by Henry Dale Whitman
Late summer, 1928. A ten-year-old boy snuck down closer to the field. The sun glinted off Cobb’s bat like it knew this was history, and even though he was older and slower now, he walked to the plate like he still owned it. The boy’s father called him a legend, but to the boy, Cobb looked more like a ghost—pale, intense, and not quite part of the world anymore. The pitcher threw a slow curve, and Cobb popped out to the shortstop. The boy stared at Cobb as he made his way back to the dugout, and then Cobb met the boy's eyes, and spit in disgust.
6S
Henry Dale Whitman lives in upstate New York with his dog, Mantle, and still brings his glove to every game.
20250504
20250503
My Ghost in Exile
by Arshi Mortuza
My heart is a formerly haunted house, recently exorcised. It took trial and error to get through to the ghost in me. The language barrier — Latin, Aramaic, Arabic — meant she endured chants of “Go back to where you came from,” “You don’t belong here,” and “How dare you cross the borders, climb the walls of this heart?” She twisted her head in a full 180 degrees, unsure of what she had done to be so unwanted. She was the one who gave life to my body, causing the flickering of lights out of ecstasy and mania, opening creaky doors for those she wished to get to know. Now, with my ghost in exile, I wonder who will take the low-paying job of pumping blood for my next cheap thrill.
6S
Arshi Mortuza is a Toronto-based Bangladeshi writer shaped by a multicultural upbringing. She writes about diaspora, mental health, and womanhood. Enjoy her little haven for verses and voyages on Instagram.
My heart is a formerly haunted house, recently exorcised. It took trial and error to get through to the ghost in me. The language barrier — Latin, Aramaic, Arabic — meant she endured chants of “Go back to where you came from,” “You don’t belong here,” and “How dare you cross the borders, climb the walls of this heart?” She twisted her head in a full 180 degrees, unsure of what she had done to be so unwanted. She was the one who gave life to my body, causing the flickering of lights out of ecstasy and mania, opening creaky doors for those she wished to get to know. Now, with my ghost in exile, I wonder who will take the low-paying job of pumping blood for my next cheap thrill.
6S
Arshi Mortuza is a Toronto-based Bangladeshi writer shaped by a multicultural upbringing. She writes about diaspora, mental health, and womanhood. Enjoy her little haven for verses and voyages on Instagram.
Posted by
Robert McEvily
20250502
Portraits of the Unremembered
by Whit Carroway
He spent his afternoons in dusty antique stores, thumbing through yellowed bins of century-old portraits, transfixed by the solemn gazes of women who never smiled. Their eyes, caught in silver gelatin, spoke to him in a language more intimate than anything spoken aloud. He knew their names—when written on the back—and imagined the rest. Alma, who played the violin in 1892; Maeve, who might’ve lit the gas lamps at dusk. Modern women, with their scrolling and selfies, felt like ghosts in reverse. His apartment became a museum of their forgotten faces, framed in pewter and polished oak, their silence the only conversation he needed.
6S
Whit Carroway resides in a creaky apartment above a used bookstore.
He spent his afternoons in dusty antique stores, thumbing through yellowed bins of century-old portraits, transfixed by the solemn gazes of women who never smiled. Their eyes, caught in silver gelatin, spoke to him in a language more intimate than anything spoken aloud. He knew their names—when written on the back—and imagined the rest. Alma, who played the violin in 1892; Maeve, who might’ve lit the gas lamps at dusk. Modern women, with their scrolling and selfies, felt like ghosts in reverse. His apartment became a museum of their forgotten faces, framed in pewter and polished oak, their silence the only conversation he needed.
6S
Whit Carroway resides in a creaky apartment above a used bookstore.
Posted by
Robert McEvily
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
