Wanting

Wanting

He had been fingering his sax mutely from behind the door. “No pretending you forgot something in the living room. No ‘Oh, I’m just coming out to get a glass of water.’” Lilly had gone through these provisions like a lawyer walking through a contract, even asking him to place hand over heart and swear. “But what’s all this?” he’d said, hurt. “Don’t you trust me?” “Not one bit,” she’d retorted. “I know you, Gaurav.”

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GMR

 

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Boob

I had never heard her utter the word “boob” before, let alone “boobies.” We were a missionary family, stopping to see relatives in Finland before moving permanently (terrifyingly) to the United States. I had known things would change when we left Kenya, but I hadn’t expected this. Boobies? Really, mom?

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Blackberries Pantoum

Silent, a few yards apart, we picked blackberries / in the wild place Dad didn’t know about. / He knew this much: Men could do us harm. / Some pervert might follow our broken twigs

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Green Mountains Review, based at Northern Vermont University, is an annual, award-winning literary magazine publishing poetry, fiction, creative nonfiction, literary essays, interviews, and book reviews by both well-known writers and promising newcomers.

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Cold Snap

Cold Snap

Orn returned from work to an untidy house. Half-eaten bowls of cereal strewn on the counter, newspapers with coffee rings and mashed scrambled eggs melding with wet ink. The sticky floors popped with each step. Her annoyance grew, but who was there to blame?

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Review of NOT A PLACE ON ANY MAP by Alexis Paige

Review of NOT A PLACE ON ANY MAP by Alexis Paige

Organized as a series of forty flash essays anchored by their geographic location, Not a Place on Any Map by Brevity editor Alexis Paige charts a life that stutters and snags on trauma and addiction, a life where entropy looms and the “myth which insisted that matter falling apart was not moving toward something larger, like islands or stars.”

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Bruce, on Ice

Bruce, on Ice

Phoebe swears that the slick roads and misty skies, and the fatness of the roses in our front yard are all signs that point to Bruce. When we hear “Bruce” called out at a restaurant, or see the name in the newspapers, or watch a movie with a character named Bruce, she grabs my arm and says, “See?”

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Two Poems

Two Poems

The NYT today says Haiti’s Baby Doc / Duvalier is dead. So that’s that— / another brutal dictator escapes without / paying his tab. It’s almost dusk / as a cloud a little darker than the others / leans down to kiss the grey sea.

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A Protective Impulse

A Protective Impulse

We want to believe that there is nothing natural about numbers. These ciphers are our perfect projections, whom we marshal and archive, in endless right angles. Though they have pores and spines, the tables we fashion for them are not carcasses or skeletons, not birds shorn of feathers and skin.

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Origin Story

Origin Story

This afternoon, Iris’s mother plans to swallow a pill that will dissolved her thyroid gland, cure her hyperactive metabolic disorder, and turn her, temporarily, radioactive. She will lift the white pill over her blushed lips and open her teeth so that the chalky capsule can dissolve in her arteries and turn her blue veins nuclear.

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