Author: Editor Team

By: Addy Christmann Sat on the edge of the old red couch, wrapped in wool blankets head to toe, I relaxed into this place I’d been a thousand times. My black hair braided in two sections and curled around my neck as a makeshiftscarf in the questionably heated mobile home. The dark wood paneling started…

By: Lauren MacDonald The woods are hungry and they must feed. It’s a custom we must adhere to. They border our village, a prison of sun twisted bark stricken with scorch marks, tightly packed like matted hair. Its branches arehands that demand and consume, scraping the sky in the tangled thousands, emerald in the warmth…

By: Erin Moine The sky wept metallic rain on the day Josie encountered the lump in the road. It simply hunched there; a brown, furry lump soaked by the rainwater. She slammed on the brakes of her old Chevy. The truck screeched as it struggled to a halt in the mud. The low evening light…

By: Stella Ramos Dear American Film Association, I write to you today to address your problematic portrayal of werewolves in cinema. Now, I can understand that, without meeting one, the concept of a werewolf might seem particularly novel. But the idea that someone could lose control and become an animal right before your very eyes…

By: Erin Moine ARNICA startled with a sharp intake of breath as the angrystarling swooped past her head. The skin of her right cheek tingled asthe bird’s feathers brushed it. She grunted in irritation as the starling,perched in a nearby tree, screeched at her. “Go build your nest somewhere else,” she hollered back. Her ears…

Soy Siciliana Americana,Blood born, trained, and raised in America.Pero tengo espíritu de Mexicana Chingona,pero ahí me llaman la gringuita. This poetic escape releases my duende,inside MLA format citations.This country drives fast to fly far away,quotations, immigrations, deportations. Marmalade speeches sap of bitter war,My words dance on paper like Emily D.A funeral tangos in the mind’s…

By: Johanna Deletti, Elysia| Harman Projects You could not know my journey through jaded dreams undermy Goddess Gaze. Seaweed green mirrored against layers of a metallic stream occupied byincandescent tumult. Flaming red ringlets amongst writhing serpentine like a creature whocoils like my tail molts into submission. Surrounded by lava-soaked fire ripplets, panic waits for my…

By: Noel Nephew The death of Robin Williams was like the death in the family.He was the father figure I never had, and suddenly he was gone.Suicide, they said. Tears of a clown.I know those tears well. Thatsudden, silent, sadness after a night of performing for othersI learned early on that I couldn’t be the…

By: Noel Nephew Just because I feel no needto fill a quiet moment with noisedoes not mean I have nothing to say.I’m gathering. Collecting momentsothers might not notice. Contentto just observe and letthe world show itself to me.Then I can begin my weave.Pick and stitch and create worlds all my own.There my voice is the…

By: Christian Bauer Not to throw some Brontë at you, but ‘little things recall us to earth’ (that’s Jane Eyre). Do you ever fall into yourself when you’re trying to get to sleep? What’s that called? It’s kind of like being calledback to reality. So, I’ll call it that. Recall. It’s an odd sensation—like goosebumps…