February 2025
Issue 92
February 2025
Issue 92
Poetry

Ray Malone
“Étude 128,” “Étude 143,” and “Interval 404”
of the trees growing, so fresh and bright,
imagine a leaf, a single one of them
held to your cheek, in its chill,
its refusal of heat, this early in the year,
the stars so far from here, the birds
in their lightness going about their business

Penny Jackson
“What Remains” and “A Hole In Her Head”
a crushed bag of potato chips,
bright red label glaring.
Two bus drivers linger
by their idling vehicles—
one bends to his lighter,
the wreath of smoke
drifting briefly

Jerrice J. Baptiste
“A Purple Orchid,” “Poem for The Pink Petal Dragons,” and “At The Cusp of Autumn: Where Do Geese & Husband Go?”
fingertips rub center of an orchid.
Soft saturated purple petals
awaken her eyes, like discovering
carving of ancient writings.
The Nile River on cave walls.

Julie Benesh
“Not Drowning,” “Solstice,” and “Magi-Conomy”
to all the words, at least
hypothetically. Language, emotion,
cognition commingles in combinations
infinite, experiments replicable,
but only barely, in theory

Alexander Etheridge
“Like Lost Dogs,” “Solitude at Midnight,” and “Eden’s End”
and stray lines tap
on my mind’s window,
looking for a poem.

Jodi Morton
“Spring is a Good Season for Reconciliation,” “Where Were You,” and “The Thing That Remains”
a cold front hits,
a carpet of chilly air
unrolled at our feet.
I pull my cardigan tightly
around my chest, hold it closed.

Stephanie Trenchard
“Summer Music, For my Father,” “Caught,” and “Color as Language”
Notes in a measure of motion
with dissonant zinc-white daylight splashing
and dancing upon the path
as the horizon softens to a bluer hue, and vanishes

Jonathan Fletcher
“No X-Men in LA” and “Missing Rehoboth”
asks as I watch the screen fill
with frenetic red and orange,
billowing gray, curtained black.
Storm, come and still the winds.
Jean Gray, divert the water.

Ray Malone
“Étude 128,” “Étude 143,” and “Interval 404”
of the trees growing, so fresh and bright,
imagine a leaf, a single one of them
held to your cheek, in its chill,
its refusal of heat, this early in the year,
the stars so far from here, the birds
in their lightness going about their business

Penny Jackson
“What Remains” and “A Hole In Her Head”
a crushed bag of potato chips,
bright red label glaring.
Two bus drivers linger
by their idling vehicles—
one bends to his lighter,
the wreath of smoke
drifting briefly

Jerrice J. Baptiste
“A Purple Orchid,” “Poem for The Pink Petal Dragons,” and “At The Cusp of Autumn: Where Do Geese & Husband Go?”
fingertips rub center of an orchid.
Soft saturated purple petals
awaken her eyes, like discovering
carving of ancient writings.
The Nile River on cave walls.

Julie Benesh
“Not Drowning,” “Solstice,” and “Magi-Conomy”
to all the words, at least
hypothetically. Language, emotion,
cognition commingles in combinations
infinite, experiments replicable,
but only barely, in theory

Alexander Etheridge
“Like Lost Dogs,” “Solitude at Midnight,” and “Eden’s End”
and stray lines tap
on my mind’s window,
looking for a poem.

Jodi Morton
“Spring is a Good Season for Reconciliation,” “Where Were You,” and “The Thing That Remains”
a cold front hits,
a carpet of chilly air
unrolled at our feet.
I pull my cardigan tightly
around my chest, hold it closed.

Stephanie Trenchard
“Summer Music, For my Father,” “Caught,” and “Color as Language”
Notes in a measure of motion
with dissonant zinc-white daylight splashing
and dancing upon the path
as the horizon softens to a bluer hue, and vanishes

Jonathan Fletcher
“No X-Men in LA” and “Missing Rehoboth”
asks as I watch the screen fill
with frenetic red and orange,
billowing gray, curtained black.
Storm, come and still the winds.
Jean Gray, divert the water.
Poetry

Ray Malone
“Étude 128,” “Étude 143,” and “Interval 404”
of the trees growing, so fresh and bright,
imagine a leaf, a single one of them
held to your cheek, in its chill,
its refusal of heat, this early in the year,
the stars so far from here, the birds
in their lightness going about their business

Penny Jackson
“What Remains” and “A Hole In Her Head”
a crushed bag of potato chips,
bright red label glaring.
Two bus drivers linger
by their idling vehicles—
one bends to his lighter,
the wreath of smoke
drifting briefly

Jerrice J. Baptiste
“A Purple Orchid,” “Poem for The Pink Petal Dragons,” and “At The Cusp of Autumn: Where Do Geese & Husband Go?”
fingertips rub center of an orchid.
Soft saturated purple petals
awaken her eyes, like discovering
carving of ancient writings.
The Nile River on cave walls.

Julie Benesh
“Not Drowning,” “Solstice,” and “Magi-Conomy”
to all the words, at least
hypothetically. Language, emotion,
cognition commingles in combinations
infinite, experiments replicable,
but only barely, in theory

Alexander Etheridge
“Like Lost Dogs,” “Solitude at Midnight,” and “Eden’s End”
and stray lines tap
on my mind’s window,
looking for a poem.

Jodi Morton
“Spring is a Good Season for Reconciliation,” “Where Were You,” and “The Thing That Remains”
a cold front hits,
a carpet of chilly air
unrolled at our feet.
I pull my cardigan tightly
around my chest, hold it closed.

Stephanie Trenchard
“Summer Music, For my Father,” “Caught,” and “Color as Language”
Notes in a measure of motion
with dissonant zinc-white daylight splashing
and dancing upon the path
as the horizon softens to a bluer hue, and vanishes

Jonathan Fletcher
“No X-Men in LA” and “Missing Rehoboth”
asks as I watch the screen fill
with frenetic red and orange,
billowing gray, curtained black.
Storm, come and still the winds.
Jean Gray, divert the water.
Short Story
New Fiction

M.L. Lyons
The Amazing Merletti

Andrew Plimpton
Sophia

Brandon Daily
Into the Flooded Field

Dharmini Saravanan
Threadbare

Kevin Yeoman
Local Clown

Emily Larkin
The Dream Netters

M.L. Lyons
The Amazing Merletti

Andrew Plimpton
Sophia

Brandon Daily
Into the Flooded Field

Dharmini Saravanan
Threadbare

Kevin Yeoman
Local Clown

Emily Larkin
The Dream Netters

M.L. Lyons
The Amazing Merletti

Andrew Plimpton
Sophia

Brandon Daily
Into the Flooded Field

Dharmini Saravanan
Threadbare

Kevin Yeoman
Local Clown

Emily Larkin
The Dream Netters
Short Story

M.L. Lyons
The Amazing Merletti

Andrew Plimpton
Sophia

Brandon Daily
Into the Flooded Field

Dharmini Saravanan
Threadbare

Kevin Yeoman
Local Clown

Emily Larkin
The Dream Netters
Long Short Story

Mark Wagstaff
Down Among The Barley
L-shaped, the shower far back in the alcove. The slant to the drain steep enough to alert bare toes. The basin’s obese taps with Hot and Cold in foxed enamel. Their bolts and washers industrial and gleaming.
Novel Chapter
Novel Chapters
Sophie Hoss
Glowfish
Chapter One: GossamerI don’t remember how I started researching liminal spaces. Couldn’t even say which ology my post-grad work is classified as.

Elan Maier
The Face in Between
Chapter One

Sophie Hoss
Glowfish
I don’t remember how I started researching liminal spaces. Couldn’t even say which ology my post-grad work is classified as.

Elan Maier
The Face in Between
novel Chapter

Sophie Hoss
Glowfish
I don’t remember how I started researching liminal spaces. Couldn’t even say which ology my post-grad work is classified as.

Elan Maier
The Face in Between
Essay

Marie Chen
Why Is It So Hard?

Jon Shorr
Though Some Have Changed
It didn’t surprise me that during the campaign, Trump supporters saw those of us that opposed his election to president as the enemy; nor did it surprise me that we saw Trump supporters as stupid, naïve pawns.
It did surprise me, though, to learn that my girlfriend was the enemy.

Michael "Tuna" Coley
The Poseur

Marie Chen
Why Is It So Hard?

Jon Shorr
Though Some Have Changed
It didn’t surprise me that during the campaign, Trump supporters saw those of us that opposed his election to president as the enemy; nor did it surprise me that we saw Trump supporters as stupid, naïve pawns.
It did surprise me, though, to learn that my girlfriend was the enemy.

Michael "Tuna" Coley
The Poseur

Marie Chen
Why Is It So Hard?

Jon Shorr
Though Some Have Changed
It didn’t surprise me that during the campaign, Trump supporters saw those of us that opposed his election to president as the enemy; nor did it surprise me that we saw Trump supporters as stupid, naïve pawns.
It did surprise me, though, to learn that my girlfriend was the enemy.

Michael "Tuna" Coley
The Poseur
Creative Nonfiction

Sarah Harley
How to Love in Reverse
In the beginning, a farewell. Two lovers say goodbye. An embrace begins to loosen before letting go. Hands that clasped tightly together, slowly slip apart; a space opens between palms, fingers are no longer entwined.
The attraction that once drew us together turns into a force pushing us apart.

Mohini Dasari
Empty Black Circle
Left, right, left, right. Back and forth, the cold probe pushes against my insides. The empty black circle keeps coming in and out of view. Nothing else.

Timothy Loftus
Beyond the Frame
Ninety years later, in February 2002, I was hiking with my three daughters,

Sarah Harley
How to Love in Reverse
In the beginning, a farewell. Two lovers say goodbye. An embrace begins to loosen before letting go. Hands that clasped tightly together, slowly slip apart; a space opens between palms, fingers are no longer entwined.
The attraction that once drew us together turns into a force pushing us apart.

Mohini Dasari
Empty Black Circle
Left, right, left, right. Back and forth, the cold probe pushes against my insides. The empty black circle keeps coming in and out of view. Nothing else.

Timothy Loftus
Beyond the Frame
Ninety years later, in February 2002, I was hiking with my three daughters,

Sarah Harley
How to Love in Reverse
In the beginning, a farewell. Two lovers say goodbye. An embrace begins to loosen before letting go. Hands that clasped tightly together, slowly slip apart; a space opens between palms, fingers are no longer entwined.
The attraction that once drew us together turns into a force pushing us apart.

Mohini Dasari
Empty Black Circle
Left, right, left, right. Back and forth, the cold probe pushes against my insides. The empty black circle keeps coming in and out of view. Nothing else.

Timothy Loftus
Beyond the Frame
Ninety years later, in February 2002, I was hiking with my three daughters,
Nonfiction

Marie Chen
Why Is It So Hard?

Jon Shorr
Though Some Have Changed
It didn’t surprise me that during the campaign, Trump supporters saw those of us that opposed his election to president as the enemy; nor did it surprise me that we saw Trump supporters as stupid, naïve pawns.
It did surprise me, though, to learn that my girlfriend was the enemy.

Michael "Tuna" Coley
The Poseur

Sarah Harley
How to Love in Reverse
In the beginning, a farewell. Two lovers say goodbye. An embrace begins to loosen before letting go. Hands that clasped tightly together, slowly slip apart; a space opens between palms, fingers are no longer entwined.
The attraction that once drew us together turns into a force pushing us apart.

Mohini Dasari
Empty Black Circle
Left, right, left, right. Back and forth, the cold probe pushes against my insides. The empty black circle keeps coming in and out of view. Nothing else.

Timothy Loftus
Beyond the Frame
Ninety years later, in February 2002, I was hiking with my three daughters,