What Direction Now?

Life at the intersection…

Latest stories

Something Something Something

S

Forgotten banana for the elephant’s meal, making all and sundry squeal with it’s mournful tuba soul, stay true to your spool of thought thread when writing students, writing students, so that you stories of school won’t be so spasmodic and cliche, go kick the ball through the uprights but leave the ego behind, leave the tee upside down between the 25 and the 30 to remind you not...

Behind My Eyes

B

Cigarette symphony, soft parking lot party sounds like the suckling of smoke-adled babes, rattled by racking coughs, lungs roughed up like barking trees. Leave the volume down please, you clown, and keep the heavy rhythm to yourself. Or I swear, by all that is dear, I’ll release my weary worldview like a fog, like half-dead squirrels limping out over the mountain valleys, like old dogs...

Keep on dreamin’…

K

Sun leaf shimmering slowly in my eye as I lie beneath this harboring arbor knowing that even as my time takes to shrinking, this tree will soak up more sun to transform that into more time here, and though today that same sun will soon drive me back inside, for now I know that my face will remain a glimmering green, a movie screen on mute, that my hair will flow along forward with the passing...

Blood and Ink

B

I press too hard with this pen when I write, the words impressed—though not without lack of harshly-imposed modesty on my part—and interspersed, ink and pressure marks, on top of or beneath each other so that if you squint, you can’t see at times what’s writing and what’s written, my right feels the written rhythms of the already bumps and I know that there is no chance for...

What these arms are for

W

Stunrise, disguising the skies as perfect tapestries, trapping eyes upward, above the trees, those easily equal objects of awe, 10,000 leaves sashay, a green-clad ballet, free for anyone willing to watch, match the wind’s frenzied pace today or swap secrets with the bees, fleeing funnel clouds while biting back the urge to turn around and see, trying to please the plea-ridden deity with...

Captain Charisma

C

For a second, I’m suspended in their stares, they seek to peer under my skin to glimpse the secret code to the tower door—psst, it’s probably up, up, down, down, left, right, left, right, b, a—start now the round of close inspection, load up all the questions—how tall…what size… Surrounded by nagging flies, the most familiar bag of sounds coming from foreign voices down...

Syncope Salsa

S

Syncope salsa, think of me falling off the stage like a raging drunk dancer, prance her, the vixen, round the broken comet, vomiting like in that token song from when my mom was younger, mmm, throw up hunger after spells of illness, spilling dinner out from the inner, then after, spitting acid like a raptor—no, that’s not right, it’s a dilophosaurus but what rhymes with that, cat? (or...

Th1rt3enth

T

This is the 13th day of the project—but not the thirteenth entry, as somehow I posted twice on 8 July, did I really do that without realizing it? Whatever, maybe I’m a machine without memories—it’s the 13th day, but I didn’t know that until just now when I looked back and counted. I had a discussion with my boss and a coworker today about the difference between irony and...

Grace and Choice

G

Pigeon pile, leaves etched with sketches of a full life lived and having died, stitched up to show that even God is a Frankenstein, pieced and piecing together in our minds until we think we have a picture of the divine—but yours can’t be quite as true as mine, yeah?—licking the spoon and vying for the same roles, all the same parts of the missing whole, insisting this hole inside of me is...

My Way Back

M

My beloved Bean sent me a message the other day on Facebook that I seem more happy now that I’ve started writing again, or maybe that I am happy so I’ve started writing again, but whatever the case, it is a good thing. I don’t know how true that is, or in what direction the correlation belongs, but it has definitely been good lately to put pen to paper and move my hand in a...

What Direction Now? Life at the intersection…

About Andrew.

Andrew Cartwright grew up in Indianapolis, IN, but has lived over the years in such places as Denver, CO; Fairfax, VA; and Rivne, Ukraine. He is a former nonfiction editor for both Indiana Review and phoebe; he has also worked for the intersectional feminist journal, So To Speak, and the national literary magazine, Electric Literature. His work has appeared in The Normal School Online, Copper Nickel, Esquire Ukraine, Literary Hub, and Word Riot.

For more information about me and links to other writing, visit my author page at cartwriter.com

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