When I Cowboy in Puuwaawaa

by Ferdison Cayetano

When I cowboy in Puuwaawaa my toss is always true. When I cowboy in Puuwaawaa I drive wild two-ton bulls to the paddock like they been raised from a calf on the ranch. When I’m done cowboying in Puuwaawaa and I ride back into town, the flowers on the brim of my hat catch the eye of all the pretty girls.

In all the islands you’ll never see a lei papale sparkle like mine, never smell one smells this good. Never get one brings this much luck to your toss and your wrangle. All that, and you ain’t even gonna ask where I got it?

On the slopes of frozen Waomina, in that American west, where the Pryor Mountains rise — that is where I met some friends, and did them a favor, and where they picked these flowers for me.

Waomina. Wao-min-a. Hold on, now. Over there they say Wyoming. (Continue Reading…)

The One I’m Waiting For

by KJ Kabza

For an eternity of days, I wait for her in the cabin. The light outside rises and fades, rises and fades, and the wide rectangles of sky near the ceiling show me sun and starlight, cloud and snow, lightning and rain. I no longer have skin to feel the air, or a nose to smell it with, but the birdsong outside tells me it’s spring, or the moon in the left window tells me it’s winter.

I can sense the damp in the few bones I have left, so when the cabin around me begins to rot, I am not surprised, but I am very afraid. I know that things must be old to rot. Is she never coming back?

One day, I hear a rhythmic crunch outside. I think I know that sound? Before I can recall, the cabin door pulls open.

An old woman, wearing a thick fur cloak and fur leg wraps that are bound to her lower limbs with sinew, stands at the threshold. Fine snow dusts the fur she wears, and beyond her, I see white ground.

She is not the one I’m waiting for. (Continue Reading…)

THE DRINK WE SPILL OUT ON THE GROUND

by Claire Humphrey

The perfect day looks like this: I wake up in the spare room at my boyfriend’s family home. I tie my hair in a messy ponytail and stumble downstairs. Etienne plays his guitar by the window, sunlight filtering through the pine branches, a half-cup of coffee on the sill. Andre sits on the counter, waiting for his toast, drumming his hands on the cupboard door. And I begin to hum along.

The perfect day is a snapshot beginning to crease, edges smudged with thumbprints. Me, Etienne and Andre, together in the late morning, making music.

I remember thinking, the day I went down to the culvert, how lucky we were. Not even out of high school and already we had this.

I knew about change, a little. I knew I didn’t want it.

I knew how to make a wish and make it stick. (Continue Reading…)

Kwong’s Bath

by Angela Liu

The visits start a week after Kwong’s first surgery.

Despite the stinging January cold, the high school boyfriend sits on the tiled floor in his boxers, scrubbing the bathtub’s edge with a moldy brush.

“Mikey?” She reaches out of the scalding water with a dripping wet hand. He laces his fingers between hers and presses her hand to his cheek in that sweet way he often did when they hadn’t seen each other in a while.

She breathes in the smell of car oil still on him.

“I’m so glad you’re back,” she says. Relief pools at the bottom of her gut as she quietly confirms the mole under his left eye, the black toenails on his right foot where his drunken father practiced his sadism. Proof that he’s real. He’s the first visitor after all, and she doesn’t quite believe it yet.

He doesn’t say a word, but he smiles as best he can with his jaw still missing from the accident at the factory. (Continue Reading…)