Prince
by Brooke Harries

I got texts from friends that Prince died
To the seafloor enters high hoofbeat
Why does it feel like yesterday was so long
It rained all night
The natural is beginning to seem impossible
He played everything
Clap your hands double-time
I forgot how songs are written
But hum along in crying stilted stun

 

Perhaps you can help me
by Dave Sims
art by author

 

Last Saturday there was a werewolf at the farmer’s market
by Jess Simms

He was at one of the produce booths, a bag of arugula hanging from his right foreclaw and a head of romaine in his left palm. He was comparing the greens as though his paws were scales.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” the werewolf growled, tossing both options in his basket. “The doctor says my cholesterol’s high, that I should eat less meat and more vegetables, like it’s just that easy. He didn’t mention how many damned kinds there are.”

I saw the werewolf once more on my way out. He was glaring at the display of a local orchard, a dozen varieties of apple vying for his attention.

“But what’s the difference,” he asked, “between a Pink Lady and a Honeycrisp?”

The booth attendant encouraged him to give one a try. The werewolf picked out the reddest fruit on the table and took an experimental bite.

 

–

 

Brooke Harries is from Sacramento, California. Her work has appeared in Sixth Finch. She is an MFA candidate at UC Irvine.

A retired educator, Dave Sims now dwells and creates in the mountains of central Pennsylvania. His comix and digital paintings can be seen in the Nashville Review, Talking Writing, Nunum, Arkana, Raw Art Review, Burningword, and Stonecoast.

Jess Simms is a freelance ghostwriter living in Pittsburgh, PA, where she’s also an editor with the After Happy Hour Review. Her prose has recently been published in Oakland Review and Secret Destinations.