Weather Forecast: June 23-24


The clouds tantrumed against the moon, the moon like some anemic sun of a furthered world. The black sky boiling the frozen stars out of their cryogenesis. The roar of this world or any other muted by distance incalculable. Or if it be calculable, then be it by rain only.


Weather Forecast: July 1-July 3


They rode the birds chittering out of the arroyo. By and by a brockle-faced lot of cattle began to follow at a distance, lowing dumbly in protest to some unknown grief. The She-Kid sat her horse and glassed the country to the east.


You reckon there’ll be sun tomorrow.


Why, do you?


She leaned and spat into the fire.


I reckon. I know what rain clouds look like and them there ain’t no rain clouds.


You don’t know shit.


Weather Forecast: The Autumnal Season Entire


August in conspiracy with some government men from Kansas will resurrect the sepulchered high-pressure systems of June, and by that Southern vampire’s bite bleed from September a more dazzling winy light than God – or one more vain than He – might yet ignite to rob the sleepers of their dreaming. Bedlam will be loosed en masse upon the just and the unjust alike as they lie burning on the plain, and here I’m talking specifically about Illinois. You poor, sorry sons of bitches.


Weather Forecast: February 9-13


Dorsey came down through the valley leaking as she was with the milk of her unborn child. What child would later cull the flowers from the thorned azalea in the river canyon below. See the child so pale and crozzled and already the world uncoupling from his eyes. Scanning the sky for signs of light drizzle, maybe a chance of scattered showers. She reached and held the burned edge of her skirt and stepped and lifted the skirt and stepped again and scanned the branches of a tree yet smoldering and forsaken by all and passed into a clearing where the drawings of some tribe long passed lay etched on rocks colored by water from a low pressure front sweeping westward. Their names unknown, their children dead.


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MOLLY MORROW is a writer from Seattle, Washington who moved to Austin, Texas because she was cold. Her work has appeared in The Consortium of Innovative Environments for Learning Journal, The Stranger, The Princeton Sun, and the margins of twelve industrial machine manuals scattered strategically across Alaska. She has plans to begin an MFA in creative writing in 2017. She teaches fiction to certain people in her apartment complex if she likes their dogs.