Latest Publications:

[article]

Gravity

Before I knew what hit me, Tom was my husband—the adoptive father of my children, and a sought-after dealmaker in our affluent community. Tom was a risk-taker. He had a certain style. An iconoclast, he did things his way or not at all.

[poetry]

Becoming a Believer and NFPA 70E

By Avery H. Thompson

The locals, believers of gods, drink tsipouro long into the night // And brag to me about how lucky they were to be born here

[article]

In the Wake of Fr. X

By MH Petrus

One recent Sunday, I attended St. Augustine Catholic church in the Tremont neighborhood of Cleveland, close to where I live. This was not typical behavior for me; I had grown disaffected with the Catholic Church through the years, but I liked to dip my toe into its baptismal font, so to speak, on occasion, usually around Easter, to see if I felt closer to God.

[poetry]

Her Last Garden

By Joseph Hunter

My uncle told me turn the soil over // after that we'll lay a sheet over it // everything under it will die, and // we can start again.

[poetry]

Immersion and The Anatomy of Average

By Barun Saha

Those are stygian times when blood & clay plastered on bones melt into lumps // The floor tiles slide across, the many mouths of abyss await

[fiction]

Death of the Author

By Alana Rodrigues-Birch

You’re alone. You’re alone in a house in the woods. You’ve been running for some time.

[fiction]

Pentecost

By Brian Sutton

Dear Sir: As requested, I shall begin by providing background information about myself. My name is Vernon Lantry. I am fifty-one years of age.

[poetry]

Inquisition

By Meggie Royer

Before we knew, we heard— // the horses shot in the pasture, // clamor receding along the fence line like snow.

[fiction]

Quentin Compson Time

By Joseph Kenyon

I took the truck down the rough, narrow trail, rounding the final rutted bend out of the woods and onto the rocky beach surrounding the lake.

[poetry]

Pilliwinks and The Boot and My Head is a Cat B Jug

By Joseph Long

Ain’t that done yet? Ain’t that done? Three words which, // if spoken too soon, sears itself upon // my balloon.

[fiction]

Goat in the Machine

By Jeff Blechle

This morning Yeorgi woke up in his backyard feeling a bruise on his lower back, convinced that stacked chairs and vodka were not his friends, nor was his wife, if he was being honest, or his goat Omar, whose pretense of loyalty clashed with Yeorgi’s trusting nature—and poor little Boots lying dead with light bulb fragments decorating her scant cleavage, well, she was no great pal either, always shoving him into hazardous, life-threatening tasks, always trying to get out of paying him, criticizing.