By Jason Fucanan
The back comes to the front
To see and to rise
And it reclines to be flat
To sleep or to die.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
Author: howleradviser
Cards
By Taylor Creollo
The deck lays splayed out on
the crayon etched table like
little soldiers ready for a lifelong
war.
Six blue children sit in
six small chairs and wait as
one flips the lonely warrior.
They all need the win.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
Wake Me Up When You Visit Me I Can ́t Sleep Through Anything Else
By Sara Xibos
Every
single
thing
you could ever
give
make
or take
exits in this
universe at the same time they
peel your cold skin
from the plastic hospital bed and
out the glowing red sign.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
Crossed Legs
By Hallie Duffy
She sits with her legs crossed, reading a book she borrowed from the library last week. The words on the page dance into one no matter how many times she tries to refocus.
Photograph by Brynn Simon
200 mL
By Taylor Creollo
On the top of my nightstand,
they look at me, holding happiness within
each little capsule.
Painting by Grace Marion
ONE
By Brynn Simon
It takes about four hours for the hospital smell to wear off.
It takes an additional fifty minutes to work up the courage to walk past the
hallway mirror and stop staring at the pink and black charred flesh that runs from my
left brow bone to my bottom lip.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
The Day Pegasus’ Wings Turned Purple
By Lauryn K. Powell
When Pegasus flies into Obama’s arthritic knuckles, the sound of his wings falling to the ground — be it the past president’s or the noble steed’s — is so uproarious, so deafening, it reminds me of the murmuring man who passed out on the sidewalk made of corn.
Painting by Grace Marion
I’m Going to Name my First Born Daughter Naomi
When I first discovered the consequences of the internet I wasn’t aware the world
would be ending in the same day. As usual, I’d meet up with my friend Lia in our usual spot. We’d walk along the tip of the ocean right where the wet sand met dry.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
The Unemployment Line Ends on the Moon
“I feel like the help wanted flyers that the wind tore from the telephone poles”
She ran next to me but I pedaled on. “What are you saying? Could you slow down?” she
said, huffing.
Photograph by Emily McCormick
Awakening
it’s in the early morning that you strike me:
when the moon is sleeping just beneath the horizon
and the dew-heavy grass soaks my shoes
and the mist sticks to my skin—
Photograph by Emily McCormick
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