Issue 3.2: Michael Lauchlan

Issue No 3.2

An Early History of Hang Gliding by Leslie Maxwell
“The day after her mother died, Evie did not go to school. Tenth grade had just begun, and Evie had spent the last three weeks trying to decide who she would be this year, and now, here, just as suddenly, tenth grade seemed far away from her mind…”

Mirror Look At Me by Laura Tansley
“His side of the bed was cold to the touch. Her door was ajar, the bed boldly made to prove a point: she had not slept, not here at least…”

Meeting Uncle Charlie by Sarah Abbott
“My uncle Charlie drove up in his red sedan, the car in good shape but an older model, and parked to the left of our driveway…”

Three Broken Hearts by Anthony J. Mohr
“It was a Saturday in March 1963. My father and I were having lunch at the Rendezvous Room in the Beverly Hilton Hotel…”

Quotidienne by Nandini Dhar
“Mother is busy wiping off the cumin-dust from the old photographs, book-spines…”

Fog in Michigan by Michael Lauchlan
“The big tire beside the highway, the blue bridge, billboards, and all marks of a flat land vanish…”

The Lave by Michael Lauchlan
“On our wedding night, the noise jars us—thieves boosting our mower….”

Widow Gardening by Grace Mattern
“She digs in the garden, pulls weeds by their roots and leaves them to wilt…”

Fog in Michigan

The big tire beside the highway,
the blue bridge, billboards, and all
marks of a flat land vanish.
You miss your exit and get off
on a truck route. At a light
you peer into fog, watch
it swallow all but the last few
streetlights, and think of your wife
sharing news at breakfast.
Only the last of her words reach
your failing ears, so you invent
what you miss when you can.
But your stratagem has its flaws.
A light changes and you growl
forward, boring halogen tunnels
in the cloud. You blink and plod.
Behind you, the night closes
with an unheard eraser sweep,
a chalkboard going dark
in an empty school, a station’s
signal lisping into radio fuzz.

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