Filipino Food by J.D. Isip
We leave the head on, bones to pick out; eating can be a chore, so many utensils so we go without fingers like kung-fu (but we’re not that kind of Asian) scoop…
Issue
Issue #1
Page 3 of 8
Not a Favorable Morning for Questions and Answers by J. J. Steinfeld
The individual clouds on a most cloudy morning began speaking to each other not very loud but loud enough for me to hear and shake my head at in a rite resembling…
Vomit by J.D. Isip
It wasn’t, of course. That sour, rusty odor sent coworkers, us, tipping trashcans, sniffing at counters, at the air, wide-eyed like deer so sure death is crouching in that scent. After two…
Pitfalls by J.D. Isip
Thinking there was more time, waiting out an evening or forty, supplicating words stillborn and scattered in that stone gray sunrise that settles nothing, promises only a new monochrome world risen like…
Beer and Self-Loathing in the Land of Lochs and Legends by Gregory Letellier
I was in Edinburgh, moseying among the bar lights and old cobblestone streets: a terrible place for a hopeless romantic. I was spending two nights at a hostel there before the start…
Faraway Words on Jars by J.D. Isip
Tea leaves, tarot, astrological promises, questions about the man you were seeing, Filipino? What province? Prick size? She’d call you comrade, give us all Coffee with Borden’s and pandesal “Play your games,”…
A Letter to Hector from Astyanax by Marie Lecrivain
from Hector Astyanax MN Jatta, red Apulian red- figure column-crater, ca. 370–360 BC. From Ruvo. Stored in the Museo Nazionale of the Palazzo Jatta in Ruvo di Puglia (Bari). Dear Dad, I…
Pulvis Solaris by Marie Lecrivain
There are various ways to obtain the most treasured of substances. Stand outside for seven nights under the auspices of Saturn and Mercury. Count in breaths of seven on the way to…
Antimony by Marie Lecrivain
Part of herself on the periphery is a wolf-woman who awakens at 3 am, fierce and sweating from dreams of rending apart the poisoned flesh of her enemies. She follows the retreating…
Hermaphrodite by Marie Lecrivain
Those little voices in your head are the quicksilver imp seated on your left shoulder who whispers naughty thoughts at the speed of light and the righteous mouse on the opposite side…
The Possible Tao of Li Po by Marie Lecrivain
I. I imagine you showed up for your initiation hung over and slightly resentful as the morning light gilds the edges of your haphazard beard and creeps into the small corners of…
Moment of Becoming by Ariana D. Den Bleyker
I dream a room full of mirrors. In them I like to stare long and hard until the focus is no longer my body, my face, my eyes. I can only focus…
Dad by Bill Melton
The years slip away Since his death Yet his memory Grows stronger. Sometimes There is a gentle tug At my conscience When I think in error. At other times A feeling of…
Restraint by Marshall Callaway
I hate your dog. Because she replaced me or because outside of your expert training she had no manners, either way I hate the bitch. Yet one can’t help but be moved…
45 Rapture, 33 Speed by Marshall Callaway
There’s a tiny scratch on a motorcycle. I am stuck on that score as it skips the record back— to the crackle and pop of authenticity, of enthusiastic lives lived well. The…
Scotch Mirror by Marshall Callaway
I stole the Glenlivet mirror from my dad when he lost his home. I told myself if he wanted it back he could get a damned wall to hang it on, but…
Rob Roy
3 dashes Angostura Bitters 2 oz. Scotch Whiskey .75 oz. Sweet Vermouth Add all the ingredients to a mixing glass and fill with ice. Stir, and strain into a chilled cocktail glass.…
Ratchet Lake by Marshall Callaway
For years the dry lake rusted, eighty frustrated acres pitching tantrums in our backyard, throwing up trees where we’d cleared, mocking our attempts to scape the land. We plinked water balloons in…
The Errant Double-Proof by Marshall Callaway
I am born again a pie pan in the kitchen of a master baker now nauseated by the baking for the memories it recalls. Virgin enamel shines sliding down my sides and…
Brushes Soaking in Color by Charles F. Thielman
The night spread deep blue lakes of wind as our yellow lamps flared on, my hazel eyes born of sought dream, city evergreen, thorn home and supple shoulders. The night spreads deaf…