Post- Magazine
a tangle of movement [narrative]
By Mack Ford | October 18I know a girl who dances as easy as breathing.
Mack Ford
Post- Magazine
in pursuit of awe [narrative]
By Mack Ford | April 20To wonder is to admire the inexplicable, to notice a rare delight; it is to allow one’s curiosity to take a meander and prod at something surprising. Lately, I have begun to collect small moments of wonder. I pluck them from this soft world as if I was born to do it—to look and listen and be filled ...
Post- Magazine
a dictionary of obscure joys [narrative]
By Mack Ford | April 7Here are some words. Some are fabricated from words in different languages, some are molded from combinations of words long dead, and some are words that already exist to which I have given new meaning. Some are words that were reaching out with tantalizing fingertips, begging to be rescued from dusty ...
Post- Magazine
and the eyes are hers [narrative]
By Mack Ford | March 5When the lights come on, there is a single spotlight, trained on the center of the stage. The actress is there, basking, lounging in the glow. Her legs dangle off the edge of the piano, willfully uncrossed. Her hair is piled high atop her head into a mount of carefully aligned curls. She wears a fitted ...
Post- Magazine
the ghosts i call darling [narrative]
By Mack Ford | November 17I go down to the small cemetery by the edge of the river. Everything shines—there is no darkness here. The headstones persist in spite of what they know. They keep themselves up, pushing against that knowing which pulls them down, down. One stone is laid with a coquettish flower-crown, the next with ...
Post- Magazine
dearly departed [narrative]
By Mack Ford | April 28It’s my favorite feeling: when a really good idea hits me. Almost like I’ve been dumped face-first in a cold bucket of water and the chill is traveling all the way down my back, yet I can’t help but grin.
Post- Magazine
longing upward [narrative]
By Mack Ford | March 24It’s a Saturday night, and there’s a drunk girl standing on the bar. Her dark hair, still bearing the remnants of a fading dye job, swings back and forth in time with the plastic beaded necklaces on her chest as she gyrates her hips. She can’t see the boy bouncing below her, waving one fist in ...
Post- Magazine
written in the stars [narrative]
By Mack Ford | November 11“Cancer!” My sister shrieked, distraught as she barreled into my room at seven in the morning. “Of course he’s a Cancer!”
Post- Magazine
sink into believing [narrative]
By Mack Ford | October 21I was always an avid daydreamer. I imagined stories for each cloud that drifted past while my little sister stomped around, demanding that I play with her. I barely heard her, barely felt the dampness of the grass pressing into my hair: I was deep in a cloud-inspired imaginary world. For me, reality ...
