His Purgations  

By Thomas Lynch Poetry

Argyle shat himself and, truth be told, but for the mess of it, the purging was no bad thing for the body corporal. Would that the soul were so thoroughly cleansed, by squatting and grunting supplications. Would that purgatories and damnations could be so quickly doused and recompensed, null and voided in the name of…

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Tobacco, Psalms, and Bloodletting

By James Harpur Poetry

I sometimes think back to my youth Remembering the heavy sack of sin on my shoulders And I bent double so it seemed Across the fields, with scarecrows hung on crosses, Along straight roads that led to nowhere, Weighed down in ditches, barns, the hollow trees I slept in; And how I searched like a…

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Forgiveness IV

By Karen An-Hwei Lee Poetry

Today                                       just today is a forgiveness exercise.               I try to live as though yesterday has no hold on me.                    …

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Ex Cathedra

By John Biguenet Short Story

Je me suis aperçu alors qu’il n’était pas si facile qu’on le croyait d’être pape…. —Albert Camus I found then that it was not so easy as one might imagine to be pope…. BOB BERGERON had been looking for the Pantheon when, having somehow wandered off the Via del Gesù, which he had been assured…

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By Richard Michelson Poetry

after “The Sunflower: On the Possibilities and Limits of Forgiveness” by Simon Wiesenthal I All day I’ve been beating my breast, begging pardon of those I’ve offended: family, estranged friends, and ex-dates. Cleaning the slate, the Rabbi calls it each erev Yom Kippur. I’ve even emailed that asshole out west with the broad-brim hat and…

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A Map of the Watershed

By Nathan Poole Short Story

THE SPELLS CAME late that summer and left him bewildered, muttering. He had known this was coming, had felt the tremors in his mind and seen familiar objects—his can of shoe polish and his TV remote—transformed in his hand into strange artifacts. The TV remote he found in his desk, facedown beside the calculator. The…

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Cross of Nails

By Bruce Bond Poetry

The morning after the blitzkrieg that toppled the vaults of Saint Michael’s Cathedral and set the rest on fire, a stonemason found among the embers one roof beam laid across another, a kind of crucifix created by the forces of accident and violence and then by grace of eyes that saw in them an order.…

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The Egret Tree

By Claude Wilkinson Poetry

In the past, I have asked for what this may be,             more faithfully perhaps, haven’t I, for some covenant of intimate favor             waiting along a byway? So how then should it be seen, what begins as just             a blue, late morning crease between heavy rains, noticing the usual roadside toll             of…

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