Three Things That Happen the Night My Dad Dies, by Isabel Cañas
The night my dad dies, he’s not my dad—he’s fifteen years old, fluffy-haired and lean, and he’s sneaking through the neighbor’s backyard with a friend.
issue 35
The Handsome Men, by Richard Leis
I dance with the handsome men I do not know
the music alive between their thighs
End-of-Life, by Lauren Ring
The bicycle shed at the edge of Heaven was painted a different color every time Kitty saw it. She was used to the ever-shifting hue, even fond of it, but one day the shed turned green and stayed green. Concerned, she submitted a prayer ticket.
Ask a Necromancer, by Amanda Downum
This April I attended my first RavenCon, my new local convention (and one of my favorite avian psychopomps.) I was very excited to share the joy of death with a new audience. Here are a few of the questions I was asked.
Rachel Is at a Protest, by Esther Alter
The Second Intifada, September 2003. There is a student protest in response to Israel’s raids in Rafah that Rachel skips to go camping with four college friends and her old buddy Long, who is hiking the Appalachian Trail to discover himself or whatever.
The High Priestess Falls in Love with Death, by Ali Trotta
This lesson I learned and relearned, reciting it like a spell, word after word to call back my power, to soften the ache, to sort out fact from fiction, smother the ashes, close the gate after me, go home
The Rerebirth of Slick, by Stephen Kearse
They buried us in Detroit. The plywood was thick as Aretha’s bosom, but I felt as free as her glorious voice. Wasn’t my fault their overlords and former owners had plundered their homes and retirement funds. Shit, I was the one who warned them the fix was in.
Self-Chosen Burial Rites of a Bunch of Twenty-Somethings, Eleora Ryan
“So, what do you want to happen to your body when you die?”
Raising an Ancestor, by Kay Mabasa
You’ve been angry for three full moons, but you don’t know this, or rather you’ve forgotten this. There’s a lot that you’ve forgotten. Such as who you are, or what it is that has befallen you. But this anger and state of forgottenness is all normal, it’s expected.
Inverse Requiem, by Abhinav
Your face an oblong fact. Your hair a swirl of light in a jagged syntax. The curve of your laughter like a shot of caffeine in the mainline vein. This is how you look from the other side of my death