Brett Riley
Closed for Storm

Brett Riley - Closed for Storm

Fiction
Brett Riley is the author of The Subtle Dance of Impulse and Light (Ink Brush Press) and the screenplay Candy’s First Kiss, which won or placed in five contests. His stories have appeared in… Read more »
William Woolfitt
Fruit Jar

William Woolfitt - Fruit Jar

Fiction
William Woolfitt is the author of three poetry collections: Beauty Strip (Texas Review Press, 2014), Charles of the Desert (Paraclete Press, 2016), and Spring Up Everlasting (Paraclete Press,… Read more »
Cady Vishniac
M

Cady Vishniac - M

Fiction
Cady Vishniac is a Big Ten Academic Alliance Traveling Scholar at the University of Michigan and a Translation Fellow at the Yiddish Book Center. Her work has appeared most recently in Glimmer Train… Read more »
Afolabi Opanubi
Rust

Afolabi Opanubi - Rust

Fiction
Afolabi Opanubi grew up in Port Harcourt, a city in the Niger Delta region of Nigeria. He lived there up until he was sixteen, after which, he left for Canada to study and work. Currently, he lives in… Read more »
Joe Kraus
Sears and Roebuck

Joe Kraus - Sears and Roebuck

Fiction
Joe Kraus is a professor of English at the University of Scranton where he teaches creative writing and American literature. He’s the co-author of An Accidental Anarchist (Academy Chicago 2001),… Read more »

Fruit Jar

William Woolfitt

I leaned close, braved the flail of Mama’s brown-furred tongue. I could almost untangle what words she sputtered. Look in the woods, Suse, she might have said. On the Jamison place, around the old pond. Bee balm, boneset. Oswego tea. I remembered her telling Lilian and Ethel and me that she had learned the heal-alls from her grandmother, that when we were older, she meant to teach us what common leaves and lowly stems and potent roots we should keep in our larders. There was so much she had not told. In Mama’s fragments of speech, I wanted to hear that I was the one she had chosen, that she meant to pass her store of knowledge to me.

I wiped Mama with wet cloths cooled in the springhouse; poured for her all the water she could drink; steeped pennyroyal leaves from the ravine, made a brew, hoped that it would help her sweat and heave. I kept her windows open day and night, and I cut off her chestnut hair, coiled it in a wreath. When the doctor finally came, he put steamed flannel on her heart, hot tins on her feet. I saw Mama struggle and twitch,… Read more »