Category: The Last Word

Writers getting the last word. HFR is invested in elevating art by marginalized groups with this feature.

Original Prose Poetry: “Kiddie Pool” by Brad Rose

People seem to like it when I lie to them. It gives them peace of mind, although I’m not sure whether this is due to my strategy or tactics—that’s for the experts to decide. After giving the matter my full attention, I’ve resolved to pull more rabbits out of my coonskin cap. Until then, I’d…
Poetry: Four Sonnets by Brendan Lorber

I believe in science and also Who gets closer the further they get? Everyone believes in science and alsowhy time calls itself a spell The magic of returning to morning consciousnessis that we do when the reason we do is super unavailable until much later and is often the answer a spider trapped in larger spider’s…
Restored Fiction: “Slow 9/11” by Dolan Morgan

“Can you describe a time when someone betrayed you?” This question is posed to me by Jan during a round of the Ungame, which I play over lunch with a group of colleagues in our architecture firm on the 92nd floor. The Ungame looks deceptively like Candy Land but is described, in its product materials,…
Original Poem: “A Message to Meg, from the Dead of Night” by Joe O’Brien

I’m texting you this anachronisticpainting of our favorite TV characterto remind us what memories feel like I’m following this feed where they mash up old Simpsons gagswith other old Simpsons gags and then mash those up with Sopranos quotesso I might wring every last droplet of joy that I canfrom whatever I can still wrap…
Original Fiction: “Irish Setter” by Travis Flatt

Mrs. Withers wants to repeat our conversation. Mrs. Withers corners me in the hall. In body language, Mrs. Withers is illiterate. I edge away from Mrs. Withers. “Mrs. Withers” might not be Mrs. Withers’ name, so I’m careful not to call Mrs. Withers “Mrs. Withers.” My father, Mrs. Withers seems to think, and I share…
Poetry: “Ode to Broken Birthdays and an Empty High Noon Can” by Samantha Cross

I don’t know if it was the combined birthday partiesWith the Daytona 500 for Alex and me as children,Or being told to shut up when I playedMy saxophone that fateful night in sixth grade.Maybe it was the standardized testing that took placeThe first week of March in Connecticut,Where the governorFailed to recognize the importanceOf in-class…
“The Bread of Life,” a new short story by Katherine Plumhoff

You start by thanking your lovers. You acknowledge the lessons they taught you, spreading gratitude over your history like dry rub over a roast. You thank Carlos, who taught you how to be positive in the face of something frustrating, i.e. having to pay for three places of accommodation—room in Valencia, rental house in Greece,…
Poetry: “First Act of a Movie Where I Loved You the Entire Time” by Angela Sun

for dad ESTABLISHING SHOT. Flowers purpling in the dying light like fingers. Our house flushed with the smell of something sweet. IN THE HALLWAY. You, walking into the shape of this silence— white as bones in the lightning of cracks on the soles of your shoes Where are you? This place smuggles echoes into the…
Poetry: “on fictional suburbs” by evelyn bauer

Some beast prowls in this place, lurking around stacks of unused newspaper & hiding behind the corners, shrouded by the broken electric streetlights, still unfixed. The familiar stench of iodine wafts down streets & up stairways, the tarmac melting in summer sun. Watch a newt scurry & slink in the wet earth, a flash of…