Depending on the situation and people involved, this outside world may or may not crash like terse waves into said Self, transgressing a felt sense of sovereignty, wholeness, intactness, a concept which is intangible yet real . . . very real.
Sarah Chin’s story navigates the sticky terrain of grief.
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An ekphrastic prose poem that makes the artifact embodied through a narrative.
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I It was three days after Christmas when I came home from work and found the gift bag leaning up against my door. “Love, Aunt Gloria,” read the card in her spidery cursive script, the kind that stymied children. I pulled a tin of cheap mint chocolates from the bag. Frango was stamped in bloodred …
Winner of the 2024 Robert and Adele Schiff Award in fiction At night I kept my Jesus folded small in the corner of my closet, arms under tucked knees, dark mangled locks beneath the cotton dangle of buttoned shirts I didn’t wear. That’s where I charged him too. Anywhere out in my room would have …
In the days following the tragedy, after the funerals were over and even the local papers had moved on to other stories, Albert stopped leaving the house. For a couple days he put on a performance for his father, who was on bereavement leave from the university, where he was a professor on the history …
Ivanych stumbled out onto the porch, squinting against the cruel brightness of snow. Not a curl of smoke rose over the village—everyone wintered in the city now, or finally rested in their graves. Too bad he’d already filled the night bucket with yellow ice. It used to be the bucket never needed emptying, but lately …
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