by JL Jacobs | Apr 5, 2017 | Fiction
BODENSEE They come for us just as we are leaving our lakeside villa, sold this morning for cash, a pittance in foreign currency. We escape by boat, all that we cherish in valises and sewn into our coats. We stand in the stern, watching tiny men scurry down the expanse...
by JL Jacobs | Apr 5, 2017 | Fiction
VOWS He was in country four months when the letter came. He read it again out back of the radio shack. Down the hill afternoon sunlight glinted off the flooded paddies. They were everywhere and he wondered if he’d ever get used to the smell. He took a deep breath,...
by JL Jacobs | Apr 4, 2017 | Fiction
WE ARE FRANTIC IN BATON ROUGE When I get to the docks, the negroes are burning the cotton. They cut open the bales and pour buckets of liquor over them. They set them ablaze and push them into the river. The bales, puffing like little steamboats, float off into...
by JL Jacobs | Mar 25, 2017 | Fiction, Goncalves
Art Credit: “Lara Casandra” by Andre’ Goncalves YOU BELONG TO ME You have to feel for this guy walking down the street on a clear, dry, almost blinding day somewhere in downtown Phoenix, a day twice beautiful because he’s recuperating from...
by JL Jacobs | Mar 24, 2017 | Poetry
Art Credit: “The Battle” by David Conison ABSQUATULATION morning break steam from a cup of tea The Lark Ascending The prop I use for my PC screen is a venerable English-German dictionary, vintage 1870, source of scholarship then, now pedantry. Once,...
