Movies in the Basement 
by Mary Valle 

Ironing is a really big deal for me. It's not only a chore, it's a discipline. It's a way of life. It's an upcoming bestselling heartwarming book where someone buys the farm early and someone else is super touched remembering what an asshole that person was. It's going to be written by me, about me, and I will somehow narrate it posthumously.
...READ MORE

IN UTERO 
This ‘I’ was once an IT in love. A disgusting, bitter, whined-out something. But with a maker, a beginning, some kind of mother. Before bleach and dead cells there was a blanket that held warm. And before that, muffled sounds of quiet desperation, haunting still as lonely breezes, bubbling the grass at slit precipice.

Blue. Every morning, Wendy saw blue. She woke up in front of a large painting of a sun setting on the ocean. She had nailed it to her ceiling so she could stare at it when her eyes opened. She kept her windows open so she could listen to the waves whisper to each other outside her apartment. She would sit up without hitting her alarm clock because she had long ago decided that she needed its full minute of panicked blaring to reorient herself.

Hot embers cracked, popped and snapped in the grid-iron grate and sent a furious burst of sparks that quickly ignited adjacent seasoned logs (strategically situated in the behemoth Benjamin Franklin fireplace) and provided an immediate glow and warmth to the make shift maternity ward!

Three long horns from a cruise ship leaving
Voyagers settling in to "Happy Days Are Here Again"
And a hamburger buffet