Calvin Hennick
A Cowboy Cannot Be Without His Hat

Calvin Hennick - A Cowboy Cannot Be Without His Hat

Fiction
Calvin Hennick’s stories, essays, and journalism have appeared in dozens of publications, including Bellevue Literary Review and The Boston Globe.… Read more »
Maya Schenwar
Barnacle Goose

Maya Schenwar - Barnacle Goose

Fiction
Maya Schenwar is a writer, journalist and editor of the news website Truthout. Her journalistic work has been published in… Read more »
Timur Karaca
Object

Timur Karaca - Object

Fiction
Timur Jonathan Karaca’s stories have appeared in Indiana Review and Narrative. He is a practicing anesthesiologist, and a student at… Read more »
Tim Fitts
Stripping Roses

Tim Fitts - Stripping Roses

Fiction
Tim Fitts lives and works in Philadelphia with his wife and two children. He is on the editorial staff of… Read more »
Barbara Nishimoto
The Firebird

Barbara Nishimoto - The Firebird

Fiction
Barbara Nishimoto was born in Chicago, and grew up along with her two sisters in the western suburbs. She is… Read more »
Catherine Carberry
There Is Land Everywhere

Catherine Carberry - There Is Land Everywhere

Fiction
Catherine Carberry serves as Assistant Editor of Mid-American Review and Bartleby Snopes. Her fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in… Read more »

Object

Timur Karaca

I found it in the woods behind our new house, the year after my mother died. It was half buried at the foot of an old maple, and when I’d picked it up and broken away some of the dirt and decaying leaves, I could see that it was an intricately wound bundle of string, or yarn, and cloth, about the size of both of my outstretched hands. It looked to have been composed in layers: green string wound carefully on a gray strip of fabric, then wrapped in red wool, and the whole thing bound in purple yarn, then more bindings of twine and pink thread, then white, and so on. It was heavy. I imagined that it must have taken someone a very long time. There were a few tattered stalks or appendages that gave it the appearance of a cloth organ that had been cut out of someone—a heart maybe, though I supposed it could just as easily have been a kidney, or a tumor, or a pancreas. I’d hiked in alone, and there was no one else around, only the wind in the branches and layering clouds. I tucked it inside my coat and walked home.

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