Fall 2021

Fall 2021



 a v of geese
flying over the orchards
honking so loudly that 
I could hear them 
way down here
made me jealous
made me wish I could 
line up with all 
of my friends, together, 
and scream.

By Marta Shaffer


The click of a door handle, the muted whoosh of a door moving over carpet preceded the arrival of the nurse. Her presence was desired and feared, loved and hated. A name would be called. Did I want it to be mine? Did I need more time before walking that lonely path edged in maroon and teal? The pattern repeated: click, whoosh, name. Hushed conversations.  Click, whoosh, name. Over and over. Then, click, whoosh, 

My name is called.

From "Waiting Rooms" by Ashley Bowen


The anniversary of the day the tornado had come to town.

	Lucy McAdams stood apart from the festivities and reflected on how it had been three hundred and sixty five days since her roof had been torn off. Three hundred and sixty five days since the sky had gone black at noon, and the sound of the wind had made her feel as though she was trapped in the belly of a vacuum cleaner, and the hail had made neat piles atop the furniture on the second floor of her house after the ceiling had been so ceremoniously carried away. 

From "Three Hundred and Sixty Five" by Abigail Miles


Cover art: "Equal Arms, 3" by Elder Gideon

Fall 2021