In This Issue

  • Seventeen Points in Which Each Point Is to Be Ignored

    13. Bart worked in the maintenance division of a plastics factory. Things broke all the live long day. He would take the things apart, hunt down the assembly instructions for them, try this, try that. This failed, that failed. Bart would come home in his shambling truck, where things continued breaking. FICTION by Thomas Wauhob

  • The Elephant

    In the years that followed there were knives and poisons aplenty in Arnoch. Killing led to killing, and as the bodies piled up, each side became more sure that it was in the right. The blood of heroes and the innocent will sanctify almost any endeavor. Walls were tumbled, towers set afire, and the most unspeakable crimes committed, all for the sake of the will of the gods.
    FICTION by Steve Spaulding

  • Movin' Out

    Everyone feels a kind of quickening at the beginning of September. It’s time to transition into the fall wardrobe. School buses reappear, coming out of their summer hibernation grounds in Nebraska. The lassitude of summer gives way to the briskness of fall. People get the urge to organize, to make lists and buy plastic storage tubs and clean out the garage. By Sarah Petersen

  • Four Poems

    I used to make arguments / to people in courtrooms, but they’d always think / I was arguing for the opposite of what I really / wanted. I’d say, give this man some human clothes / and before long I found a heart in my underwear. / I mean a real human heart. POETRY by Seth Abramson

  • I’ve Either Gone Mad… or Both!

    What I saw on that candy display was the most twisted, demented, mind-bogglingly fucked marketing campaign I can ever remember having even heard of before, and I simply refuse to believe that anything so cartoonishly unreal could be a naturally occurring phenomenon.
    By Patrick Russell

  • The Zen of Tortillas

    My mother places her ball of dough, which is perfectly flat and round like a thick crepe, gently onto the comal. It hisses and pops. After 30 seconds, my mother picks up the tortilla by one end and flips it over with her bare hands. She doesn’t cringe. Her hands, tough and dry like old leather, are a testament to more than 70 years of cooking. FICTION by Luisa Beltran

Cover © 2007, Photography by Monica Schrager
Main Story Photo © Philip Pace

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