Poetry by Nancy R. Yang Sometimes when I fret I see sugar chalk on malted chocolate, in dreams, hidden prizes in grass, bunnies and bibles, long altar calls: Lord, I come over and over my young stomach rumbles while Mom holds the red-covered hymnal down so I see, so I sing along: watermelon, watermelon, deviled … Read More
Spring Trip to the Lake
Poetry by Nancy R. Yang the rented house on the water its iron statue of a horse on the lawn and forget-me-nots scattered like glitter the freeway in the distance is a white whir. The ride in the car for barbecue, windows down so everyone can see my face. Like the little boys turning their … Read More
A Horse Ran Amok
Poetry by Shari Neva Hollander A horse ran amok Or so it seemed to those watching But in his singular mind, it was a dash Through spring pastures as a colt A sprint to the finish line as a yearling His last furlong as an old stud Before consigning himself To the hay in the … Read More
Ah, But I Was So Much Older Then; I’m Younger Than That Now
Fiction by Zaslow Crane “Ah, But I Was So Much Older Then; I’m Younger Than That Now” is an Editor’s Choice selection for this issue. It dawned on me that perhaps I’d sat too long on the park bench watching the ocean. The gulls were restive. Ground squirrels were emboldened by my quietude. They came up … Read More
The Essence
Fiction by Christine Ahern “The Essence” is an Editor’s Choice selection for this issue. Sophia brought the cinnamon stick to her nose. Would this be it? Was this where she would find him? She closed her eyes and saw the image of Robert rolling out pie crust dough. She pictured his hands as they chopped … Read More
Melissa
Nonfiction by Heather Campbell I was afraid to speak to you at the start. You were a writer, I was not. You were accomplished, I was not. People tend to lay down different aspects of themselves, depending on who they are with, but you were always beautifully you. You were kind and thoughtful, and you … Read More
The Light of Luna Madre
Fiction by C.S. Perryess The icy night wind strikes me in the face. It pushes my back against the adobe graveyard wall. Such a wind, born high in the Juarapa Mountains—born of snow and ice. Along the way, through the high deserts of Buitre Blanca, such a wind collects ghosts and cactus needles. Perhaps Adolfo … Read More
What I Miss Most
Poetry by Lewis Leicher Why, when I close my eyes, do I still see a city? Buildings piled high, bees flying from dumpster to dumpster, yellow cabs blooming in the streets. Mid-July in Manhattan, 90° by 10:00 A.M.—the cracked sidewalks, trying to perfect their tans, are getting sunburned. No air conditioning at home, I go … Read More
December 1972
Poetry by Lewis Leicher We all have personal landmarks—public places that matter to us for private reasons, with no brass plaques to say why. My favorite was the big wooden phone booth, in the lobby of a midtown New York hotel, where I first really kissed a girl I was in love with, in December … Read More
When I Was Five
Poetry by Lewis Leicher When I was five, I accidently learned how to ride a bike without training wheels: those miniature rear tires became loose enough to slide backward and lift up from the sidewalk, no longer providing any training. I wasn’t an intrepid kid … risk-taking did not come easily to me (still doesn’t)—I’d … Read More