Fiction

I saw everyone, having fallen short, on the ground

James B. Nicola

Poetry

In our attic, among things, as it seems of past lives, lives a bitter God. When guests come to our house, we don’t mention him.

Ernad Osmic

Poetry

Sammie Jo don’t talk much. Her mother like to cut out her tongue any time she speaks up. A bone outta socket. As big as

Robert Eric Shoemaker

Poetry

A dream of a 1920s quasi-candid shot of Debby Harry, mingling graciously among a grandiose Studio 54 scene. Spray the lens of my life with

Suzanne McHeffey

Short Story

I can feel the evening sun, warm on my face, but the chill of the wind coaxes me to pull my coat tighter around me.

Debi Crouson

Poetry

Can’t you let the film spool unseen on the stained floor? Its frames forever static as my fingers resplice our hands. Let my battalions of

Jacquie Wyatt