Best of 2019

South Broadway Ghost Society’s favorite pieces of 2019.

hungry ghosts

Hungry Ghosts :: Chris Moore

“Hungry Ghosts” by Chris Moore defies being put in any box of genre. Ranging from poetry to storytelling to essay to letters, Moore’s piece is maybe best described as the field notes of a breakup.


Ten Macros From ‘The Depressed Barbie Series’ :: Alexandra Naughton

Alexandra Naughton’s meme collection range a series of borderline shower thoughts that you didn’t know you needed to hear until you read them. 


Three Poems :: Sam Pink

In less than 100 words overall, these three poems by Sam Pink find insight in strangely mundane places, leaving you per his instruction, in his cartoon.


Five Poems :: Lana Bella

These five poems, stationed as days of the week, show a dark sense of intimacy with captured moments.


On Bones :: Shelby Yaffe

This poem paints a beautiful story in three parts, all of which revolve around something very dear to us, bones.


Challenger :: Corwin Moore

“In eighth grade I became an addict,” begins Moore’s story, “I was addicted to masturbating and porno.” This beautiful memoir-esque piece goes on to explore childhood, shame and racism and other themes all alongside the story of the Challenger spacecraft.


The Washing Machine Sang :: Jane-Rebecca Cannarella

Cannarella’s “The Washing Machine Sang” is an incredibly piece about playing pretend in other people’s lives and the stories of inanimate objects.

Related: South Broadway Ghost Society: 2018 in Review


january edition / 2019

a look back on our january selections on south broadway ghost society.

photo: Danny Trujillo

girl and plane

poetry : :

lana bella : : five poems

ghost #117 : : eyes full of soul

lee frankel-goldwater : : mask and a flame

s. cearley : : the ghost in the machine

sam albala : : three poems

promise clutter : : they are under my comforter of stars

adrian s. potter : : midwestern meditation

the french destroyer bambara : : revolution #10

ghost #13 : : new balloon

ghost #4 : : where the color gets out

michael brockley : : the poet who keeps a stripper pole in her bedroom

jessie lynn mcmains : : our faithful, reckless hearts

shelby yaffe : : on bones

photo: Nick Sarro

where the color

short story : :

corwin moore : : challenger

ron burch : : struck horse

photo: Yener Ozturk

jen kolic

letter : :

jen kolic : : 12/15/09


five poems – lana bella



She is teeth to a quiet Monday,
a lost strange girl collects life
on yesterday’s longitude. Cello
clutches wail from fingertips
wrecking back, she is food that
will not feed the high-waisted
jeans, becoming flesh to whirl
magically tall of steps. And yet,
there it was, she hungers skin of
a living flower on the descant
drags of light, curling and wild
like echoes displaced, like alms
of clocks inside an empty room.
Fingers aloft the lip of nocturne,
she postures in the way a rudder
exacts arc into sounds, leaving
small sharp hums after the music
has stopped, like something splits
and inters in the low of the grave.



I stretch midnight long on cedar wall,
soft as symphony mere as dark. Ender
of senses lick at the heels of a spider
curling to the soles of black fly, strike,
hit, shake, ripped wings fall easy upon
wood. I draw breath to open the door,
rhythmic steps feel like spilled rice on
long vowels, alert to the floating rib of
space where my shadow takes the life
of her dead. It is Tuesday, and I am red
for a world paled of skin, exhausted by
all the ways I whisper back, heavy with
lips mouthing the hieroglyph of scars.



Window opened here once
on a Wednesday, like some
tarnished silver incurving
the moon. The man pulled
years from swayed reed in
the winds of fall, weight of
mortal bound swelled with
cliffs and dunes. Billowed
skin and eyes, he cast about
for the dark steel drum of
memory that stilled through
the new world, with refuse of
time keeping his brain alert
to dust and bones. Awake
at the window, he drew up
thin with fingers like a knife,
sawing clear the star filled
sky pouring down on him
from an old coffer of ghosts.



Dawn streaked in crème flesh of
sun among felled trees, I held
solar that hurt to the scent of
the sea. Blueness on the left, I
walked the way I have in sleep
on this water piling earth, sorts
of steps leaked into a voidic beat,
live beneath black glass. Think
me island between rocks, I felt
flowers down the smooth pelt of
bentgrass, judder-muted, until
two bits of sky spilled to earth as
if I was floating in an upside down
ocean, like a tiny, winged ghost.



I have fallen into Friday and
never slept, like deep scars
hanging white the exhaust of
memory. Where long before
dawn, I missed the sheets
on an unmade bed, porcine
of undressed skin stitching
through threads. Fingers felt
to the length of hips where
denim thumbed the black, I
startle the moonrise giving
pale corseted with my window.
But it was easy to memorize
the nothing without feeling for
its wrinkle or smooth, where
I bore the hollow, got skinny in
my limbs stilling a girl from
spinning herself out of shadow.

ghost january

A four-time Pushcart Prize, five-time Best of the Net & Bettering American Poetry nominee, Lana Bella is an author of three chapbooks, Under My Dark (Crisis Chronicles Press, 2016), Adagio (Finishing Line Press, 2016), and Dear Suki: Letters (Platypus 2412 Mini Chapbook Series, 2016), has work featured in The Cortland Review, EVENT, The Fortnightly Review, Ilanot Review, Midwest Quarterly, New Reader, Notre Dame Review, Sundress Publications & Whiskey Island, among others, and Aeolian Harp Anthology, Volume 3. 

Lana resides in the US and the coastal town of Nha Trang, Vietnam, where she is a mom of two far-too-clever-frolicsome imps. 

Photo: Mike Kenneally