In This Issue

  • Three Poems

    He said, “There’s no problem where there is no awareness,” and I said I wasn’t aware of that, but now that I am, I have no problem with it. I’m beginning to suspect the bottle of invisible ink I’ve been using for twelve years is actually empty.
    Poetry by Mark Cunningham

  • Six-Foot-Tall Jesus

    The Bible does speak of Giants roaming the Earth and having sex with all the lady humans, resulting in abominations. That is why we all got smited with the flood and all the unicorns drowned. So one would think that if Jesus were that tall, a literal giant among men, somebody would have said something. Although I suppose we could make an interpretation that the crucifixion is a smiting, and the tallness is thereby implied.
    By Denise Pace

  • Blood and Feathers

    … only the boy in the sailor suit, squinting up at the sun as he waits for a friend, ever supposes that the sky can be folded in squares like a map, taken home, and hiddens.
    Poetry by Howie Good

  • Take the Funny and Run

    The mascot is trying to take over the team, folks. And the players, the managers, and the front office are all lining up to kiss his enormous, plush-swaddled ass. It doesn’t get any more pathetic than that. Except, of course, that it does.
    By Patrick Russell

  • A Night at the Opera

    “Pretend you’re climbing over with your dress and heels on, and I’ll take some pictures of you, dressed. Take some of me first. I could probably sell these. Then we can undress, and I’ll take some more as you climb over.”
    Fiction by Alexandra Isacson

  • On the Other Side

    We surround ourselves with exhaust and noise, concrete and trash-filled streets, children riding with pigs and their feces, children who are sold for sex and men who buy them. We are alone, disconnected from clean air, clean water, green growth, any semblance of order, and even from our fellow human beings. The beacon of civilization, the city, is our home, lacking only the civilized.
    By Jeremy Heuslein

  • Night and Day

    The heat of the Sunday sun prickled my cheeks and warmed my rock; its glair was burning my eyes. The south face, moistened by the melt, was brimming with life. The ground was muddy; the air hummed with flies. The tiniest of flowers, still wrapped up in their buds, were wriggling their way out to find the spring. Summer followed the night; the meadows are cut in two.
    Prose and Artwork
    by Amy Bernays

  • Three Poems

    There’s no chance of that / back and forth wailing and exorcism / when they’re in another town, / when they can call me any time / they want but don’t. They can’t be here / in the way that the dead are here. / They’re somewhere else discovering / desire is not the same thing as revenge.
    Poetry
    by John Grey

  • My Relationship With Mindy Had This Weird Correspondence to the American Civil War, Part II

    “When did any man with any woman ever make sense?” Dave said.  “If not for the biological imperative, by now the different genders would have each chosen a hemisphere and drawn a big fluorescent-yellow line down the middle of the planet.” Fiction by Steve Spaulding

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