nonfiction by Yaroslava

I didn’t allow myself to slump into the chair. Back straight, legs stiff, hands clasped together in my lap, over my winter coat—suicidal people have terrible posture, I convinced myself.

poetry by Ace Boggess

When I went in, women I knew were cat people; at my release, each of them owned a dog.

humor by Amna Azhar

Mrs. Holly, pleaseeeeeeeeeeeeeee don’t complain to mom about me reading this book but it is really good and you will agree once you read it too. It is called Nightb-word. I don’t know if I can write that word (I know I can’t say it but I don’t know about writting).

experimental by Nicholas Grider

The big cube thing isn’t not a stunt—it’s art. Or it’s both. It’s a statement. It’s a bold public statement about the way things are now, the state of the world today, how we fail as people but survive as a species. It’s a gesture, an invitation, a welcome home, a house made of receipts built on stolen and contaminated land.

poetry by Will Cordeiro

I perch in a swayback chair
out on my porch, beaming
at the smear of stars above.
They burn a void into my eyes.

poetry by PJ Carmichael

Watching the waves crash onto the
sandy shore. A broken beach umbrella blown over by the breeze. Swatting at a green-head buzzing around our legs.

fiction by Emily White

Ruin is not good at drawing cathedrals, and that hasn’t been a problem in their life until now.

poetry by Lindsay McLeod

I've modified the memories and
dismantled the wants who once

beckoned with heavy eyelids and
loosened the vowels in my mouth.

nonfiction by Sophie Höss

I make a left-hand turn. I miss the street I’m looking for. I make a left-hand turn.

Repeat.

I go through each day waiting for something terrible to happen to me.

poetry by Miles Simon

He makes me little scarves for my ankles
they flap at the wind like hermes’ boots

One day I asked him never to touch me again

poetry by Kyra Jee

from clear across the street. as for me, i am getting used to calling myself insane—it makes it easier, actually being insane

poetry by Z.T. Corley

Can we meet somewhere outside of the erotic and the pornographic,

in a homeland of the mind, at a ramshackle gas station in South Carolina

humor by Brittany Redd

So I had to read this weird book (or actually I guess its a play but we didn’t get to see it or act it out or anything so it might as well just be a book). Its called No Exit by Jean-Paul Sartre. My teacher says its French, but I don’t read French and I could read it, so its definately English.

experimental by Lauren Kelley

Notice of Violation

Municipal Code §14.3 — Improper Concealment

The subject was first seen at 09:42 a.m. near the intersection of Alder and Fifth. Weather conditions were mild. Foot traffic was moderate. The subject appeared calm.

fiction by Ola Rydzewska

I walk up the stairs towards my flat. The staircase is cool, but the wooden handrail feels warm in my palm as I grip, pull, and then shuffle my hand upwards with each step.

fiction by Andrei Romanov

The rain started at six and hadn't stopped.

Not the clean rain of spring that washes the city and makes the streets smell like wet stone and something almost hopeful. This was December rain—cold, diagonal, personal.