Tag: Issue 6

  • Along Stretches Of This River

    We use words to build images. We put the words together in a particular order, and if we’re lucky, something happens other than the relaying of information. The reader takes those words and assembles and reassembles them in their mind. It’s the inseparable sensory experience we’re after (we being the writer and the reader). In…

  • TREAT ME LIKE MAGMA

    Prose is a trap, my professor looks up from her computer when she says this.  She has a tendency to hit realizations so simply— it doesn’t feel like a realization.  Prose is inherently patriarchal, and I will never be able to escape it as long as I continue to rely on this demand, on these…

  • Isabelle Davis

    is a Chicago based writer and Pushcart Nominee. She works as an editor for Big Lucks Books. Isabelle is the author of the chapbook, I’m Sorry Because This is Not About Sex. Her work can be found or is upcoming in The Iowa Review, alice blue review, xoJane, Quaint, and others.

  • Camille Taylor

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  • (Biblio)maniac

    Books are gentle companions. Generally. I was only just about murdered by books on one occasion. That was fifteen years ago… * I wasn’t sure what to do with my life. I had no prospects. I had an arts degree. I started reading a fair bit. More than usual. I read for ten to twelve…

  • City of Strays

    It is after dark, and I’m waiting for Martin to return. He’s out jogging, his nightly ritual, though he’s been gone longer than usual. I’m seated cross-legged on the couch checking email on my laptop and, behind me, I hear the rain against the glass. I glance up to my left and see the top…

  • A HOLY THURSDAY LAMENT or THE LAST NIGHT ON EARTH

    CAST OF CHARACTERS PROFESSOR: A homeless, mid-40’s African-American man, who obviously grew up in a decent neighborhood and had a very good high school education.  A very philosophical type yet physically domineering.  He goes from a contemplative reverie to friendly communication with CRISPUS during the play. CRISPUS: Another homeless, African-American man, mid 30’s who, unlike…

  • Bondservant

    These mountains are killing me—killing all of us—though I know it’s in self-defense. Getting away from here is all I can think about as I step off the bathroom scale, skim my jeans over my pelvic bones, take up the slack inch of denim with a safety pin. Another pound has slid off me this…

  • Kindred (Long Distance)

    We sink into the cantaloupe snow, mountains  heavy on our bellies, our eyes ice-blind. This is love—  This is how we coat our throats, become  like mothers. The air is made of wool. We might be  a shoebox diorama: two figures, pools of glue,  country blues. We could have a home  in muskmelon, man and…