A.S. Leena Res is the stage name for Andrew Linares, local Denver performer and musician; his show, Notes from the Collective debuted at The Bakery Arts Warehouse in May.
by Elizabeth LeFay
The air was thick and heavy on her arms, like a soft blanket and she pushed through it and the green of the leaves along the path to the beach, struggling to catch her mother and stepfather before they got on the boat.
by Jean Mullen
Jenna loved her tile saw. Water dripped over the blade so delicately that she almost expected to hear wind chimes or whale songs rather than the whirr and crunch of metal digging into thick ceramic. She pushed the tile forward, torso arched back, hands placed firmly away from the blade. Soft water slid over her fingertips. She loved the feeling. She reached for the saw’s switch and examined her cut. It was perfect, straight and even. She smiled. The last piece.
She says: You think you’re never going to have anything, and then you have it. And then you think you’re never going to lose it and then you lose it. And life just keeps going on like that in long succession, and I just don’t know how anyone can bear it.
You look at her, and you nod. And it’s not just because you want to fuck her. It’s the luminosity coming off her words, her lips, and maybe it is because you just want to see that long stretch of skin broken only at the ankle by the black dress pooled there, but it’s more than that too.
by Kathleen J. Woods
Lauren fumbled with her bike lock. Under her helmet, her scalp itched with sweat and cold. She wiped the snot from her face and walked towards the entrance of the rectory, a tan, crouching building next to the church. She sneered at the life-sized Mary standing in the front garden. Hail Mary, carved from wood. Blessed art thou among women.
by Abby Templeton-Greene
by Matheus Arcaro translated by Laura Cesarco Eglin