24 June, 2021
Katie Ellen Bowers
Katie Ellen Bowers was raised in Charleston, SC, but is now sowing seeds with her husband and daughter in the small, rural town of Heath Springs, SC.
24 June, 2021
Katie Ellen Bowers was raised in Charleston, SC, but is now sowing seeds with her husband and daughter in the small, rural town of Heath Springs, SC.
24 June, 2021
Michael Buckius is a writer and filmmaker from Lancaster, PA. He earned his undergraduate degree in Film and Media Arts from Temple University, and his MFA in Creative Writing from Northern Arizona University. His work has appeared in Ghost City Review, Masque and Spectacle, Shrew, Write On, Downtown, and elsewhere. His first chapbook, Future Sarcasm, is available now from Tolsun Books.
24 June, 2021
Austin currently lives as an aspirant writer in the small town of Sainte Genevieve, Missouri and recently graduated with a bachelor’s in Creative Writing from Southeast Missouri State University in the much larger city of Cape Girardeau. Outside of writing, he finds peace in spending time with his partner and the occasional hike.
24 June, 2021
Amanda Hartzell holds an MFA from Emerson College in Boston. Her work has appeared in New Letters, Paper Darts, High Shelf Press, Petrichor Journal, and The Knicknackery among others. Her writing finished as a finalist in Glimmer Train and won the Alexander Patterson Cappon Prize. Originally from eastern PA, she now live in Seattle with her son, husband, and their dog.
24 June, 2021
Hannah Cohen resides in Virginia with her two cats. She’s a graduate of the Queens University of Charlotte MFA program. She is the author of the poetry chapbook BAD ANATOMY (Glass Poetry Press, 2018). Hannah is one of the co-editors of the online literary journal Cotton Xenomorph. Her poetry and prose publications include The Offing, The Rumpus, Cherry Tree, Entropy, Drunk Monkeys, Glass: A Journal of Poetry and others. She was a Best of the Net 2018 finalist and a Pushcart Prize nominee.
24 June, 2021
Steven Rinehart’s works of fiction include Built in a Day (Doubleday), and Kick in the Head (Doubleday). He is the recipient of fellowships from the National Endowment for the Arts, the James Michener Center, and the Virginia Center for the Arts.
Steve writes and ghostwrites for a former US President, Fortune 100 CEOs, entrepreneurs, and social activists. His creative, persuasive, and nonfiction writing, both under his byline and for principals, has appeared in The New York Times, The Washington Post, TIME, London Telegraph, GQ, Out, Harpers, Georgia Review, the Atlantic, Chicago Tribune, and many others. He teaches in the Gallatin School of NYU.
Rinehart teaches Fiction in the low-residency Master of Fine Arts in Creative Writing program at Queens University of Charlotte
24 June, 2021
Sarah writes and teaches in rural Connecticut. She’s had stories published in The Baltimore Review, Atticus Review, Pithead Chapel, Opossum, and other wonderful places. She is a senior editor for The Forge Literary Magazine.
24 June, 2021
Andi has a MFA from Vermont College and has had several short stories and essays published in various literary magazines. She also edits children’s nonfiction for the educational market and has had 11 children’s books published.
24 June, 2021
When I was ten, I was walking in the woods
and came upon a spiderweb the size of a door
and at the center of the tangling sheet of spirals,
this funneled orbs of silk, was a spider, a Goliath
birdeater-slash-huntsman hybrid with its thick
tarantula spiked legs. I reached out for it, this
strange knowledge that I would be safe, even as
its eight eyes rested into my thumb. I turned
the spider, and the door opened to reveal a world
on the other side made solely of crepe and eri
silk and mulberry and chiffon and Muga silk,
a world slick, shiny, entire houses bending
with wind. I walked in and got entangled
in an elm tree, brushing it away from my face.
I kept bouncing, on the softest path I’d ever
walked on until I got to my own home, a home
now for caterpillars, how they lounged on my
old front porch that was now a new front porch,
so tiny and satiny. I walked up to the front door,
its complication of webs, jumbled threads, and
gently pushed it open, slipping on the smooth
floor so that I fell, landed, harsh, on hardwood,
looking up to see my mother, hovering, telling
me that lunch was ready. The door blew shut
before I could run back, see if I could find that
world again, but it would only come once, similar,
I suppose, to how I traveled to China fifteen years
later, returned to the U.S., and found myself
never having the time or money to go back, how
I started to wonder if China was real or dream,
or not even a dream, a place that had never
existed for anyone, even the people living there,
now, and when I look into the deep corners of
my closet and see barely visible spiders, I ask
them if I’ll ever be able to return and they are
so silent that I can hear the building moving,
how wind whispers secrets all of the time.