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...
by Junpei Tarashi | Apr 2, 2021 | 2021, April, Flash Fiction
Her name is Sarah. She knows that because it’s on her driver’s license. Sarah Brighton. It’s the same name that’s on her library card. The two pieces of identification she found in her handbag that is blue cloth, beaded, with a drawstring top. She knows her name, and...
