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 …

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 …

From Issue 7: The Shattered Glass

The Shattered Glass Angel LaCanfora This is the time of the shattered glass- The drain clogged with the hairs of my cares and worries and outside, snow is flurrying and I slosh through the slurry of mourning- every noon and night. This is the time of the shattered glass- Green bottles breaking. I’m trying to reach for your hand but mine’s bandaged too tight. I’m like a pilot light airplane crashing into an empty home on a hillside forest. This is the time of the shattered glass- Champagne flutes and busted guitars litter the floor after the celebration and gyrations… …

Call for Submissions: Scary Stories for Fall Issue

Readers, we’re excited to open the submission gates for a special themed issue arriving September 2018. We want your ghost stories, your phobia stories, your psychological creepers — basically anything about fear, whether from external or internal sources. As always, we want stories, essays, and poems that challenge the boundaries of genre and transcend their forms with stunning writing. Check out our Submittable page and submit your best scary stories today! Because we need time to assemble the issue, we’ll be reading for this issue until mid-August. We can’t wait to read what you’ve got!…

Featured: After that Night

by Kat Delghingaro

Listen to the piece below:


You’re walking on a beach with your friend Ed and a stranger but she’s not really a stranger, she goes to the same school as you and you know she’s a nursing student, you know because she told you when you helped pass out condoms to freshmen at the HIV testing both and they flirted with her, complementing her nursing uniform. You never thought you’d be friends with a nurse, you tend to run with artist and actors but she has a cool tattoo of a lion on her …

Featured: The Tao of Barbour County

by L. Ward Abel

Listen to the poem below:


L. Ward Abel, poet, composer and performer of music, teacher, retired lawyer, lives in rural Georgia, has been published hundreds of times in print and online, and is the author of one full collection and nine chapbooks of poetry, including Jonesing For Byzantium (UK Authors Press, 2006), American Bruise (Parallel Press, 2012), Little Town gods (Folded Word Press, 2016), and Digby Roundabout (Kelsay Books, 2017). “The Tao of Barbour County” is from Digby Roundabout.

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… …

From Issue 16: Boxing Life

Nancy Christie “There are years that ask questions and years that answer”—Zora Neale Hurston This is the year that asks questions. It must be, because I have no answers, no answers at all. I have spent the better part of the past month packing boxes—writing directions with a fat black marker on rectangular white labels: “Put in storage room,” “Put in bedroom,” “Leave in garage.” I keep thinking that, if I write out enough labels and put them on enough boxes, all the scattered bits of my life will come together like giant jigsaw puzzle pieces to form a new… …

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 …