On:

The Last Train is sleeping now,her keeper has locked her safely away.The last drinkers have left the pub,and are watching the driftas their unsteady walkguides them home.The rain keeps me company,as does the Hedgehogthat slowly crosses my path,he is a spiky footballwith a mind of his own.The last Train driverContinue Reading

On:

Icarus had told Eeyore they could never be friends‘Eeyore, I am not like you, not like you at all,I have no time for self-pity, no time to stop and stare,I need to build these wings and take to the air. Eeyore had felt sad.He knew that Icarus saw the skyContinue Reading

On:

I am tying myself into knots. I undo them and redo them. I am myself knots. I undo and redo. I am knots. I undo them. I knot myself. Undo and redo. I am tying knots into myself. I redo and undo and undo and redo. I am myself, tyingContinue Reading

On:

i found a discarded memoryin the bluenessof my mindit was covered withan outgrowth of achild that livedin a treehousecovered with a protrusion of greenit was in the wee hoursof that foggy morningwhen small birdscreated new songsfrom old imagessketched from the projectionof knotted twine from their nestpainted withemotional whispersthat was anContinue Reading

On:

The raucous sea, far belowan outgrowth of colorful flowerswafting fragrances into the air,its undulant swelling movementcarries the tide surging toward shore,its waves heaved high into the air,with splashes of briny teal,topped with white whiskers,like an old man with his restlessness. James is a retired professor and octogenarian. He is aContinue Reading

On:

(after Henry Darger’s collection, as told by Olivia Laing) amazing howbits of stringconnect the daysdarn up the weak spotsentertain the eyeflower in a dark roomgutter rescuedhandled carefullyimagine being threaded through a cityjust as you were falling apartknots to puzzle over at nightlines crossing lines, patterningmyriad layers appearing asnesting material forContinue Reading

On:

I would sit in the blazing Alabama heat with my cousins. Picking nectarines from my great aunt’s tree. I must have swallowed a pit,Since I’ve had a knot in my stomach since I was 10. Or maybe the pit wasn’t the first knot. Maybe the fermented juice running down myContinue Reading

On:

Do I force it?Do I yank the words to their feet when they are tired and hungry?Do I prime the pump with docile paragraphs, cat stories for work and case studies in my neuroses?Do I trust that the main thing is the meeting itself, woman and words, moon and sea,Continue Reading

On:

Z.B. Wagman is an editor for the Deep Overstock Literary Journal and a co-host of the Deep Overstock Fiction podcast. When not writing or editing he can be found behind the desk at the Beaverton City Library, where he finds much inspiration.Continue Reading

On:

(with a nod to Rumi)The you I once knew is tied up in a basement. It’s dark and cold and isolated from view. When I illuminate your body, with a candle’s flicker, and the knots that bind you to that sturdy wooden chair, I can’t let myself stay too long.ThisContinue Reading