Special thanks to Jessica Standifird for her editorial assistance. This week’s artwork is “Moon & Sun” by Ross P. Wilson

Mushrooms
by R.F. Marazas

The signs reminded Foley of Burma Shave jingles. Feel free. To indulge. Until you bulge. Then you will see. Foley gaped at an acre of mushrooms large as a man. Scent pulled him. He salivated, tore chunks from one and ignored a faint scream. He chewed, swallowed. Visions blossomed, psychedelic, kaleidoscopic. Knowledge flooded him. All questions answered. He ate. Stomach ballooned, legs rooted, arms shrunk to gray stubs. Using only his teeth he chomped. Visions faded. Knowledge slowed, stopped. Where Foley once stood, a new mushroom towered, fat, scent beckoning. Next to it, tiny leftover pieces began to grow.

Playground Where I Grew Up
by Adam Loewen

Two empty swings move back and forth, retrograde, near the sandbox hardly wider than a grave for toy army men. I sit atop the slide that burned skin and busted teeth, concerned with pea gravel staining my shoes and parents spying from the apartments. The jungle gym, cold as dusk, won’t return my stare. I’ve forgotten how to play.

I ran away from home once, tried to live burrowed under the wooden walkway, even before teenage girls and malt liquor. Soon, they’ll dig up this entire tiny world and replace the equipment with things that kids these days are into.

Eyes Open
by Anna Lea Jancewicz 

She started up with him because of his hands. They were practically identical to those of that other boy she’d known. She’d twirled her skirts and bit her lip, it was easy enough. She got those hands on her skin. She watched the friction more than she felt it. She’d done this once before, with one who’d had the same voice if she just closed her eyes. But this time, she had to keep her eyes open. Stand behind me, she’d say. She’d drape his arms around, fasten the hands on her breasts. And she’d look down. Just like this.

Birth Story
by Angela Maracle

My mother demanded a TV in the delivery room so she could watch the playoffs. When Montreal lost the cup she stopped pushing.

“I don’t want this baby anymore.”

They sedated her and pulled me out with forceps.

When I was five I knew the names of all the players. Reciting them for company made me special.

“Isn’t she smart? She’s such a hockey fan. I’ll tell you a funny story about the night she was born.”

I heard this anecdote for forty years. I don’t mind hockey, but I hate my mother.

Jim from Critical Theory 2012: Born Under a Bad Signifier
by Damian Dressick

The clocks have been stuck at three for days, and while some people blamed the aliens who hover above Mellon Arena in their shimmering silver ship, Jim is pretty sure he’s responsible. He’s vowed to cease his chronic navel gazing and scale way back on his unrelenting what-if-ery, but even now catches himself wondering: “If only I’d stopped ruminating on all my past mistakes sooner, this might never have happened.”