Posts from the ‘Issue’ category

From Issue 17: Buenos Aires, Argentina, Architectural Design

Keith Moul
























Keith Moul’s poems and photos are published widely. Aldrich Press published Naked Among Possibilities in 2016; Finishing Line Press has just released (1/17) Investment in Idolatry.  In August, 2017, Aldrich Press released Not on Any Map, a collection of earlier poems.…

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From Issue 17: New York Minute

Harold Ackerman


















Harold Ackerman works in Berwick, PA, close by the Susquehanna River, where he lives with his spouse, Jane.  He has published poetry and fiction and maintains a photo gallery at

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From Issue 17: Bed Stuy Stories

Listen to this audio story here:

Vivien Schütz recently graduated with a Master of Fine Arts in Media Art and Design in Germany and is working as a freelance audio producer and director’s assistant for German public radio, and is now relocating to New York City. She did her Bachelor in Journalism and worked for a local radio station as a reporter.…

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From Issue 17: Phone Calls and Flowers

Hilary Brewster


March, 1995

I let the phone ring three times before I answer. I’m hoping it’s the boy I have a crush on, and I can’t seem too eager, says Seventeen. I close my algebra textbook.

“Hello?” I lilt the O.

“Can I talk to Katharine?” a man drawls. I’m disappointed it’s not for me.

“Sure, hold on one minute please.” My phone etiquette education did not include requesting the caller’s identification. I put down the receiver and walk to the landing to shout downstairs. I lift the phone back to my ear to confirm she’s on …

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From Issue 7: Yellow



Catherine Flora Con

The night Luke first disappointed his father, the house looked formidable despite its peeling yellow paint.  Already there were sandbags against the door in case the hurricane hit, though it wasn’t supposed to come until Thursday and even then it would just be rain.  He turned the key in the latch and the first thing his father said was, “Lock the door.”

Luke did, and his father jiggled the knob to check it himself.  In the living room, Luke sat on the couch with his elbows on …

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From Issue 16: The Disposal of Mormon Garments

Dayna Patterson

This ritual, for me, used to entail careful cutting, excising the horizontal line over knee and navel, the compass’s V over the right breast, the square’s L over the left, four white rounds of cloth with their holy symbols I’d hold between tweezers and carefully burn over the sink, rinsing down cinders and wiping away scorch marks on porcelain.

Their sacred bits stripped, I ripped the remaining cloth to rags, perfect for soaking up lemon oil polish on the piano and bookshelves.

V — — L

I remember putting them on the first time—I was 21, prepping for …

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From Issue 16: The Visitor

Brittany Ackerman

Duncan Leeds used to go to my school, but transferred when his dad got a promotion and his mom wanted a house in Wellington Gardens, a house that had an elevator and a trampoline in addition to the standard two stories and a pool for Florida mansions.  Wellington was thirty minutes away from where I lived in Boca Raton, and in Florida time, that was a whole other world.  He was my first real boyfriend, even though we only saw each other on weekends.

“I love you,” Duncan said on the phone.  It was late, past eleven o’clock …

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From Issue 16: Winter Solstice

Noorulain Noor

The moon, only a half-arc wafer,
and the darkness discordant
with rush hour traffic.
This throng of lonely souls,
in accidental communion with each other,
their heartbreak heavier than night.
Together, we wear a shroud of invisibility
under the same barren stretch of sky,
inching along the same patch of road
amidst the sinusoidal symmetry of hills —
sentinels of many other sorrows.


Noorulain Noor is a member of the Community of Writers at Squaw Valley and a two time Pushcart Prize nominee. Her poetry has appeared in Spillway, Sugar Mule, Santa Clara Review, Muzzle and other …

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From Issue 15: Bodies of Water

Ash Sanders

It was the summer of Nancy Drew–the year I finished the last of Carolyn Keene’s seventy-eight mysteries at the library by my house and, enthralled, started again on the first one. School had been out for a month by then, and the heat came down like an omen, flat and hard on our bodies. My father had a name for this weather; he called it July’s Murder. I liked this because it sounded Nancy Drew, and it worded the world exactly: the grass curling with exhaustion, the sidewalks belly-up with sun by early morning, crying: uncle! uncle!

Everyone …

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From Issue 15: September


David Sam

So green goes
pregnant underground
or flies with wind—
divine botanical passion

We darken this
with restlessness
for other equinoxes

How to vanish
turning away from such
an unreliable map

Where in the end
my likeness
will walk without me
while the world has changed


David Anthony Sam lives in Virginia with his wife and life partner, Linda. He has four collections and his poetry has appeared in over 70 journals and publications. His chapbook Finite to Fail: Poems after Dickinson was the 2016 Grand Prize winner of GFT Press Chapbook Contest.…

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