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.…

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

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.…

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 …

From Issue 17: Fly Fishing

K.B. Holzman


Hip-deep in crystal clear water, they posed every morning. Two, three, sometimes as many as five men silently casting their lines soon after the sun appeared on the horizon. Whether they spoke before or after, she never knew. By the time she passed, they were already in position, each facing a unique direction, intent on casting their line with graceful precision, reeling in with stoic optimism.


Before 9/11, cars were allowed to drive over the dam on the Western side of the reservoir. After the terrorist act, cement blocks were deposited on both ends of the …

From Issue 17: Collateral

Brian Phillip Whalen

This poem was originally published in The Cardiff Review.

When I eat pepperoni pizza late at night, I have nightmares. I’m 35 years old, the same age my father was when he slept nights inside a bottle of Boone’s Farm wine. [My father was 13 when his mother warned him:“Boys like you end up in jail or Vietnam.”] When I was 13, I read the morning comic strips: Garfield ate a pepperoni pizza late at night and had a ghastly nightmare. He woke Jon and Jon took on his monsters. [I was 7 when my father …

From Issue 17: from Days of the God-Sized Brains

Jennifer Metsker


Reliable as a courier pigeon, I did my job: i.e. I bought things. I lurched into the theater dressed in my fatigues to cry before the Jesuses. I listened to far off disco planets, crooned to the carpet, carried my satchel. But my religious conversion was the God-given equivalent of wax paper. Nothing ever stuck. So I’m running from the government down tilt and tumble alleys looking for a place to stow my snow globe collection.


Jennifer Metsker teaches writing at the Stamps School of Art and Design. Her poetry has been published in Beloit, Birdfeast, …

From Issue 17: most of my life has consisted of longing

E.J. Evans


Most of my life has consisted of longing and probably most lives are like this I suppose it to be the fundamental human substance well why not one’s life has to consist of something the mind is just a big empty space and must needs be filled with something and so longing is the most readily available filler I can tell you I’ve clung to longing like a shipwrecked man clinging to a piece of floating wreckage it has given my life and by extension my identity what little structure and coherence it has had so I …

From Issue 17: In the Wake of the Storm, When Snow Had Reached the Rooftops

Rodney Torreson


my brother Dean crawled
through the bathroom window
and carved a path to the door.
Later, while father dug for the tractor
and loader, we cut channels so high
through the white,
that from the house to the barn
and to the pig pens and beyond,
birds winged through them
as daylight reveled,
marbling the maze’s walls.

The goodwill of neighbors
after such a storm
brushed not only us but the spirit
of the cattle and hogs—
the horses as well—though,
if any livestock
cleared snow,
we never saw it. Yet time and again
they leaned in, …

From Issue 17: My Dark Whistle

Charles Kell

starts to hum
this way when my belly
full of glass
becomes unbearable.

The grey wrens fly
fast into the near-
est dark hole
& your pretty mirror

dissolves into a float-
ing pile of wet sand.
The only way
to make me stop

is to nail a pencil
to my hand. The sky
starts to crack
when I lick my lips.

Quick, the hammer.


Charles Kell is a PhD student at The University of Rhode Island and editor of The Ocean State Review. His poetry and fiction have appeared in The New Orleans Review, The Saint …