(not quite) a literary journal


Magic Kingdom, by Margo McCall

Last night, it rained oranges: a citrus circus of fruit knocked from branches, sent spinning into orbit, landing hard on the grass. The spindly dwarf citrus planted in the park by Walt himself hurled their burden of golden globes in the four directions: Toontown, Fantasyland, Adventureland, and Tomorrowland. And as the skies wrenched and rocked above, delivering wind—real wind, not something manufactured, some transparent trick of light and sensation—Tamaya was already winding into a state of anticipation of the windfall of sweetness.

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Quitting Time, by Cassidy Lapierre

The students shuffle out of the building, grumbling over their still unfinished work as I organize my area, preparing it for the next worker just four hours later. The clock strikes three am but I wait to lock the doors. If students are still upstairs, possibly packing their things, they’ll be trapped inside until a sleep deprived student in a security guard uniform finds them.

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The Rise and Fall of Garbage_gatsby, by Jake Buckholz

Garbage_gatsby had a lucky break late into her Instagramming career, and it changed everything. Highly attractive, healthy, and witty, owner of a golden retriever as well as a fat, sleepy cat named Stoner, and with the funds to be able to travel on occasion, eat at nice restaurants, burn money at hip coffee shops, and dress with style, the conditions were certainly ripe for such a break to come along. It can’t be said that the same lucky break could happen to just anyone.

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Yule Tidal, by Quentin Paquette

“Nicholas! Is that you? You’re home just in time.”
He steps into the dining room. Dinner is on the table, candles lit, bottle open and breathing. Chairs wait close together at the corner of a table set for two. The smell of their favorite meal inspires a deep inhale through his nose. He pauses for a moment to think about the evening that could have been. It all seems so perfect. Surrendering a deep sigh, he follows her voice into the kitchen.
“Yes, Nona, I’m here. Everything looks so good…” the pitch of his voice rises as it trails off to a whisper.
“Oh no! What is it Nicholas?”
“The reindeer, I hear they haven’t been eating anything today. I need to go check on them, tend to them. I can’t have them getting sick at this time of year.”

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Satan's Fingers, by Jake Buckholz

The girl wore her father’s old belt, lined with his first tools. She liked the weight of it as she walked and let her hand hover over the drill at her waist, imagining herself as an old time cowboy waiting for a duel. As she passed through the arcade, the jingle of coins in the cargo shorts of the boys all around her became the sound of her own spurs as she walked down a dusty road, lined by the wood-porched storefronts of an old western town. She could smell the mud and the horeshit, see the drunkards sprawled out in alleys, hear yelling all around, even gunshots, and she wondered to herself how the hell she’d come to sheriff such a shit show.

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