PEACHFUZZ Journal






Summer 24’ Issue
Journal
Get a copy of our first issue, featuring short stories, poetry, and genre-bending creative writing from Atlanta locals.
           
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**Scroll down to see featured works from the lastest issue.
Where the sunlights hits the trees

Evan Bazel

O’Hara wrote Oranges then about Oranges and Sardines
In late March Love introduced me to Trader Joe’s chocolate-covered orange-jelly sticks
I stopped writing walls I reached out from the ashen balcony I tried to touch the treeline

The ‘I’ still looks and tastes like a skinny cigarette but it blooms
The ember doesn’t just air-eat it photosynthesizes
Cousin Ray writes fire code for the FDNY’s legal bureau and he said fire is nocturnal
Not benignly, as raccoons or ravers, he said     not benignly

I can’t see but I am sure Oranges and Sardines are scrawled in a distant aunt’s hand
Along the obsidian hawkwings decapitating the air above the treeline


(I’m not even that crazy about O’Hara)

I’m sure there’s more to Being than a cigarette or a hornet
There’s more it’s just hidden by the wing of the Fascist warplane


The balcony is ash and concrete and has a black railing over the railing is fresh brick
The color of sundried blood but if you make if far enough the trees are green
Bright green, and a splash of salmon

(I’m not even that crazy about O’Hara)
(I’m not even that crazy about O’Hara)


No Contact

Sasha Debecvec-McKinney


My body is getting used to not being fucked as much 

as I want, whenever I want. The symptoms are numerous 

but mostly it’s hemorrhoids. It’s to do with my appetite,

an unhappiness in my gut: I can’t have him back. 

Despite the blood on the toilet paper, despite the itch 

around my asshole, I keep telling him if he visits 

I’ll finally let him fuck it. I feel my pulse

down there. For months I embarrass myself 

like this: bargaining, offering, begging, I flare

and flare. I find myself face down at Urgent Care, where

the nurse inspects my anus and declares it normal. 

I promise she says, your asshole is perfect. And I’m not allowed 

to text him that. 

Your Shoes, This City

Luisga Bou


“Shoo, shoo,” they say.

Okay. Okay. Will do. Out to the street.

My hands are dirty, and they stink of mice.

I ain’t remember losing my shoes and shirt, but I did.

Cement. Cobblestone. Bits of grass. No difference under numb toes.

“This city has been blessed by God.” I say out loud, “again and again, century after century,” I

say this again and again, street after street, but after the fifth street, people stop tuning in, as

they know now that I took too much of what you can’t take too much of, but it’s okay. It’s Sunday.

And while they ain’t want me in church, I’ll sit outside, on the steps, and watch the people go by,

and the organ will seep out from inside, and I’ll shake, I’ll sway, and the blood from my feet will

puddle in cobble, into the crevices, the old, old ridges, and it will dry there, raised catholic clay,

and I’ll pray. I’ll pray.

It’s okay. It’ll fade soon. Fear of God. Blah of Blah. Shoo, shoo. I’ll leave. The bells are ringing.