Fiction

Poetry

The first art Was not art, Rather, a color line shot through the dark, No more expression Than a plea for explanation. The grandest monuments

Lucy Holden

Poetry

I dreamed of the day, In the dead of winter, A dreary day, When I’d step off the train And see you there- The day

Amara Nova

Short Story

Three walls of the room are made of tin, but on the fourth side a polished floor opens, running like fabric into curtains of lace,

Rochelle Potkar

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

he swears that the desert is laughing, mocking him with the distant wail of the wind, the hoot of an owl. each spray of dry

Rachel Linton

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