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Eldon Reishus: After Lance Armstrong is Before Lance Armstrong (Poetry)
There at his touch there was a treasure chest,And in it was a gleam, but not of gold;And on it, like a flame, these words were scrolled: "I keep the mintage of Eternity.Who comes to take one coin may...
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John Wilkinson: Naming Rights (fiction)
While Johnny “Football” Manziel continues to accumulate headlines, I spent some time recently with a confused young man with a famous name just trying to make it in this world. This is a story about...
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Cole Hamer: The Legs on that Man (Fiction)
The legs on that man. I imagine Bill Tilden whistled this frequently, even on his way to dying when a stroke laid him flat and alone and with his tennis career nearing game-set-match. I think he said...
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Yazan Barakat: Fish (fiction)
About twelve years ago I watched Rudy Esterhaus take a jump on his bike and whack his head on a tree branch. Me, Rudy and Tommy Cross had gone out to the woods to jump our bikes through the ditches....
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Joshua Bartee: Beckham County Has No Team (Poetry)
Beckham County has no team, but weall love the Braves: Justice, Smoltz. Scattered homestead tractors, redbud,form archipelagos in the wheat,and town, a tired heart, desolate clap-board stations,...
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Malon Edwards: The Remy Cut (fiction)
The corner from Walcott bends toward me. It has a bit more pace than usual. Don’t matter. The world moves in slow-motion.Just like the Indigo said it would.***Pre-match interview:Jimmy Falafel: What...
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Denise Heinze: Easter, 1966 (Poetry)
After churchOur father scattered us to the borders of the three-sided fieldA sister or two per teamTo unnest the motley eggs. I, the lone hunter, uncoupledScrambled to my linear woodPeered into last...
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Trevor Pyle: Late Innings (Poetry)
As soon as the ball becomes a white streak off the batthe center fielder puts his hands on his hips,digs his toes into the warning trackand refuses to look at the ball as it sails over his head.I...
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Samuel Vargo: Nobody's Pretty Boy (fiction)
A jab, then another. I deflect a left hook with my right shoulder and shuffle back. The drab green closes in on me: ominous jaws like those of an alligator. Such ugly draperies and wall coverings...
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James Chesbro: Overtime (Nonfiction)
Sunday, November 10, 1985Atlanta Falcons vs. Philadelphia EaglesDad leans over me on my bed. I don’t understand why he refuses to let me sleep in my game outfit. He grins as he pries the gray corduroys...
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Marcus Meade: A Seat at the Table (Fiction)
Patrick jerked his head when the bell rang. He always hoped to see Uncle Paul or Aunt Marie or any of his dad’s friends who frequented Vito’s. His dad showed only the slightest interest, lifting his...
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Malon Edwards: The Remy Cut (fiction)
The corner from Walcott bends toward me. It has a bit more pace than usual. Don’t matter. The world moves in slow-motion.Just like the Indigo said it would.***Pre-match interview:Jimmy Falafel: What...
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Richard Peabody: Hedgehogs 31, Renegades 10 (fiction)
Hedgehogs 31, Renegades 10Renegades ………….0 10 0 0 – 10Hedgehogs ………….7 10 7 7 – 31FIRST QUARTERHedgehogs: S. Fitzgerald 20 pass from T. Pynchon (S. Beckett kick), 9:08SECOND QUARTERRenegades:...
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Justin Brouckaert: Barry Sanders Speaks (Fiction)
There is no lateral movement in the Sanders household anymore. Just Barry, alone, in a plain brown bungalow with straight walkways and 90-degree turns, fifteen miles from Boone Pickens Stadium in...
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Tim Wendel: Downward Facing Dog (Fiction)
Her touch can be downright cold and I fear I’ve come to enjoy it so. While I keep my eye out for her as best I can, she will find me at the most unexpected moments. That’s perhaps what I love the best....
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Catherine Moore: Home Sport (Poetry)
Oh my love, remember the games we played. First, it was the wittierphrase. Who had a greater schedule, the best ski jump. There was brawn,and brain, in all that. The macro then became the micro: who...
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Rupprecht Mayer: Diving into Lake Lakeville (Fiction)
Unlike the others in their bathing suits, I'm going in the water fully clothed because it’s too cold here for someone of my age. Just below the surface I hold my breath and look up at the distorted,...
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Joe Mills: Factory Kids (Poetry)
Coach grabbed my face guard,yanked me towards himlike I was a dog or a horse,yelled, Goddamnit, I want youto fucking make him hurt.Do you understand me?I did. We all did. We knew even then, as...
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Ellen Wade Beals: Antic (Poetry)
Camp counselor's trick:pop an ant,wriggling between finger forcepsinto mouth.Make sure to smack lipsas the formic acidtingles on your tongue.The kids are chargedwith gross spectacle,into more...
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Dave Morehouse: The Game (fiction)
Sweat beads over James’ brow, his shirt wet in the usual spots under the arms and down the back. The maul swings, landing heavier with each thud but the stake has to hold, or else.Satisfied the iron...
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