Tag: Issue 14

  • Steven Rinehart

    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…

  • Sarah Starr Murphy

    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.

  • Andi Diehn

    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.

  • Issue 14

    Issue 14

  • Suzhou

    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…

  • WHEN BLOOD

    Is nothing more than a warning Age 6 face smothered into the neighbor’s cat He shrieks and claws until I shriek higher Thin line of sticky red Dripping From my elbow, first scar Reminding me: Be careful, gentle, soft When blood Is nothing more than a tangible form of grief Age 16 the boy standing…

  • The Pillow Talk of Two English Teachers

    In the darkness of our bedroom, he rolls to face me his hand coming to my hip bone and asks What’s one of your favorite words? Epitome. You? Forlorn.  The way the first “o” feels against your lips. What’s your favorite punctuation?  I consider the warmth of his fingers, the coolness of the wedding band…

  • Here’s a Love Poem to My Grandmother’s Bicycle

    ~for Diane Pridgeon   In Traverse City they have gutted the asylum. There are traces everywhere. In its repurposed rooms and new restaurants and artisanal shops. Hand in hand, my girlfriend and I eat gelato and step across the grounds. We know the patients here were treated with marigolds, their scent having long ago driven…

  • Here’s a Love Poem to My Father

    I found it in the glove compartment nestled in its own yearning, something worse than lust, something I, myself, might have written. That I am writing to you now: I was always afraid of you. Your angry grieving. Your stomping of the house. And night-moaning. And frightening the dog. I was always afraid of ruin.…