Featured Author
Carella Keil
Carella is a writer and digital artist who splits her time between the ethereal world of dreams and Toronto, Canada, depending on the weather. Her work involves themes of mental health, nature, and sexuality, often in a surrealist tone. Many of…
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Featured Artist
Linda K Allison
Linda K. Allison is a recovering banker who now spends as much time as she can outdoors, traveling the US, the world, and the trails alongside her home in The Woodlands, Texas. Her writing and photography have appeared in more…
See the work →In This Issue
- Linda K AllisonFeatured Artist Dubuque Bridge 2025Also: Lone Sailboat in Antibes · Seaside in Kona
- Carella KeilFeatured Author FirefliesYour eyelash fell
- Barbara DanielsPoetry It’s Not a WarWhat’s inside me? Surgery clips, a stent trail,
- Chris DungeyPoetry Waste ManagementAt five o’clock in the morning
- Cleo GriffithPoetry The HasteningGleeful spiral of spring growth,
- Kathryn TemplePoetry While You Are in the ICU I Cannot WriteI cannot dredge up words,
- Josh PriceFiction The CollectorI like walking. I can think about things that need thinking about. I found a workaround, by the way, I got tired of death taking everyone I loved, so I started collecting.
- Elizabeth RosenFiction A Woman Walking Not Alonedreams of marmalade cake and silk throw pillows to lean upon, to rest her swollen ankles when she comes home from stocking Aisle Two of the local WaWa, a bus, two blocks walking, and a second bus away. A woman walking not alone hears in the beat against her ribs a Vivaldi, a Dr. Dre, Taiko drummer when she sits on the toilet to relieve her always-full bladder, day-dreaming of future ifs. A woman walking not alone must be cautious who she is walking not alone with, must use X-ray vision to peer into the dark alley she passes to get to her front stoop, must meet the eye of every not-aloneness she passes to let them know that she is not the one they want. A woman walking not alone is always thinking of what may be and why nots, even as the bearing pains seize her and split her in two. Even after her not-aloneness becomes a two-ness of lone souls.
- Lisa Christina St JohnNonfiction Wonder ForgivesThe nice thing about not knowing what you planted is that you never know what you’re going to get. In the moment I order bulbs or seeds (I’ve given up on vegetables), I am certain I will remember where they go. But every year I plant pollinator flowers, as well as any other perennials the deer won’t eat; I am surprised when they bloom. I don’t remember planting bee balm— look at the gorgeous reds! Or I planted something long ago and gave up on it growing. This year, the lupines I put in the ground years ago came bursting up all over the yard with their purple spikes and long parasol leaves. Surprise! Living, rather than just surviving, is rooted in the capacity for wonder.
- Merie KirbyPoetry I am not the housewife of perfectionSaturated with gin and academic takes on subjectivity
- Roberta WintersVisual Art Emptiness
- Natalia DanjonVisual Art DragonflyAlso: Grown
- Roger CampVisual Art Abandoned 1942 Chevy
- Sylvie OletaPoetry Terminus RotgutI have the recording scratched bloody as a red record groove into my body, the totality of my body, a needle sending resonant, flowing memory through every vein, cut in rows, scratched, recorded and played, scratched recorded and played, the blood running in and through, drawn back by the writhing mass at my center, the organless weight of consumption, antithetical to being, antithetical to anything but driving the needle, driving the etching and scratching and playing, tasting whiskey and blood and piss and vomit in a kiddie pool of off-color sick-like salmon drool, driven by that corporealizing phantasm of my muffled grunts and his labored breathing, his piston machine desire flowing not through but into, driving like a nail laying track for an express destined to run indefinite, always in, deeper into the dynamite blown cavity of my cervix, over the precipice, into the train graveyard, the organless weighted writhing mass, crashing, compounding, a pear of agony wrought from tortured shrapnel…
- Romana IorgaPoetry [Everything is close]Everything is close
- Stefan SofiskiFiction Surprise, SurpriseMaria placed her caramel latte next to the corpse and cracked the window.
- Valy SteverlynckPoetry MotherA sac to dump monsters, ghosts and dark devils. Your daughter
- David J. SchastPoetry Swimming on Coffee TablesÉdith Piaf’s quivering vibrato on “amour”
- VA SmithPoetry Self-Portrait as Sisyphus with Litter PickersTo love a city is to know its street trash.
- S.E. WilsonFiction Potato PatchThe rocks were slick and he carefully made his way along them. He wasn’t as agile as he was as a child and he stepped with care. There was a light breeze and the sounds of chickadees and the steady whoosh of the water seemed to be all around him. That made him feel much younger than he was. He was looking for the pool where he used to fish as a boy with his father, when they camped here all those years ago. It was where the trout gathered to feed and to rest and where he caught his first fish. But he was worried that he went the wrong way. He couldn’t remember and that made him uneasy.
- Esther ZhangVisual Art Kashgar
- Gilbert ArzolaPoetry Quartersat the elementary school for 25 cents a week
- Ryo KajitaniVisual Art Denoise Body Experiments, 2025
- Virginia DoréPoetry The AuctionThe house is not a home.
- Tom GdisisVisual Art Frost FlowerAlso: Upper West Side of Mars
- Stephen Curtis WilsonVisual Art Brotherton CollectionAlso: Crib
- Grace LynnPoetry Suddenly WeDisability, a tense steel umbilical cord plucking
- FruitAndNutVisual Art The Dance
- Daniel MoonVisual Art Upward
- Jason YoungclausPoetry Zeno’s ShipwreckIt sank in July,
- Jean WolffVisual Art Rice Paper Rubbing 1
- John WalserPoetry The ceremonies of winterLike hunching.
- Mark HendricksonPoetry JanitrixMy college janitor always listened to me, so I confided in her. She was on her knees scrubbing floors but stopped to look straight at me. ‘Why haven’t you done it then? Why haven’t you killed yourself yet?’ I found myself sputtering. I said I wasn’t sure. I wanted to end it, to end myself. She shrugged and bent back to her work. ‘You won’t have wasted your life,’ she said. ‘You can always be a bad example.’
- Judith ShapiroNonfiction I’ll Be Prom QueenSomeday I’ll be outspoken, ballsy, articulate, funny. Totally cool, like Fran Lebowitz, but without the cufflinks. Also, I’ll be slow talking, soft talking. I’ll think before I speak. A person others feel okay around, feel good around, want to be with for my earth-mothery energy, healing vibes. Not buzzing, jagged, all jumpy inside. I’ll be serene.
- Matt ZambitoPoetry An Awful Way“Have you ever imagined what it might feel like
- Lesley Hart GunnPoetry The Haunting of Winter PeoplePatches of flattened brown grass
- Sarah BarboNonfiction Nuns & SpoonsWe hold our cards in front of our mouths to hide the smiles. Draw, check your hand, discard. Keep an eye on the line of spoons. Tonight I'm the only kid still awake, surrounded by my mom, aunties, grandma, and my great-aunt, who is a Catholic nun. I sit tall among the women seated around the dessert table as we pass cards and scrutinize each other for any motions.
- Zebulon HusetPoetry Drawn Upward into a Vague Melody of Harsh Threads*or strings smoothed by horsetail
- Megan WildhoodPoetry MotherhoodBefore she readies herself,
- Stacy RollinsPoetry What Are These Things?Do you feel the letters
Print & Digital
Every issue in print, printed to order and shipped by Lulu: 6 × 9 in, full color, perfect bound. Back issues are in the bookstore.
