by Junpei Tarashi | Jun 10, 2021 | 2021, Flash Fiction, June
Soft Shadows by Adam Chabot https://www.agapanthuscollective.com.dream.website/wp-content/uploads/2021/06/Soft-Shadows-Adam-Chabot.mp3 It’s late but Benny and I are sipping Dewar’s and celebrating Dad’s 65th birthday on the deck that overlooks the backyard....
by Junpei Tarashi | Jun 5, 2021 | 2021, June, Other Genres
I read in a book once that neighbors ask each other for cups of sugar, and it is a Sunday afternoon, and I have nothing else going on, so I shrug into my jacket and head out my door. It is too warm for my jacket, a hardy green thing that’s...
by Junpei Tarashi | Apr 22, 2021 | 2021, April, Poetry
Past the sunset, we’re in pursuit of leftover angles. After I work and pray I might tell you slowly I can’t make my living in the latest wilderness. Armed with a penchant, for every known answer, I refused to wonder about life recorded in piles of sketches. But...
by Junpei Tarashi | Apr 15, 2021 | 2021, April, Flash Fiction
I have only seen Johnny Guitar once. Years ago, at the height of Tyler’s fondness of Joan Crawford, it was screening at an art house on Colfax that still ran film prints. There is a scene that stuck with me. I don’t remember when it happens—only that it is morning and...
by Junpei Tarashi | Apr 8, 2021 | 2021, April, Poetry
It’s late tonight. The lights are out. The time has come to check each route. Stealthily checking every door. Windows and balconies, once ignored. Drumming my fingers, nodding off Still waiting for a single cough. A sign of life my kids are there. Just one more...
