Gulf Coast Online Exclusives


Ghost Fire

Doug Ramspeck

The old men are unsure. Something is twisting up and up to become a stair. And what is the end for? Who would stop here and dream such accumulations? Once there was a fire. It was sinew and bone. It was a small thing. They thought their ribs curved into it, that the scaffolding within them flared up into a ghost. And they are trying to dream the smoke of it. The real is always at the mercy of…


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

Spread

Caitlyn GD

The morning of Claire's funeral, I lie naked on the table and wait for her mourners to arrive. Thomas scrapes a knife against whetstone in the kitchen. When he appears above me, the blade glints harsh in his hand. It's all I can see. To minimize the pain, he explains with a paternal smile. I smile too.

Playing Kong

Kerry Neville

You know where this is going: Danny lives across the street, house number 32-25 to my 32-26, and he is eight years to my seven;

[SPRING: MOSAIC::]

J.P. Grasser

Touch them, the tesserae, the shards of floating glass, which skim the rain-full gutter. Not dead: us/them—mere stutters, gluttons for new skin. Life, peel back your veil. Now, see? See it again: To be dead another time is a deciduous explosion.

Three Found Poems: Virginia Woolf's The Waves

Nazifa Islam

I see the moon—flickering, broken leaning against the sky—and am afraid.

From the Archives

The Portuguese Man-of-War

Penny Anderson

They sit on mats assigned to names and say their names in bursts of glee or whispers. The Portuguese Man-of-War has no name...

Oh, How Vital They Are to This World

Jeanne Kocher

And there they are, two little boys, Jacob with his face scrunched in agony, and tears and a nub of his finger on the floor near the closet...

Seasonal Without Spring: Summer

Andrés Cerpa

Was that season artery or vein? when the days stretched like Broadway, & the nights undid our shirts – the temperature so slight you could raise your arms in flight & feel nothing, the body as air. But there was also the need for hurt. And dusk: a ghost of a boy tempted to feel his weight, to put his palm to the depth, touch the pupil, the dead turbine of god’s one good cataracted eye.

The Nurses of My Dengue Fever

Jason Nemec

She would fly from the islands and fall in love with a white boy like me, start a family, get lost in a medium-sized Midwestern city...

From the Blog

Dora Malech makes her entrance into experimental poetry

To “stet” is the act of making a textual change and then changing it back and so on and so forth. In the spirit of “stetting,” Stet also acts as…

You Are Here: An Interview with Eduardo Portillo

“When I built my first stretcher, it was like finding a big surprise. It let me reinforce what I had been doing with painting, which was playing around…