issue nO.9

We’ve been on sabatical of sorts, building projects individual personal and creative. Some of us traveled, some of us married, some of us became tourists in our city, some of created incredible work, a meta-narrative between cultures.

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works in progress: Jana Koelmel


poems: Nate Marshall

the quick simmer
the immediate
boil under skin
the tighten of
fingers into fist
there is arousal
a rush of blood

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Alt text for the image

poem: Casey Rocheteau

It only took until nine years old
to fully understand the riddle.
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poem: Jeff Kass

before she looks into my mouth
that I haven’t been to a dentist
in fifteen years.

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fiction: Molly Fuller

We learned about the boys early on. Back when we wore plaid skirts that had to touch the floor as we knelt, our exposed knees against the polished stone floor, the kind of floor that looks like thousands of pebbles pressed down and down until it gleams in rows of smooth squares that we could spend the hour in detention counting, and then count again.

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poems: Megan Falley

I’m in pre-school!
There’s a single pearl skating
down the linoleum floor—

fiction: Kelly-Ann Jacobson

Marge, Judith, and Tibby spent most of their afternoons on the porch of the house they had shared since 1978 – the year their mutual ex-husband, Jimmy, divorced the last of them.

poems: Alan King

Clicks turn my blood into juice startled
by the blender’s blade.

Clicking on my BlackBerry
makes me think it’s been co-opted.

poem: David Winter

Family required decorum, unlike those queens
you’d see downtown. I knew Lu kept one up,

a pretty bitch he ran to when he wanted
what he so often gave to me.

photo essay: Devin Yalkin

Devin Yalkin (b. 1981), born and raised in New York City, is a black & white street photographer who received his BFA in Photography at the School of Visual Arts. As a first generation Turkish-American, Devin’s pictures illustrate and often anticipate the parallels he experiences shooting between New York City and various cities of his heritage in Turkey, primarily Istanbul.

poems: Aaron Samuels

Damien only got my name right one time—
when the sky was dark blue, sun flickering
in the evening above Carberry Field—

poems: Joanna Hoffman

Here is a scalp scraped raw, hands chapped and red. The doctor told us all this would happen, it’s normal, it’s how brushfire medicates the soil, how the ash becomes a salve for its own burn.

poem: Susie Q. Smith

And of course
all the clever magic men,
the artists,
the mirror balls, spinning,
the Willy motherfucking Wonkas
all say,

poem: Ashley-Elizabeth Best

I’ve banned all reflective surfaces, black take-out container the new cat dish. Blunted the knife removing the windows and bathroom mirror.

poem: Stevie Edwards

The candy apple dress hangs flaccid, unfulfilled,
marking the perimeter of a year
without delight.