By: Brian Goad I walk down the street to the dealer's kiosk "Four hundred and fifty, please" receiving back a faintly glowing stack of slides, no thicker than a quarter the slides come to life in my hands, showing endless wonders, infuriating injustices, people just like me I flip through the deck, time melting, spent slides lost somewhere in the room, the only light scattered on the floor across piles of dirty clothes dissolving into darkness when the dealer closes shop, he

By: Molly Mayhead Fishermen in hip waders and denim perforate the surf’s edge swapping stories of the one that got away, push their dories from sand into sea, muted reds, blues, browns, exotic insects suspended in undulating aquatic resin to bring home sea’s treasure. Men with crumpled grocery bag faces and shadowed eyes look beyond the horizon, captain boats Penny Jo, Sally, Carpe Diem, Smooth Sailing, Sweet Spot, The Limit— a confessional of lovers and possibility. When s

By: Elisa Carlsen not saddle broke but broke ass upside down pissing time too big for your britches girl, someday someone is gonna knock you up or knock you out and what are you gonna do then? I’m gonna run like horses until there is no gallop no ground no canter no star no planet no X, no Y no U Elisa Carlsen was born and raised in the high desert of Northern Nevada. A contemplative poet and artist, her writing has appeared in Lunch Ticket, Scapegoat Review, Carte Blanche, A

By: Darren C. Demaree The flowers come & I try to whisper, even if I’m too old for that kind of kiss, I try whisper to them to fill my body with a new season, something blue-green that will cling to sun- light even half-buried. I’m enough of burden on this world to get no real answer. It’s calming. Nothing is ever whole. The bloom breaks us into pieces. Darren C. Demaree is the author of twenty-four poetry collections, most recently “Now Flourish Northern Cardinal”, (Small Ha

By: John Dennis My mother kept plants that frightened me. Large tropical things with split leaves and hanging roots that drank sunlight greedily from the windows. At night, they changed shape. At least I believed they did. The monstera beside the hallway seemed larger after dark, its shadows opening across the wallpaper like hands. My mother spoke to them while watering. Not lovingly. More like negotiations. After she died, the apartment became impossible by degrees. First ca

By: Kathy Pon She stumbles and friends pretend not to notice, and she pretends too. She stumbles on her blind spots, ruptured truths, struggles and backslides in slicks of self-doubt. As she stumbles, she faces her flaws, is humbled by her clumsiness. Strangers stare at her clunky shoes while they tie their own laces tighter. Shuffling on shaky terrain, she does not expect her body will become graceful, only prays her legs won’t buckle. Stumbling lands her in dark places, fum