Greg Jenkins
BOB GAMBLE A director; about forty
JIM GAPP A would-be actor; mid-twenties
MAN A fellow who may or may not be an actor; about forty
A room
The Present
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—4/2    9:10 pm 44º Clear

Gerald Wagoner
The lone patrol car rolls. A commercial trash truck idles. Empty trains rattle below. A stranger quick draws a bird on brick. Suspended without suspense, time is elusive in limbo. Unseen bottles clink, clatter into some recycle bin. A woman scrapes her garbage can to the curb. No thrum from the great city. I might be lost in the forest, slogging through an all white ... Read More

Two Poems by Caleigh Shaw

Caleigh Shaw
Appropriate Dress Length

If I was a church-going child in 2021, I’d be able to find a midi-length skirt or dress, past my knees no problem. I could have saved so much time in the Belk dressing room. When I flipped through the Delia’s catalogue, I needed a thirty-three inch dress, but all the cute ones were thirty-two. No need ... Read More


Susan Bucci Mockler
The horses thought they were waiting for you to bring them in from the pasture, in from damp night air, where sweet alfalfa, oats, hay, would be, where they always are—the horses names etched in wooden plaques over their stalls: Comet, Midnight, Scarlet, black iron latches securing them in, safely— but they were waiting for you to make them whole ... Read More

Fan Fiction: Paradise Lost

Meredith Sue Willis

The Argument

Sin and Death are guarding the gates of hell when Satan arrives. Sin remembers how she got there, and Satan orders her to open the gates.

Paradise Lost, Book II

“My babies, oh it hurts!” I cry, as the little hell hounds burst out yet again. They swarm past my face and fly up among the smoky ... Read More

The Northern Lights

Naomi Thiers
stunned me. I wasn’t the same after I stood by a lake, saw white plumes rain and flare like ghost
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Ken Autrey
My hands have become his: freckles, prominent veins, wrinkles where fingers crook. Oh, how it holds his scent: motor oil,
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Two Poems by Monty Jones

Monty Jones
The affects and the qualia are more than I can manage, I who strive just to keep the light
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Senseless Violence

Christian Aguiar

Official and unofficial regrets flitter around, bemoan the way the bullets went, having never tasted life: handmade pasta pressed just
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Self Portrait with Tigers

Christian Ward
Tigers slipped out of my hot saké while London quietly exited. Taxis and long winding streets jungled around my ankles.
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This Is Why I No Longer Eat Chinese Food in November 

Paul Beckman

It’s 2 a.m. and since I’m a back sleeper the blood is dripping from my nose down my philtrum over
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For Carmen’s Sake

Karen Regen-Tuero

When the police came, Frank was out making a soda run. He had already added seating to the living room,
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Old hands

Martin Malone
Vein-braided landscape Like some satellite snapshot of a tangled delta Stippled now with brown pools, Ridges risen between the inlet
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Less than Frank

Bayveen O’Connell


Trespass through the fibers of me. Take a red pen and scissors to my diary. Blot out all mention
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The Last One

Peter Cherches
The clerk told me I could find it in aisle 7, but as much as I looked, up and down
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