Timothy Shea


The Permanent Ache by Gary J. Garrison
“Last week we put out cigarettes on our wrists…”

A Woman Should Have Legs by Robyn Goodwin
“The problem with Nancy’s suicide attempts was that nobody knew about them…”

Mostroferrato, Ancient Stronghold of the Briscoletti Family by Sam Martone
“Go south to a town with a tower towering beside it…”

Accidents by Ian Riggins
“Simple wooden things, painted white, with the usual assortment of bouquets and wreaths—the crosses stared up at me…”

Her Last Friday by Lucas Southworth
“Three months ago, the girl had three months to live…”

To the Wall by Holly M. Wendt
“The inside of her car bakes…”



Justice by Alyce Miller
“On a cold snowy Sunday afternoon, two days after Christmas in 2009…”

The Pine Tree by Joy Weitzel
“Pollen from the male pine cone will drift with the wind, hoping to reach a female pine cone…”



Mix-tape (#4) With the One I Still Haven’t Learned the Lyrics to by Mark Jay Brewin Jr.
“I couldn’t tell you how early I learned and lost the words…”

Jack Listens to the Language People Use by Kevin Brown
“When Wendy told us she had lost her…”

French Carousel by Susana H. Case
“Midnight in Paris, the party scene at the …”

Let there be spaces in your togetherness by Susana H. Case
“Let there be spaces in your togetherness…”

Imaginary Waltz with a Woman Wearing a Dress of Virga by Christopher Petruccelli
“Her silhouette is caught between windows and hanging …”

The Heron Rookery by Timothy Shea
“Now that the storm clouds have settled like sleeping dogs above the pasture…”

The Haircut by Timothy Shea
“While I know this road is not my river…”

Feature Issue:

The Suburbs



Death Row Report by Dale M. Brumfield
“In 1992, my father toured Richmond, Virginia’s old Spring Street Penitentiary…”

Invalids. Girlfriends. Beer. by Brenna Horrocks
“I needed a change of tempo…”

Lights by Matthew Zanoni Mṻller
“On Saint Martin’s Day in Germany the children would go into the dark woods…”

Bret Hart & the Finished Dungeons of My Youth by Brian Oliu
“Legends are born here: of sweat soaked vinyl & broken bones…”



Bloom by Kate Bolton Bonnici
“I stepped on a dead squirrel…”

Afternoon Heat Wave, Northern California: Lament for the Gulf Coast by Kate Bolton Bonnici
“Here, heat steals in—no air conditioning…”

The Haircut

While I know this road is not my river,
and while I’m aware I cannot plunge
my arm into the cracked cement and feel
the chill scurry up into my shoulders,
and while the gas pedal under my foot
tells me that it is my car I ferry across
the current of traffic and not a canoe,
as I approach the confluence of Lake Drive
and Oklahoma Avenue from the north,
I can think only of the Rappahannock River.
I am driving home from the barber, where,
dear friend, I met a ghost of my former self.
Pessimistic, chipped, sick of this and that—
of lousy friends and twelve-dollar burgers,
of his asshole brother who proposed
while his girlfriend lifted the full trash bag
from the bin—our conversation wilted
to a coral-blue liquid sterilizing combs.
Ghost of myself, I wanted to say, go away.
There is no more time for anger. Once,
I threw a bicycle into a swimming pool.
Once, I cussed a woman. Today, I paid
a man to cut my hair that was as unruly
as when I worked on the river—
simple as that. I was poor then (I still am),
and jaded. The woman I loved
was a second-story window in a house
I’d drive by occasionally, then cry.
Sometimes you hate life for what it becomes.
Hopefully, you wake up and find love
in a cheap sandwich on white bread
as you float across flat water, or while
the curlicues of your hair fall to the floor.
I almost asked the man if I could sweep
the hair and bring it home. He said it looked
like someone had shot an animal.

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