Poetry
I Could Say
things are turning.
I could say things come around.
I could say thoughts are spokes in some fluid wheel of time but
that is not what I mean when I lie back and watch light
bloom across her face as if the dark
kissed us into distance
a sheaf of papers blown over water.
By Hannah Wells
Nonfiction
Turns out The End of the World is mostly just time turning to glue and a virus that makes some people stop breathing. I try to stay under my duvet and avoid screens. They’re all shaky cam footage of federal officers dressed like soldiers beating batons on nice moms holding hands and shiny blue apps that want to steal my personal data by guessing my height and weight after I build an imaginary Denny’s Grand Slam. These are the things I use to avoid screens: a carton of raspberries, a fifth of whiskey, my typewriter.
From "An Ars Poetica But Not a Poetica So I Guess Just an Ars" by Anita Levin
Fiction
At five years old, Jessa met a ghost in her grandmother’s backyard. She had been running with Flintstone feet in the red and yellow toy car she got for her birthday. The yard had too much grass and greenery to go smoothly. Tangled plants wedged in the plastic wheels and caught between her toes. She had been stuck in an imaginary intersection of her own making when a man stood under a tree, floating off the ground in between sunbeam and shade. He wore a suit like her father always did, but his feet were gone, and his smile made her want to cry.
From "Pour the Salt" by Ra'Niqua Lee
Art
Cover art: "Ristra Cat and Mini Grill" by Neal Snidow
