By Amy Wright
On film, technotopian trails
streak the air in soft neon waves —
synthetic Beamer Bees designed to replace
pollinators who fell
Issue 7
Latest Reviews
Featured Interview
Newest Essay
Eight-Day Clock
By Melanie Dunbar
Dear Grandpa,
You know by now I took the train. The smoke in my room was really steam and the train was a locomotive. I borrowed the mantle clock your father carried from the old country.
How to Drive in Snow
By Jennie Malboeuf
Within a week of seeing
seven stars in the moon’s
thick ring, it started to snow.
New Town
By Jennie Malboeuf
We step off the curb into
glass diamonds. Confetti
cuts our feet; the drunks
mistake the street
for a trash bin and we crunch
What Do You Want?
By Daniel Coshnear
Len:
She was seven pounds something ounces. No birthmarks. Her birth, I was told, was unremarkable, except she arrived three weeks late, and even then she was in no hurry to come out.
Off-Season With Snake
By Xu Xi 許素細
There should not be typhoons in November, but during this Chinese year — the snake one beginning mid-February 2013 that straddles early 2014 — everything is in turmoil. Typhoon season lingers too long into an Indian summer, that quaint romantic idée no longer fixe.
Asian Goddess
By Raymund P. Reyes
Jameel walked slowly along Al-Madinah Road, swaying his hips more than usual and flapping his arms deliberately in what he thought was an extra sexy gesture that was sure to get the attention of prospective clients.
Neighborhood Outreach
By Mazzer D’Orazio
The company always tried to promote employee artwork, and Erica, one of their youngest Crew Members, painted the mural of Fairfax on the sidewall. The mural featured a very prominently located Trader Joe’s with a much brighter exterior than the one in real life.
That He Didn’t Say Pink but the Image Was There
By Alex Rieser
I.
text as firm congeal
top of yaw. image pursue
within text. rapture and yaw
Headless World (Excerpt from a Novel-in-Progress)
By Ascher/Straus
It’s the middle of the night and he has no idea where he is.
The guy who calls himself Waldo Bunny is slumped way down in his seat with his mouth open, his right hand resting on the hard rubber runner and one foot thrust halfway across the aisle for passing morons to break their necks on.
Definitive Perplexity
By David C. Hall
1
A woman enters the room from the left. There is a window at the center of the room. The window is fairly large, with eight windowpanes. A pale light shines through the window. The walls of the room are black, or perhaps a dark gray. In front and to the right of the window is a can of paint and a paintbrush.
He has brought it, I will lift it
By Alex Rieser
I.
mass and ball of crystal excuse
under light. record quiet
out of beauty. learn below but brought
Now
By M. A. Schaffner
Now, she says, with that little twitch of her hips.
You didn’t want to go there but you did.
It was the Marquesa de Pontejos, not her pug.
Apple Basket
By Clarissa N G
I stared at the calendar on the kitchen wall. It was two more days before Saturday, the obligatory hospital visiting day.
Distinction
By Zdravka Evtimova
We are all strong and difficult people in our family. My father drank, it was true, but he made the best cornel brandy in Southern Bulgaria, and Bulgarians, Jews, and Greeks alike gave their last penny to buy Dad’s home brew for their sons’ weddings.
Meditation on Art and Artists. Rainer Fetting
By Craig Martin Getz
If I were color blind, truly blind to color,
I would just see the cock, the heavy outline black,
the balls’ forest razored curve
coming out of chiaroscuro.
Grasshoppers
Bobby Neel Adams was born in Black Mountain, North Carolina and
presently resides in Arizona on the Mexico Border.
evening ballasted with sunset
By Arkava Das
the room ballasted with sunset
sings
not everything troubles you as soon
as you forget it
My Art Life 1
By Gregg Williard
In New York in the 1970’s-80’s my day job was as a “psychiatric aide.” On the unit we called straitjackets “camisoles.” Escaping was “eloping.” I wore all white. My night work was “aspiring painter.”
The Birth of Esther P. Higgenbottom (or What is Real?)
By Suzanne Scanlon
Esther rode the elevator from the lobby up to the fifth floor, feeling
the light tug of inexplicable loss. The day was blue and bright, her
mood level — and yet the moment she saw the light signaling
arrival on the fifth floor, she could feel a small part of her die.