We are proud to present
Issue Twenty-Eight
of No Contact
San Pellegrino, Room Temperature
by Doug Paul Case
The type of shit I say to J: We’re inside the poem, but the poem is a joke and neither of us is funny.
Excuse Me for Being Alive in the ‘90s and Having Two Ears Connected to a Heart
by Danny Caine
I keep in touch with most of them.
Well, at least I keep their cities
in my weather app.
Astro Things
by Chandra Steele
The universe and its fellow universes and whatever else might surround them encompass the definition of a cosmic joke
But in space no one can hear you laugh
A Familiar Glow
by Adam Gianforcaro
What is it? Not a light,
but almost. A pinprick
of something incomprehensible.
Do you feel it, this fearlessness?
Michel Piccoli Is Alive
by Daniel Felsenthal
I read an article in the Village Voice that says Michel Piccoli was only a sex symbol in Contempt (1963), but I disagree with the logic of statements like this one. Symbols are flat. Human beings are sexy. Or, if you insist: we all have symbols of our own.
Bloom Under The Subway Station
by Nwuguru Chidiebere Sullivan
There's a timely hand & then a tardy hand
cutting into a dank rainforest.
Let’s See That Again
by Claire Hopple
He’s our less-famous version of a famous person. We call him The Mayor, though he’s not into politics. He has a homemade key to the city and everything. He’s what you might call a sensation.
Ground Beer for the Dogs
by Veronica Shore
Today I went to school covered in dog blood. My dog is pregnant and the other bitch has been trying to kill her, going for her neck whenever she gets the chance.
I Can Forgive You
by Shannon Wolf
I had a child’s cruelty when I would talk about
your brick-heavy breasts. You would say,
wait until you’re my age, yours will be just like mine.
Constellations // Open Drawers
by Leah Francesca Christianson
A year ago, almost exactly, I left one life to return to another. In the life I left, I could never keep anything shut.
Convenience Store Creation Myth
by Ashley Wang
Where dollar bills funnel into a subway ticket’s
grip for a ride home. Where dimes turn gift
cards into ad-libbed presents, keep an axe
Fortune Teller
by Stacy Austin Egan
Lily’s parked her mom’s Explorer on the train tracks; we do our best talking here, more if Lily’s in the mood. There are no protective gates, won’t be until someone gets killed. We’ll be grown-ups then, talk twice a year at best.
Splintered Boards
by Paulette Pierce
I’m washing my hands in the second-floor bathtub for the thirtieth time, and I’m thinking Sarah Winchester probably wasn’t crazy, she just knew old houses age fifty years every minute.
Looking to read more?
Here’s the latest from Lost & Found: Portraits from America’s strangest cities.
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