Spilt Infinitive Volume 1, Issue 3 Selected Author Works

  • ALL
  • Poetry
  • Fiction
  • Nonfiction
  • by Emily Scott

     
    Leaves few and green and dead yellow.

    A thumb blending colors against a dusty canvas.

    Open brown fields replacing tar and concrete.

    Windows of air between buildings getting wider, then night bleeding black over all that.

    She rested her heart heavy head on me. They will call,

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  • by Yong Takahashi

     
    She glistens in the sunlight that streams through the stained glass windows. She turns and winks at me. I wonder if I could be any happier if Lizzie was my biological daughter.“I love you,” she mouths to me. She smiles then tries to be serious again. Her

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  • by JoAnn Chaney

     
    I am fat. Obese. This is according to the Wii Fit. A person can do all kinds of things with this video game system: yoga, soccer, strength training. But I only use it for one thing—a scale. Once a week, I step on, and weigh myself. And

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  • by Dylan Otto Krider

     
    My hours are from 8 to 5 Tuesdays through Fridays. Sunday’s taken, and ain’t anyone except graduate students at the university on Saturdays, and they’re stubborn as mules. Don’t like Mondays. I don’t have a job, so this is what I do. You just have to

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  • by Laura Pritchett

     
    I’m daydreaming, bare feet propped up on the dash, eyes directed out to pine trees and sky. I glance over at Ruben’s face just in time to see how it contorts with doubt and hope as he guns the pickup to pass the junker we’ve been following.

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  • by Sherri Hoffman

     
    From inside the yellow sky, the city was the same. Skyscrapers clustered at the foot of Capitol Hill. Mount Olympus a gray jut of granite. The red-brown gash of the open gravel pits. Gravity Hill where, in neutral, every tourist’s car appeared to roll uphill.A blonde stewardess

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  • By Leigh Raper

     
    “Isn’t this exciting?” the woman from Pittsburgh said.I nodded. It was exciting. For that tiny moment, we were all winners. We had survived The Test.We were ushered into a small waiting area where we sat in yet another set of metal folding chairs. The Who Wants to

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  • by Ben Shabermani

     
    When I was 10-years old, my father took me to a Boy Scout track and field competition at the local school playground. The scouts in my troop were competing in events like the 50-yard dash, long jump, high jump, and shot put. While the idea was to

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  • by Kierstin Bridger

     
    Blessed are those who cultivate grunge,
    the grimy pores of jeans
    slick with black metro dust, the piss
    of eight drunken nights.

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  • by Christopher Ashby

     
    In Budapest,
    young folks in bodies along the river,
    seated on thrones,
    stones cut for the setting sun,
    playing cards spread amongst cheap beers

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Spilt Infinitive Volume 1, Issue 3