FICTION: ISSUE FOUR

Bridget Apfeld

BRIDGET APFELD

Coda

August began in its usual way, with the dry, stiff heat that eked out of July turning into something slick and vaguely musty-smelling. That continued until September, which, for our town’s small grid of land bordering the western shores of Lake Michigan, was entirely normal    [keep reading...]

Jennifer A. Howard

JENNIFER A. HOWARD

The Millwright

By the time Tom Mantela’s three girls turned thirteen, they had been crocheting afghans for years, passing hundreds of snowy winter afternoons rainbowed round the radiator, knotting long strands of yarn into pretty four-inch squares while their father worked in the garage.    [keep reading...]

Laura Schadler

LAURA SCHADLER

The Lighthouse Keeper’s Wife

The quilt was a who’s who of the coast, each of us embroidering our name in red, our married names, and something else, it could be of our choosing, though still the parameters were implied. The object needed to be something simple, domestic—a basket, a flower, an egg.    [keep reading...]

FICTION ARCHIVES

Katya Apekina

KATYA APEKINA

The Bread’s Song

Lacy Arnett

LACY ARNETT

Sacred Ground

In the kitchen, above his basement bedroom, Alex hears voices. His mother’s, mainly—going on about the plot of graves behind the barn.    “Died of Typhoid Fever all in the same week,” she is saying now. “The mother and her three little ones.”
[keep reading...]

Paula Bomer

PAULA BOMER

Lake Michigan

We were a family, perhaps like many families, that appeared close when together. We kissed one another warmly on the cheek, a real kiss, lips to face. We hugged tightly, pushing the air out of the other’s chest, a hugging umph escaping from our mouths. And we talked about the intimate details of    [keep reading...]

Andrew Brininstool

ANDREW BRININSTOOL

Mirabeau, the Truant

Mirabeau couldn’t sleep, so he stole his father’s binoculars and went out into the early dawn where, perched in the bed of his father’s truck, the boy could see Mrs. Walthrop inside her bedroom, naked. In the daytime he knew Walthrop as the kind old lady who smelled of rotting flowers    [keep reading...]

John Henry fleming

JOHN HENRY FLEMING

A Charmed Life

His father was a disgraced steamboat pilot with a knack for grounding boats and destroying docks, his mother the thin-lipped illegitimate daughter of a beefy prostitute. When the midwife handed him over, she waited six hours in the parlor room to be paid, her queries up the decrepit stairs    [keep reading...]

Kirby Johnson

KIRBY JOHNSON

Spring

Everyone says they cannot harm you, that they look worse than they really are. They say, “Well, the big ones come from the trees. They come from outside. That’s just how things are here.” You try to listen but all you can think about is their bodies, their arms and their arms and their legs.     [keep reading...]

Claire Harlan Orsi

CLAIRE HARLAN ORSI

Marble Dust

In 1970 forty-three thousand slabs of marble were shipped from the Italian province of Carrara to Chicago, USA, for the purpose of sheathing the new Standard Oil building downtown. At the time the building was Chicago’s tallest, with eighty-eight floors, fifty elevators, and tracks of    [keep reading...]

Anjali Sachdeva

ANJALI SACHDEVA

The Poor, Dead Soldiers

The war was over, but we didn’t know what to do with all the poor, dead soldiers. They lay everywhere: on the lawns, in the streets, draped across the steps of the museums. Sometimes in trees, where they had been doing a smart bit of reconnaissance work when they met their ends.     [keep reading...]

Chaitali Sen

CHAITALI SEN

The Swimmer

Every day Nora went to the pool where the young pretty mothers dipped their little girls into the water. Because Nora liked to feel her skin bristling with heat before she got wet, she always spent a few minutes walking up and down the concrete, surveying the scene.    [keep reading...]

Chad Simpson

CHAD SIMPSON

Translated from the French

I should not have allowed the scooter to run out of fuel. The problem is mileage. I am required to fill the tank so infrequently that I forget it even exists. I forget about combustion, about the small explosions taking place in the engine just centimeters from my feet.     [keep reading...]

R. T. Smith

R. T. SMITH

Torrent

The rain wouldn’t stop raining nor the creeks rising, too strong now for walking home, so I waited, daydreamy, thinking of a she-bear I hankered to see feeding on berries, though not so close as her to sniff me, just to watch her eyes gleaming and hear her snort like a rutty shoat.    [keep reading...]

S. E. Smith

S. E. SMITH

The Bunker

The bunker comes equipped with tinned nutritionals, home repair manuals, and a selection of musical works deemed by a committee to be those most intriguing upon repeated listening sessions. There are canned peaches and scratchy industrial paper products. Anything that can be dehydrated is.    [keep reading...]

Chantel Tattoli

CHANTEL TATTOLI

Au Pair with Simba

You catch the Bryons like crazy people, listening into some corner of thin air. You do not know the time they put in with the Big Cats. How they come home, and roars are still booming in their ears. Soon, they get the license. And they buy a cub. It is dopey like the babies of all species.    [keep reading...]

ISSUE FOUR:

ART: Paul Ferragut, Leo Katunaric, Stefanie Schneider

FICTION: Bridget Apfeld, Jennifer A. Howard, Laura Schadler

NONFICTION: Joy Katz, Shena McAuliffe, Kate Partridge, Rob Schlegel

POETRY: Dan Beachy-Quick, Carrie Fountain, Jules Gibbs, Alen Hamza, H. L. Hix, Anna Maria Hong, Krzysztof Jaworski, Thomas Kane, Eric Kocher, Jennifer MacKenzie, Andrew Nance, Kate Partridge, Beth Woodcome Platow, Paul Otremba, Catie Rosemurgy, Claire Sylvester Smith, Lesley Yalen

ET CETERA: Glenn Shaheen’s
“POET The Game”

FICTION ARCHIVES:

Katya Apekina, Lacy Arnett, Paula Bomer, Andrew Brininstool, John Henry Fleming, Kirby Johnson, Claire Harlan Orsi, Anjali Sachdeva, Chaitali Sen, Chad Simpson, R. T. Smith, S. E. Smith, Chantel Tattoli