Salvageable Parts Benjamin Niespodziany
Sunday in the Woods
You Is Not the Room Lisa Williams
I Cloud the Moon
Lost Creek Cave Anna B. Sutton
Excerpt from “Hehasnoname” Sharron Hass, translated by Marcela Sulak
Moon Talk Steve Davenport
The Son of a Bitch of Hope After