Welcome to our second anniversary issue! We are excited to bring to you in our ninth issue a mix of short stories and poems from past contributors plus three authors new to our pages. If you check out our Contributors page you will find that we now have forty authors, demonstrating that Silver City has a vibrant and diverse writing community.
by Mary O’Loughlin
My name is Martha Christianson. It’s been three day’s since I’ve last seen anyone. The last person I saw was Daniel Christianson, my husband. And the man lying on the sidewalk.
||Dew and Light and Chatting It Up
by Stewart Warren
The constructed world is fragile—
history, desire, expectation.
We can only join each other
in here, your becoming
the design of its own pulsing arc.
by D. Chris Lemme
Two minutes before the hour, the door opens abruptly and Samantha walks in without saying a word. She heads straight for the bedroom door and is opening it as I speak.
“You’re a few minutes early,” I say as she walks into the next room.
“Yeah, I was getting tired waiting for you to open your damn door.”
||The Day Dad Became a Math Game
by Mark Farragher
The day Dad became a Math game, was a funny day indeed.
He had wanted to do something, where he would succeed.
He went to school one morning, about 8:10 we think.
And he stood and loitered quietly, just by the classroom sink.
by Linda Ferrara
George left the bar staggering drunk. The only friend he could count on was the brick wall that kept bumping into him. “I love you man”, George slurred as he patted the rough red bricks, his cheek now pressed against the coarse surface.
||The Forgiveness and Little Kings
by Maria Jensen
I ran home to get my car
And left you running down the riverbank
Drunk, and roaring, “Tonight
I’m going to kill myself!”
Into the darkness
Of late dusk.
||Eye of the Corpsehauler
by Chase Manhattan
Rolo stared at his staff with growing rancor as it stood upright in the middle of the crossroads, where it had been for the last three days. He watched with bated breath as it swayed this way and that at increasingly severe angles.
||The Pianist and Silver City
by Julia Robinson
streets that go nowhere
life in still motion
like a set for a Western movie
dirt yards of brown-skinned children
cars on blocks, chained dogs
no silver left in these mountains