Nice Girl by Cindy Lynn Brown
“Nice Girl” by Cindy Lynn Brown Nice Girl has greasy fingers and trouble breathing. She digs a basement underneath the house. She will use it as rehearsal space. Nice Girl always rehearses before speaking, before brushing herself free from dandruff and before mixing the ingredients. Nice Girl keeps many tiny things in boxes and drawers: shiny stones, creased playing cards and salient disappointments. Her most...
Sister’s Night Walk by Abbey Chew
“Sister’s Night Walk” by Abbey Chew Her nightgown, white and long, breaks the dark like a ship’s prow, then lets the night come together again around the flitting hem. Her breath shags out — just as white, just as white as the cotton — from her mouth only to drift back, curl over her ears, and away. As she moves, her body lights up the night for brief moments that seem like praise, the air around her...
This Girl by Melissa Grossman
“This Girl” by Melissa Grossman She carried a dead coyote to class, this girl who kept to herself. Roadkill in her car, she drove to school, this girl, with thick, unkempt hair. When she told the professor of her desire to draw the dead animal, he polled the other students. The drawing class gathered in the courtyard, seated around the dead coyote, sketch pads tilted, raspy sound of charcoal on paper. This...
Chicharon by Salud Mora Carriedo
“Chicharon” by Salud Mora Carriedo Bisaya Chicharon (Kilab Nga Sugilanon) “Chicharon! Chicharon! Tag-baynte ang pak!” “Tagai ko’g usa, Day,” matud sa babayeng miduol. “Hutda na lang ni, Nang, para makauli na ko. Tulo singkwenta na lang.” Gibayran sa babaye ang dalagita. Nagsuot kini’g pug-awg asul nga sayal. Ang iyang puting blaws nagdag na, may nektay nga pareho’g kolor sa sayal ug pug-aw na sab. “Imo...
Trash Day by Therése Halscheid
“Trash Day” by Therése Halscheid This is how it really looked long ago…. This is myself back in time, a girl with sallow skin, dragging metal cans to the curb, notice how I stand for awhile that far from our house watch how my lips, bright as scars, are parting open with words so the great air can take them out of their mystery — see how my thoughts form the storms, how the morning sky fills with dark...
Does the sea remember everything? I wonder.
Does she absorb everything? Does she keep it safe?
Virginia Woolf
. . .
The Q: Can you fathom the spectacle that would be created if we moved together, arms outstretched, close enough to touch?
The Q: What echoes through you that longs to take form—a poem, an image, a mark, a whisper of becoming?
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fathoms Feb 28, 2026 -
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