Issue 11

POETRY

• Lorcán Black, Salomé

• Carl A. Boon, Two Sonnets In A Room 

• Luigi Coppola, The World’s Next Top Mascots 

• Laine Derr, To the Woods

• Louise A Dolan, Winter’s Tedium 

• Galadriel Faye, Mr. Rabbit 

• Sara E.G. Francis, Sestina in the Key of Madness

• David Goad, Homeless, Hospital Room

• Benjamin Goluboff, Chicago Bikers

• David A. Goodrum, Interrupted Spring

• Hillary Gordon, The Day I Became the Mom and You Became the Daughter

• Erin Jamieson, Open

• Candice Kelsey, Charmin Ultra Soft

• Virginia Laurie, Lascaux

• Evan Mancer, Regurgitate, Tybalt

• Kate Maxwell, Fall of the Ratites

• Tamara Nasution, Night Critters

• Jean Noel Ruhland, Amerikaner

• Juliana Schicho, plexi-glass, cubo

• Corinna Schulenburg, Rasp Fugue, Breakfast

• Travis Stephens, Baseball Mitt Left Out in The Rain

• Francis Johann Verdote, Pondering Pea Pond Pandered

• Jacob Vincent, The Shore

• Jessica Wyland, Haiku Interlude: For those who have shared my body

• Steven O. Young Jr., A Murmuration

BIOGRAPHIES

EDITORIAL TEAM: Angie Barry-Florio, Bill Hicks, Sandra Kourchenko

ADVISORS: Juana Moriel-Payne, Thomas Cook

Savage House, by Willy Conley

Photography by Roger Camp

1 2

3. 4

What Did You Look Like As A Child, Plato’s Ledge, Antiprayer, Streaks, by Adrian Estrada

Bike Parking, Spillway, by Donald Guadagni

Orsay Clock, Tate Stairwell, Vienna Post, Mushroom Cloud, by Marka Rifat

Hummingbird Fedding, Swallows, Cyclist's Rest (Casa Blanca), by Ana Welch

POETRY

_____________________________________________________________________

Lorcán Black 

Salomé 

 ...that red–ripped, riven skin: 

& the veins slivered over  

a bare stone floor fit for a King. 

 The fresh, cold plate  

like a destiny 

& his screams so silver:   

the plate a mirror  of horrors– so solidified, desired.  

To my mother’s house   

swiftly I come–  my fingers red. I stare & stare  

at them: they are foreigners–  

to the guards  

I said: “Red... 

from berry–picking.” 

_______________________________

Carl A. Boon 

Two Sonnets In A Room 

(1) 

Here we are in a room  

that tastes of red fruit  

& rotten wood. You’ve pulled back 

your hair & search the walls  

for some familiarity; you run  

your hands against them  

to remember something I cannot.  

There are no windows,  

but we know it’s grown dark 

outside, as dark as if the stars 

were only an eventual, prizes 

we must wait for. I light the stove 

& listen for its flame to catch— 

like saints’ skin, like desire.  

(2) 

We can’t recall the train  

that brought us here, only the fog 

it sped through, the hobo song, 

the siding at Crimson River. 

You carried a handkerchief 

that belonged to your mother, 

a box of walnuts, three figs. 

You tell me it’s begun to snow  

again & signal for the panther  

inside me & extra heat. I rise, 

withering inside this beautiful awry 

 of a dream, of you. In the morning 

birdsong will awaken us— 

& then you will remember. 

_______________________________

Luigi Coppola

The World’s Next Top Mascots

Art by Mark Shuttleworth

Mickey’s ears droop like

foreskin over his limp head,

hands loaded with toys.

Coco’s hat is stitched

onto scalp, wire threaded

through his tail and smile. 

Tony’s whiskers twitch

as his teeth crack on a spoon

warm and black and bowed. 

The Colonel wheelies,

grease runs down his chins, gravy

clogging arteries. 

Cool-addled man bubbles

over while brain spikes,

cravinga wet, empty rush.

Her fawn hooves flinch,

she bubblies at the mouth, a once dear

baby shammed into remission. 

The Captain heaves in

soiled bed, inconsolable,

screaming through the night.

_______________________________

Laine Derr 

To the Woods 

To the woods I went so my bones could breathe. 

It’s warm. It’s summer. Paradise smells of moss.  

If I named the mountain, then it’d be yours, 

raw, swallowed whole, my heart sliding sweet 

through a body unknown. They come to me,  

those of loss, fire and faith. My lover has no teeth,  

I hear them weep – flat, smooth stones skipped   

across a sun-bled lake, crawdads pinched in back- 

ward submission, rainbow trout (cold-water chorus  

lulled by shimmering firs) gutted, lemoned, foiled. 

___________________________________

Louise A Dolan 

Winter’s Tedium 

There’s nothing worse than afternoons with you. 

The tedium can drive me to despair. 

The countless stories told with no new news 

amidst mild racist witticisms glare. 

With wine, the same ten tales can swing and sway 

From tall white whales to mildly bawdy lore. 

You pay no heed to anything I say, 

I’ve given up. I don’t try anymore. 

But know there’s not a friend that’s been more true 

When Jack Frost’s stronghold all but locks us in. 

Just when I think I’ve had enough of you, 

Bacchus appears with limes and salty rims. 

Perhaps we’re better bored and not alone 

When winter’s snow and sleet keep us at home. 

____________________________

Galadriel Faye 

Mr. Rabbit 

Lazy lunch break 

Under a magnolia tree 

Distractedly reading a Russian epic 

monarchs gossip in my ear  

Anna, we won’t let Them disgrace us 

For loving a younger man. 

It’s time for our daily meet up 

My eyes follow you 

My thoughts go down the rabbit hole,  

Fall into my hole I beg   

As I watch your legs endless in your baggy blue jeans  

Bend me over the hood of your fast car  

Pull up to my bumper 

Make me stick to your leather backseat 

I’m tired of being well mannered and coy,  

Eat me already bunny boy.  

Your eyes widen as I talk to you 

As your body jumps under my hand  

I can see your nerve growing  

You bend close to my mouth  

The smell of sugar on your breath 

Drink me - 

I’ll be sweet in your mouth   

I follow you to the parking lot  

Trace fuck me on the window of your car 

You push up your spectacles, roll up your  

Sleeves 

and finally hop on board  

Alice is no longer curious  

Now she is just insatiable 

Don’t even bother checking your watch 

Mr. Rabbit, just do it again 

______________________________

Sara E.G. Francis

Sestina in the Key of Madness

It starts slowly with a fever, a heat

wave rises from your flesh moving

inward with a fury. You attract the other

sex free from your ego, the world made

fresh by knowing what it means to

fuck.

Explore who’s best, compare the fucks.

One man can’t contain this fever. Let women

show you a fresh take on what can be done

to flesh. Your breasts, your clit, your cunt

now free to experiment with fury.

When you find the man whose fury

matches yours, you can’t help but fuck

on everything, everywhere. Free to reach

that climaxed fever, marking your days

by slaps of flesh, you become seasoned

and unfresh.

But soon he leaves you and a fresh wound

forms that others smell with fury of their

own and bite into your flesh to maim and

show you how to fuck with malice. Rage at

a fevered pitch darkens what was once

freedom.

You want their passion to be free so take on

violence as a fresh style of love, while strange

fevers replace the one you knew. Fury and sex

are one, or maybe you’re too fucked up to

know the difference in flesh.

You settle for calm in the flesh of a quiet

man who bores. Free from the threat of

blows, but he fucks you without fire.

Relief is fresh, yet you wonder how,

sans fury, he can even care. This fever

takes on all forms. We drown in fresh blood

freed from our flesh in fury and give no fucks.

The winner is the fever.

________________________________

David Goad

Homeless

Hospital Room

Homeless

In the grocery store a man approaches me,

And asks me to buy him soup. I won't think much

About it later. After all I am a metropolitan,

and as a metropolitan I'm taught by the good city

To disengage like the cloud passing into distance,

To distract readily as wind in open fields,

Touching all of it in one wide grasp, then letting go.

With beaten brow, band-aided finger, and street stench

He will go through me like that breeze,

Lost to the everyday misery,

The simple cost for late kisses

On our silky length of bed,

And clinks of glass among our splendid company,

And by far worth our warm, endless spoonfuls

In meal after meal after meal.

Hospital Room

All night the sour dew courses the raw root

In the grub tunnel of a hallway where

"Halfway down and to the right",

Your body burrows in the backfill

Of a seed pit, reversing to the germ.

A deathbed is as much a flowerbed

As anything. I count your double-backing

Blossom until you are dirt

That never produces.

There sprouting filament

From your vein, the tubes vine,

And tendrils reach up saline sacks

Nourishing you like a cloud

Over an eyeless head.

Nature is a pretty betrayal –

The season tears the skin off the other,

Swallows red flames from the elm,

And leaves only the leftover,

Burnt body lying in November

of the impotent gray world,

With all your loathes and loves

Lost to that hiss of machine,

over you like a buzzard, the bloody beak

Ready to make you bone and number.

_______________________________

Benjamin Goluboff

Chicago Bikers

We fear no CTA bus for they are driven

by professionals, but we fear.

Crossing the river at Lawrence we fear;

we fear on Lower Wacker Drive.

Once I rode with these kids into traffic

I should have stayed out of,

and when I said to them afterwards

you guys are fearless,

the alpha kid said no

we got some fear.

On our fear we are trued and balanced,

by our fear we speed.

We whistle past the ghost bike

at Damen and Addison,

the ghost bike at Kedzie and Armitage,

the ghost bike at Pulaski and Diversey.

Still we roll or balance

still at the red light.

Sticker on the helmet,

HiVis saturated black,

Chance on random on blast

on the BlueTooth.

We try to make eye contact with you;

our doubt is still your benefit.

We are slow-rolling here about

our little clause in the social contract.

_____________________________

David A. Goodrum

Interrupted Spring

wild carrot just the memory of lace

wavers in the wind cowled and curled up

brown dry umbel above pale field straw

decrepit royalty unless the dormant seeds sprout

heading up to the bald hill

the iced-over puddles have melted

revealing the muddy earth

my footing unsteady

as I spill over and fail

at grasping the saturated ground

back home taunting forsythia

streams stems of otherwise bare

yellow fingers stretching up

towards a changing sky

before the night’s hoar frost

chokes their promise

evening has been drawn in

by night’s sketch artist

the nearly extinguished sliver moon

inked then blotted then inked again

the fogged horizon to the west

dimly reflects the town’s light

and awaits everything else to fall

in its wake leaving me alone

with my thoughts blankets providing no warmth

worry beads with the varnish rubbed off

and such poor company they always

refuse to leave even when offered a bed

___________________________

Hillary Gordon

The Day I Became the Mom and You Became the Daughter

You told me your whole plan

You would wait until I was at work

And then you would drive to the

Cold Springs Bridge

And

Jump!

I imagined it

Your silver car, full of dents

Parked on the side of the road

What would you wear?

Knowing it would be the last

Outfit you’d ever put on

I imagined the vista

The way the mountains look purple behind the bridge

The way the trees grow a dark emerald green

And I imagined how many people

They’ve watched leap from that bridge

Quite a busy place for suicide

Outdone only by its more popular and beautiful older sister

The Golden Gate- A California Favorite

Please don’t do that

I said

I’m doing it

You said

You grabbed the car keys

And I ran after you

Your words slurring as they left your

Drooping mouth

Tripping on your own feet

In your bathrobe full of cigarette burns

I followed you outside

And snatched the keys

Right out of your clammy hands.

You fought back

Twisting and turning and screaming

Let Me Go, Let Me

Go! I let you go

Your ran back into the house

And locked me out

Barefoot and braless

Knocking on my neighbor’s door

Calling 911

You opened the door for the police

And I watched

As they carried you away

Hands behind your back

Your dry feet against the pavement of the driveway

Like children eventually do

You Left Me

Standing in the driveway

Waving goodbye

To the home

I once knew

____________________________

Erin Jamieson

Open

this is a refrain

you’ve sung for years

in cavernous rooms

with dusty halls

under ambient amber light

dressed in lace hemmed robes

calling out to anyone

who will listen.

__________________

Candice Kelsey

Charmin Ultra Soft

I come home from the store

without the usual brand of toilet paper.

This brand better be soft,

my husband remarks.

On the TV, March Madness

zooms in on cheerleaders’ bare legs.

Next thing I know I am one.

And so are my two daughters,

my mother, and my dead mother-in-law too—

We bounce down the aisles

turning the occasional cartwheel

between tossing our groceries into the cart

with spirit hands and smiles.

We wink at the butcher,

the Girl Scout troop leader, even the baggers.

Our kicks say it all: we know

men cut us down to skin, legs, ass, midriff,

and tits. They want our softness

high quality like their paper products.

At Publix today, the shelves

were empty— pressure to boycott

Charmin for Procter & Gamble’s

abysmal deforestation practices,

harming indigenous peoples and the climate.

I remember thirty-five years earlier,

sliding south on I-71

through the Lytle Tunnel with my dad

on the way to a Reds game.

As the car emerged to meet downtown

Cincinnati, his mouth widened

at the rounded twin P&G towers

rounding out the Queen City skyline:

Look! The Dolly Parton Building.

__________________________

Virginia Laurie

Lascaux

My mouth tickles— No, stings—

point my pointer to lower lip and there it is,

pearl of red, color that never lies

Still I take the bead

and crush it against the wall

like killing a gnat in class

to watch it smear

and decorate

and mostly, prove

I am a living thing

like all you living things before

May we forgive each other

for the lessons

we never finish learning

_________________________

Evan Mancer

Regurgitate

Tybalt

Regurgitate

Nothing I could see would break the spell

The pictures grinding through my eyes,

A terrible sickness wrapped in film

Projecting a hate into my mind

No image I could see would turn back time

I’ve never been tickled here

but now I smile

For my parts whole through the tale

It’s all deserved

I know we’re sick and insecure

One day you’ll be allowed

To seek happiness

Long after we’ve gone

It’s not your fault

They know not what we lack

Tybalt

There are things you tell yourself

That are not True

Silence

Safety

An autumn never came around here

Spring and Summer never cease

The fields never catch a break

A tactile foreboding in the midnight heat

People wonder when earth will crack

Some argue whether it even can

They drank the future from the hill

Abacus

Release the gate where the joyous play

A bounty lies in the mists of youth

______________________________

Kate Maxwell

Fall of the Ratites

How you are fallen from heaven, O Day Star, son of Dawn!

Isaiah 14:12-13

Lost my strong pectoral muscles

generations past

soaring through mountain mists

heaven in my heart

breath of blue, all but a tingle

in the flap and flutter

of these heavy useless wings

and upward yearnings.

Of stones and dirt, not wind and clouds

these broad fat feet will claw

and search, eyes down

roosting into gravity

with stoic resignation

obligated surety

that we remain sustained

since earthbound and enlarged.

Weighed down with the heft of durability

thick bodied, tough skinned

and breastbone now too flat

to use as keel: I pause

in my pedestrian foraging

scan unending skies

to watch those of us still

able-winged and hollow-boned

hover and sail as they touch

edges of forever with their feathered

tips and lighter souls.

Down here in the dirt

squinting into sun and splendour

their aerial abandon

still whispers to my armless torso

once, you also soared.

_____________________________

Tamara Nasution

Night Critters

Daredevil tiger, come

to me at once.

By the orange leaves,

come. Come, I will pick

the lilies. I dare to

and so do you; the guards

leave at midnight.

I will be wearing blue.

A clue. Come. There

is time until the morning

comes. Military men

can’t stay awake as

well as I can. Open

your eyes; I will stand by

the tiger lilies. Come

to me, come hurried.

__________________________

Jean Noel Ruhland

Amerikaner

A cake-like cookie commonly displayed

in German bakeries for after school,

the Black and White sat staring, dismayed

about all it has seen. My mom’s cold pool

of blood reflected on where it came from

before the bombs chased her and the cookie

out from their home. On top of the lonesome

sweet treat, a line to divide what is me.

Some say the German in me wins, and I

Say the soft American lies within.

But cookies know the answer, their sublime.

Just take a bite and wash away the sin.

The blood is mopped, and Germany is clean.

America gives homes to cookie glee.

Photograph: “Back in The Day,” by Jane Ellen Zimmermann.

________________________________

Juliana Schicho

plexi-glass

cubo

plexi-glass

i can see my reflection here | behind | in

the | two walls | surrounding | me |

biography in | times new roman |

12 pt font | double spaced |

there is | a window | behind me

| i think there is |

i can see the s|un| is starting to set

| i think it is |

on the s|now| that will not melt

cubo

the root of the word cubicle

comes from

the Latin

cubare which

means to lie

down to lie

or to recline

and to relax

or to be sick, or bedridden.

______________________

Corinna Schulenburg

Rasp Fugue

Breakfast

Rasp Fugue

the coughs, they breed

in the corners of Russell Sage playground,

I saw them once, blooming

like early daffodils, yellow and brown

as ripe bananas, huddled together

and spooning into each other's mouths

as we took cover from the meteors

which fall now, every day or is it

every other day

the kids, they blink

like little moles coming out the shelters

we built for them at Yellowstone playground

jury-rigged from the cut tongues of slides

and the coughs, they canter

across the very skin the sun hunts, the sun

which flares now, every hour or is it

every other hour

the officers, they swing

a soothing violence to keep the time,

circling the playgrounds in measured steps,

and the coughs, they say pick me,

and they are plucked up from beet-red roots

and hover, diaphanous above us, then burst,

as we offer murmurs of "I hope

this email finds you well" to the faces

which fade now, every breath or is it

Breakfast

Somewhere there is

another me

who cracks her eggs

perfectly

and who pities this me

a little as we

branch away

across the multiverse,

but only a little.

That other me has no time

for pity.

Great things

arrange themselves

before her, righteous

as well-flipped omelets,

while I sit, now almost out

of sight, and eat

around the bits

of broken shell.

____________________

Travis Stephens

Baseball Mitt Left Out in The Rain

duck, here it comes!

snowball, iceball,

horse chestnut

tackle

tussle on the lawn, grass stained

knees & say uncle.

Listen up, squirt, the hard lessons

learned by watching

snowball face wash

gristle punk

snot rocket!

After grunts & grumbles

a laugh

a fall down god-you-kill-me

laughter like no other.

Bushel basket of farts,

goofy eyed & awful.

Oh my brothers

no wonder

I miss you all.

________________

Francis Johann Verdote

Pondering Pea Pond Pandered

He is not a pea in a pod. He aspires to be more than that. He is a child who loves to run wild and free, not caring about a thing or two. But he has an urge to release. Not anger. Not pain. Not happiness, but rain. Golden showers sprinkling in a pond of koi-less water. Algae creeping up the walls drowned by muddied waters. Make it rain. Make it rain. Jaundice. Yellow mellow. Clear. The angels and cherubs watch the kid pee in the pond.

__________________________

Jacob Vincent 

The Shore 

Summer

Ours for a week,

the room where waves echo.

Ache of silence relieved,

as we dangle on the edge of an ocean.

Grains of sand trail after her,

the scent of damp pines tangled in her hair.

“I have never seen such blue.”

Nestled in her arms, a pur.

A chrysanthemum blazes pink behind her ear.

Winter

Dead leaves note every step,

until plucked feathers stir at the door

with no other sign of the wild cat.

Within, all revealed as hollow

blown through by the wind

and I took my place among transparent things

The room is as it has always been,

paralyzed by the stagnancy of tireless waves. 

_________________________

Jessica Wyland

Haiku Interlude: For those who have shared my body

Ex, 1

What a tremendous

mind fuck it is, to love, love,

love, and to be loved.

Ex, 2

I am glad you are

Locked up to keep me safe, sane,

Defusing what was.

Ex, 3

It wasn’t hard to

get over you, because I

I am not in love.

Ex, 4

Quite tall, with square jaw

Your penis is so tiny

Dragon girl ... ha ha.

Ex, 5

Bowl haircut you will

Always be special to me,

As I am to you.

Ex, 6

A divorced woman

Is like a used car, you said.

Insecure man-child.

Ex, 7

Careless moment, lust

But it goes deeper than that.

You should be careful.

Ex, 8

Don’t say you ruined

my life, because you are not

that significant.

Ex, 9

If she ever dies,

I’ll totally take you back,

For purgatory.

Ex, 10

We can make love for

Old time’s sake, and for new time’s

Scarcity and grace.

Ex, 11

I do wish we could

have lived like the little house

on a red prairie.

Ex, 12

Any one of you

It could have been, but it is

What is yet to come.

______________________

Steven O. Young Jr.

A Murmuration

BIOGRAPHIES

_____________________________________________________________________

POETRY

LORCÁN BLACK

is an Irish poet. His poetry is forthcoming or has been published in The Progentior, Drunk Monkeys, New Writing Scotland, Poet Lore, Stirring, Snapdragon, Connecticut River Review, Northern New England Review, Souvenir Lit, The Los Angeles Review & The Stinging Fly, amongst numerous others. He is a Pushcart Prize and Best of the Net nominee and has been longlisted for the Two Sylvias Prize. His first collection, Rituals, was published by April Gloaming Publishing in 2019.

CARL A. BOON

is the author of the full-length collection Places & Names: Poems (The Nasiona Press, 2019). His writing has appeared in many journals and magazines, including Prairie Schooner, Posit, and The Maine Review. He received his Ph.D. in Twentieth-Century American Literature from Ohio University in 2007, and currently lives in Izmir, Turkey, where he teaches courses in American literature at Dokuz Eylül University.

LUIGI COPPOLA, MARK SHUTTLEWORTH

Bonding over a love of the written word, the visual arts and alcohol, LUIGI COPPOLA and MARK SHUTTLEWORTH collaborate to bring their twisted, twined and transcendental take on the world to the masses. Visit www.ArtAndWordsAndWordsAndArt.blogspot.com for their Art and Words and Words and Art.

LAINE DERR

holds an MFA from Northern Arizona University and has published interviews with Carl Phillips, Ross Gay, Ted Kooser, and Robert Pinsky. Recent work has appeared or is forthcoming from Antithesis, ZYZZYVA, Portland Review, North Dakota Quarterly, Prairie Schooner, and elsewhere.

LOUISE A. DOLAN

is recently retired from North Carolina State University after teaching Spanish Language and Culture for more than three decades. She is currently a candidate for the MFA in Creative Writing at Mt. St. Mary University in Los Angeles. Previous publications include short story "The Crush," in the anthology Scattered Covered and Smothered; Personal essay "Here Kitty, Kitty," in The Urban Hiker, Stories in First Voice; and the poem, "Bach's Duet for Violins," The Windover Literary and Arts Magazine.

GALADRIEL FAYE

holds a B.A. in English from Mount St. Mary’s University in Brentwood, California. She is currently an MFA in Creative Writing candidate at Mount St. Mary’s University working on her thesis - a love letter to bad ass women and vampires. Galadriel loves horror movies, tattoos, and helping rescue animals.

SARAH E.G. FRANCIS

is a writer currently pursuing her MFA at Mount Saint Mary's University. Originally from Manhattan, she has worked as an educator in Los Angeles for the last eight years. She writes across genres, with particular interest in creative non-fiction, short story and poetry. Her work has been previously published in Prime Number Magazine.

BENJAMIN GOLUBOFF

is the author of Ho Chi Minh: A Speculative Life in Verse and Biking Englewood: An Essay on the White Gaze, both from Urban Farmhouse Press. Goluboff teaches at Lake Forest College and some of his work can be read at https://www.lakeforest.edu/academics/faculty/goluboff

DAVID A. GOODRUM

is a writer and photographer living in Corvallis, Oregon. His poems are forthcoming or have been published in Spillway, Star 82 Review, The Write Launch, The Closed Eye Open, New Plains Review, The Nebraska Review, The Louisville Review, and other journals. Additional work (both poetry and photography) can be viewed at www.davidgoodrum.com.

HILLARY GORDON

lives in Ojai, California. She works in FM radio and is in the process of completing her MFA in Creative Writing at Mount Saint Mary's University in Los Angeles, CA.

ERIN JAMIESON

holds an MFA in Creative Writing from Miami University of Ohio. My published work includes two poetry chapbooks, over 90 pieces of short fiction and poetry, and a Pushcart Prize nomination. I teach English at the Ohio State University, as well as work as a freelance writer and YouTube content creator. My research has been published in The Journal of African American Studies.

CANDICE KELSEY

is a Cincinnati native; she is a poet, educator, and activist currently living in Georgia. She serves as a creative writing mentor with PEN America's Prison & Justice Writing Program; her work appears in Grub Street, Poet Lore, Lumiere Review, Hawai'i Pacific Review, and Poetry South among other journals. Recently, Candice was chosen as a finalist in Iowa Review's Poetry Contest and Cutthroat's Joy Harjo Poetry Prize. Her third book releases September '22. Find her @candicekelsey1 and www.candicemkelseypoet.com.

VIRGINIA LAURIE

is an MFA candidate at University of North Carolina Wilmington. She earned her BA in English from Washington and Lee University. Her poetry and visual art appears in Apricity Magazine, South Florida Poetry Journal, Phantom Kangaroo, Cathexis Northwest Press, and more. Find her online at virginialaurie.com.

KATE MAXWELL

is a teacher and writer from Sydney. She’s been published and awarded in many literary magazines over the years. She was recently shortlisted for the ACU Poetry prize and Booronga Prize. Her first poetry anthology is Never Good at Maths (Interactive Publications, 2021) and her second anthology will be forthcoming in 2023. Kate’s interests include film, wine, and sleeping. She can be found at https://kateswritingplace.com/

JEAN NOEL RUHLAND

is achieving her Master's of Fine Arts Degree at Mount Saint Mary's University in Creative Writing. Her piece "Starlight, Starbright" can be read in As You Were: The Military Review, Vol. 16. She was a Chinook Helicopter Mechanic in the US Army, earned a degree in Dance, acted in New York City, and shares space with a five-pound Maltese named Poco.

JULIANA SCHICHO

is a writer from New Jersey. She holds a B.A. in Creative Writing as well as an M.L.I.S., and you can read her work in Defunct Magazine, Runestone Journal, Grim & Gilded, and Gandy Dancer. She currently works as a librarian, and is developing a chapbook exploring neurodiversity and chronic illness as they function in the American work space.

CORINNA SCHULENBURG (she/her)

is a queer trans artist/activist committed to ensemble practice and social justice. She’s a mother, a playwright, a poet, and a Creative Partner of Flux Theatre Ensemble. Poems in: Arachne Press, Beaver Magazine, Capsule Stories, Lost Pilots, Long Con, LUPERCALIA Press, miniskirt magazine, Moist, Moonflake Press, Moss Puppy, Oroboro, Okay Donkey, Poet Lore, SHIFT, The Shore, The Westchester Review, and more. https://corinnaschulenburg.com/writer/poet/

TRAVIS STEPHENS

is a tugboat captain who resides with his family in California. His book of poetry, “skeeter bit & still drunk” was published by Finishing Line Press. Visit him at: zolothstephenswriters.com

FRANCIS JOHANN VERDOTE

was raised in Manila, Philippines. He received his B.A. in English from California State University, Los Angeles. He is currently a Creative Writing M.F.A. candidate at Mount St. Mary’s University. His poems have appeared in Cultural Weekly and Statement Magazine.

JACOB VINCENT

is a writer in the UK with work appearing in Litro, Gone lawn and Crimson Leaf Review.

JESSICA WYLAND

is a writer and editor living in Southern California. Her work has been published in the Los Angeles Times, the Pasadena Star, About Such Things, and Heartless Bitches International.

STEVEN O. YOUNG JR.

lives on the rim of Detroit, where he received an MA from Oakland University and may sometimes be found paining the same floor over and over, typically by request and occasionally for pay. His latest poems can be found within Unlost Journal, Apricity Magazine, Havik, Penumbra, and Defunct Magazine, with others forthcoming in The Ear, Reunion: The Dallas Review, and West Trade Review.

PHOTOGRAPHY

ROGER CAMP

is the author of three photography books including the award-winning Butterflies in Flight, Thames & Hudson, 2002 and Heat, Charta, Milano, 2008. His work has appeared in The New England Review, Southwest Review, Chicago Review and the New York Quarterly. His images are represented by the Robin Rice Gallery, NYC. More of his work may be seen at Luminous-Lint.com.

WILLY CONLEY

a former biomedical photographer, has photos featured in the books Listening Through the Bone, The Deaf Heart, No Walls of Stone, and Deaf World. Other publications: American Photographer, Arkansas Review, Baltimore Sun, Carolina Quarterly, Big Muddy, Folio, and 34th Parallel. His most recent book is The World of White Water -- Poems, which features a photo of his on the cover. Conley, born profoundly deaf, is a retired professor and chairperson of Theatre and Dance at Gallaudet University in Washington, D.C. If interested in seeing more of my work, please visit my website at: www.willyconley.com.

ADRIAN KIM ESTRADA

is a writer and massage therapist living in Los Angeles. He is a Creative Writing MFA candidate at Mount Saint Mary's University, and these are his first published photographs.

DONALD GUADAGNI

is an international educator, author, and writer currently teaching and conducting research in Beijing China. His publication work includes fiction, non-fiction, poetry, prose, academic, photography and his artwork. Former iterations, military, law enforcement, prisons, engineering, and forever the wayward son.

MARKA RIFAT

lives in north-east Scotland. Her photography has appeared in newspapers, journals and literary anthologies. She also writes stories, poems, plays and articles. Recently commended in the Saki, Toulmin and Janet Coats Memorial prizes and featured in the John Byrne Award, her work appears in more than 20 North American, UK and Australian anthologies.

ANNA WELCH

A writer originally from New Zealand, Anna Welch is fascinated by the ways that travel narratives can be used to tell deeper stories about landscapes and the creatures that populate them. She is currently writing her first book, a memoir about cycling across America. The photos in this issue were taken during that 3,700-mile adventure. Learn more about her work at www.annakwelch.com

JANE ZIMMERMAN

Photo by Jane Zimmerman as part of a Master’s degree program at the University of Wisconsin and a fitting launch for the author (Jean) in her MFA program at Mount Saint Mary’s.