“The Transfer” by Julie Rea

Hannah’s husband, David, was watching a live interview of the deceased creator of Transference. “Hey,” Hannah said, her long, red, threaded-with-grey hair braided close to her head. She collapsed onto the couch, tired after a day of teaching. “Oh, right,” she said of the interview. “I heard that she died.” “Yep,” said David, scratching his beard. Although Dr. Jimenez was dead and had Transferred in her eighties after becoming terminally ill, she appeared on the monitor in the news studio as a deeply tanned woman in perhaps in her forties. Dr. Jimenez’s daughter, actually in the studio and looking like … Continue reading “The Transfer” by Julie Rea

“Gothic, Colorado” by Zachary Kellian

The snow crunches like stiff leather under his boots. He winds through the scrub pine and aspens, stragglers along the mountain tree line. An aspen trunk, bone white and skeletal in the winter, becomes a perch on which to steady himself. The snowpack is unpredictable here and he needs the rest as his lungs ignite with each gulp of freezing air. The sky above him carries the clear delicateness of winter and one, lone bird — a blush of winged red and orange against the startling blue. It is cold today, but not as cold as it should be. He … Continue reading “Gothic, Colorado” by Zachary Kellian

“It’s All Happening at the Zoo” by Amy Soricelli

How odd to be him, here in this place of fierce thoughts and solid fur. All the best games in the sun, the cold windy bars keeping us tight from one another. She says “look up” I see long necks with spotted long lashes eating from trees. Bears with paws settling down into the pounce and fear of our million looking faces. It is much easier, I answer, to be him, here in this place sneaking between blades of grass, cigarette foil, broken glass. There are cages with stripes, wide eyes, shouts and warnings, pellets of food between their toes. The … Continue reading “It’s All Happening at the Zoo” by Amy Soricelli

“My Eyes, My Eyes, My Eyes” by Donald Zagardo

A trend is a law that has yet to hatch, to become, turned to steel. Lucky children with hormonal madness incline toward trend, but I am an adult. I worry as an adult would, about silly things, like trends becoming laws. How handy it will be, how much fun, how rude to have tiny cameras in one’s head instead of eyes. For the world to see right through and record for posterity, every sight and sound, one would assume. Michel Foucault one hundred years ago would have adored the idea, but not really adored. Each man a prisoner, a jailer, … Continue reading “My Eyes, My Eyes, My Eyes” by Donald Zagardo

A Series of 3 Poems by Samuel J. Fox

  An Update from Baptist Country   Like a ghost swallow, Christ was lifted into the wide, empty fields of heaven by the wind. Yes, wide. Indeed, empty.   You don’t want to die before you see the face of God in the eaves of a pink dogwood tree. If you don’t, you weren’t truly here now, were you?   The truth shall set you free: freely you shall set the truth.   In this story, for everything is a story, a boy listens to a preacher speak of hell as a place he will go for loving every mouth … Continue reading A Series of 3 Poems by Samuel J. Fox

“and then She was shipped across the world” and “Document2” by Parag Desai

and then She was shipped across the world to work and produce, and to work and produce, in a fortress of infinite greed, tending slot machines, for donald trump in february of ’93.   She met the man she married after a lapse of two years. his belly had grown since then, his smile had yellowed since then.   and exactly—with mechanical precision—a year later i was conceived. Her belly too would grow. She quit work to produce, and then worked to produce: a clean kitchen, an undisturbed bed, warm roti, daal, shaak.   the tasks never truly added up … Continue reading “and then She was shipped across the world” and “Document2” by Parag Desai

“GROWING SWIRLING CLOUDS” By Thea Boodhoo

“Mark died yesterday, Margery.” My tone was patient, sad but not distraught. The time for distraught was past, I thought. “Coral, don’t joke about those things. He was right here a few minutes ago.” I found a serious expression in my database and displayed it for her. “It’s not a joke, Margery. He left us yesterday morning. We’re saying goodbye as soon as you’re ready for the ceremony.” Margery wore her work uniform–a faded blue jumpsuit–and had her thin, white hair pulled up in a small bun. The jumpsuit no longer fit her well. It had been made for a … Continue reading “GROWING SWIRLING CLOUDS” By Thea Boodhoo

“Portrait of a girl and her films” by Anjali Bhavan

  take a scalpel to my temple and carve out; frame your questions and let my dreams splay out on your petri-dish. ask me what I really want. and here’s what I’ll tell you: sometimes, I want to be framed like a Guru Dutt film, I want to be nothing but cotton balls and luminous umbrellas shadowing lovers with cups of sake. I want to hide, blush and drape myself in my embarrassing ardour. I want to be a black coat and a graduate’s moustache, perhaps the last blot of grey ink on a dying poet’s poem for the muse … Continue reading “Portrait of a girl and her films” by Anjali Bhavan

“On names, identity, and personal mythology” by Lianna Schreiber

  Is it still an identity crisis if what is causing you grief is a fractal self which exists only in another person’s mind? I am hyper-aware of myself at all times, and whether or not this roots in being a woman is a discussion best left for another time and thought piece, but the fact of it stands — I curate my behavior to the best of my ability whenever I am in public spaces, even if they are just everyday internet hang-outs. I treat each word as if it were a museum piece, analyzing its possible implications so … Continue reading “On names, identity, and personal mythology” by Lianna Schreiber