Fiction

Short Story

You wake up. Are you dead? You don’t know where you are. Look around. There is a wide dirt road framed by tall, dark pine

Psalm Pineo-Cavanaugh

Short Story

Back home, my sister’s bedroom overlooked our back deck. She could climb out her windowsill and drop down a few feet onto the wooden planks

Allison Sobczak

Fiction

Improv class was how
I learned to say what
I wanted to say to you–

James Croal Jackson

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

I’d rather be a collapsed flower drenched in rainwater; succumbed to the well where wishes weld winning whims. though not alone as the barren heart

Dr. Ernest Williamson III

Poetry

Crying, I recall my father shudders, remembering tall thin men at the foot of the bed apparitions at night, faceless heads like pins, mostly arms,

Robert Eric Shoemaker