Gulf Coast Online Exclusives


The woman says “do not eclipse my pain with your own”

Lillian-Yvonne Bertram

Shake the rattles of our jazz. / There’s lies in the kitchen too, and they / are how bright. // Twittering, we run run each other, / try on expensive cabinets and hats. // Rough light is in this time. / Withered is the trencher, / so we make a place for mothers / in the house. Twinkle at the time / a clock strikes, a certain time of day, // and I see the chime of the bells, / listen to their whiteblue sound.


Eighty-Three Questions About the Death of De’Sohn Wilson: An Ongoing Investigation

Catina Bacote

Who called Mirrellez C. Elliott and told her that her son had died in police custody? How many minutes did it take for the police to drive De’Sohn from where he was arrested in New Haven to the police station at One Union Avenue?

Pareidolia

Chris Ware

For a while I thought maybe something was wrong with me, like you sort of hope there is when you're a teenager.


Fiction

One White Deer

Kara Vernor

Mom says a white deer means blood is coming. When I sleep, the forest floor is a lake of red, no matter if the deer are white or brown. A gunshot sounds.

Rivals

A. J. Gnuse

By the base of his steps, there was a flower pot with a sad, half-dead plant. She lifted the thing. Felt the small force of its weight against her. Stupid, she knew. But she was a container brimming over. And she needed to let something go.

Devils, Our Sons

Karissa Chen

Our sons told us to place the steel cleavers we used to butcher hogs and chickens beneath our pillows, in case our enemies appeared.

Rites

Savannah Johnston

Papa blew way over the limit on the field test, but he swore it was a set-up. He kept a loaded assault rifle next to the front door, and a handgun under the seat of his truck.

If My Disease Were an Animal, What Would It Be?

Joanne Jacobson

To be diagnosed with a rare disease is to have wildness pressed upon you. You are not exactly the secretive quarry that birders travel the world to add…

Strawberry Girl: A Prose Sestina

María Isabel Alvarez

Your husband watches like a phantom through the window, his face silvered in smoke. His eyes, once brimming with affection, have slanted into whispers. You want his puckered face to catch a clod of dirt.


Non-Fiction

Something I Did Once Which I Thought Might Be Enriching

Tamar Jacobs

and the tour guide said what a shame how awful the heroin in Kensington but we would not be focusing on that today because this was an African American Iconic Hero tour and she smiled beatifically at the Black couple and the Black couple only...

Who Would Rather Stay at Home Alone?

Elizabeth Miki Brina

It’s approaching midnight and this is not how I would have wanted it to happen: sitting by myself on my porch, drinking wine from the bag of a box and chain-smoking cigarettes...

Chickens, Fish Ladder, and Three Things Pulled from Water in Spring

Robin McCarthy

Janet was ten when our town turned to poultry. Layers and broilers at first, but there was no profit in eggs and soon it was all just pluck and slaughter. She stood alongside line workers, barefoot in buckets of warm water to keep frostbite away.

Expats

Chris Murphy

Tahlequah, OK, has one Wal-Mart, one good regional supermarket, many of the major fast food chains, two operational video stores, and 16,000 residents.…

On Seeing

Robin Romm

            Recently, I was talking to my friend, Camas, at a party when the subject of our college admittance essays came up. I haven’t done a lot of…

Paddling in the Bloody Moat

Helen McClory

A flood takes no notice of the borders we construct between inside and out. Like Cassandra sitting in the kitchen sink at her window, the Willoweed family and servant Old Ives can do nothing but observe.

No Relation

Mark Dow

Ilana, the Hebrew teacher at Houston's Beth Yeshurun Day School, which we called Beth Yesh, gave us actual-size apple-shaped milk chocolates that fell apart into neatly overlapping slices. One day an angry girl whose mother had given me a Pinocchio puzzle for my third birthday shouted...


Poetry

Colors

Stephanie Jean

how easy it is to erase rusting yellows? / how easy to let blues blue into zombi? / how easy / is ease?

Nomad

Samyak Shertok

Do we all migrare: pass into a new condition? / Are we all natives—nativus: born in bondage— / walking toward no-border?

Birthday Poem

Caitlin Pryor

Due to gulfcoastmag.org's responsive design, this poem is best viewed in desktop mode to preserve the line breaks as they were orignially intended by the…

Geo Tracker

Jono Tosch

It was a relatively inexpensive truck, and suburban parents could both afford it (or payments on it) and teens, if they were paying for the gas from their allowance, could afford the gas...

Time When the Birds Turn Silver

time when the turning birds silver time exploding brined like sweet lemons time wolves bark skunks slip into coops fishing line knots up roads slick proud with ice the boys I fuck all eat candy

Beyond Belief

Annie Kantar

There’s one hundred and three year-old Mazal, known for the decades she gave to cleaning bodies before burial. Preparing the dead for death. Did they ever come to you, I ask. No, she guffaws, proof, as she sees it, of a job well done.

The Sacred Harp, Beggars

Matthew Rohrer

In among the tossed out clothes / and furniture the Sacred Harp--the workmen raised it up / a jet passed overhead white / and perfect as a tooth…

Unkempt Graveyard Near the Shore

Jari Chevalier

Trespassing on ground of former love. Tussocks / whisper here of nests and the vanquished. Swans hiss and fish / nearby, undoing the slipknots of their throats...

Cut of the Blade

James Grabill

They continue to throw salmon shadows darkening the spectrum as it prisms into conditions, leaving a ruin of bleached coral in regret...

Excerpts from Katabasis Ex-Voto

Carla Faesler; Trans. Karen Lepri

We moved on low power since the noise neutralizers haven’t thawed from everything. We found rudimentary structures seemingly abandoned...

Free Me

Carmen Gimenez Smith

I inhabit the forest of my belly like an endangered and spotted owl. I hop into a stream, never the same one. I build a fire from the aphorisms from the cherry tree that grows from the loam of it...

When the Sun Slips Down Behind the Mountain Like a Quivering Thought

Jono Tosch

I think when I die I want my tombstone to say, / This guy noticed things and took enormous pleasure / in the noticing.


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From the Blog

"More than One Shadow": An Interview with Eduardo C. Corral

"I am pouring my language into new containers again and again, and I make sure each container has a different line length. As I pour my language into these…

BLM Resources & Links

In response to anti-Black racist violence, help us support Black lives through literature and art, as well as efforts for justice in Houston, by donating…