An Anniversary

Gary Fincke

Before I pull off the four-lane highway, I make sure the shoulder is wide. Amish families live in the area. They drive their buggies along this road, and yet, despite the paved shoulder, I pick a spot where an open field seems level enough to take my right-side tires as insurance. When I open the door, there is plenty of ... Read More

Manon, Christophe, and the Sea

Stephanie Dupal

Whenever Manon awoke from dreams in which she still played for l’Orchèstre Symphonique de Montréal, the feel of the cello lingered between her knees, and the whitecaps of her life—the echoing arcs of before, during, and after the accident—came crashing in her thoughts once more. The instrument remained with her throughout the day like a phantom limb. It was still ... Read More

I mention the deer 

Tina Barry
I preferred my friend’s father. Mine sat silent in cigar smoke, suave in a cheap suit. Hers, a suburban cowboy, weather-worn in plaid flannel, loud with love. “Aw, girl,” he’d say when I visited, patting my cheek, “you’re so darn cute.” On warm evenings, he’d walk with my friend, head bent to listen, one hand holding their mutt’s leash, the ... Read More


Sid Gold
for Arnold Gold, 1922-98 I am certain that if I heckled you long enough, chuckling sarcastically, supplying a few particulars, you would eventually recall those final games of one-on-one, the two of us alone in that schoolyard in Rego Park. You brought your A game that day, the lickety-split moves in the paint, the soft touch, playing better than I’d ... Read More

Interview with Anthony Moll

Jona Colson
Anthony Moll is a Queer poet, essayist, and educator. They are the author of Out of Step: A Memoir, a queer coming of age story about their experiences in the army, which won the Lambda Literary Award and the Non/Fiction Collection Prize. Anthony is a Ph.D. candidate in English, and they hold an MFA in creative writing & publishing arts ... Read More

Origin Story

Gillian Thomas
Is a woman of color What you consider me Even if I’ve never eaten Raw Kibbeh No intention of going
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Juanita Rey
Because my needs are so painfully modest, they leave my dreams awkward and bewildered. I pay the rent on time.
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Early Daze 

Susan Scutti

When we were kids a Parks Department truck would drive through the backstreets of my hometown spewing behind it a
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The Memory of Tomorrow

James J. Patterson
It is ten-till-two AM on a Thursday morning in late January. A winter storm has temporarily cut off the power.
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How to Answer a Door

Francine Witte
Slowly—As if the other side of your life is on the other side of the door. Like the door is
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по дороге в лес / On the way to the woods

Ivan de Monbrison
Вот небо, полное фиолетовых рук. Деревья уже имеют цвет вечера. Трава зеленая. Дорога идет от деревни до леса. И по
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On the Way to Champaign

Naomi Thiers
In a dazzle-red Honda, windows open to hot blue, thrumming down Rt. 30 through Indiana, two women in stone-washed jeans,
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The Pits of the World

Daren Dean

Why haven’t you died? He had been asked this more than once. The sun cringed its tight white light, which
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I Don’t Want to Write Another Uvalde

Jay McClendon
What if she left a door open for the sun? What if he came into her room, and she knew
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After mama stops selling encyclopedias

Frankie McMillan
… we don’t go out in the car anymore but we’re allowed to turn the house into another country; hauling
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Next Year

Rebecca Lee
The envelope was bright orange with gold stars lining the back flap. Even if you were Paris Hilton with copious
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Three Card Monte

Paul Luikart
I’m on the Brown Line, headed downtown to pay off a fine. This pair of guys is running a three-card
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Under the Hood

Beth Konkoski

When I was twenty-one, a sailor I knew invited me to San Diego for Valentine’s Day. He bought my ticket,
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The $50,000 Treasure Chest

Charles Rammelkamp
As a teenager in Saint Louis in the Sixties, I’d gawk at the ads in the Post-Dispatch and the Globe-Democrat
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What’s Next?

Gary Fincke
The last time I visit my father while he still lives alone, he tells me his longtime neighbor’s son is
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Mary Buchinger
                       is what I  imagine the man beneath  the suspended sailboat  is doing as he fiddles  with the rudder on the
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