• The Banquet of the Holy Spirit by Seattle Poet (anonymous)

    The stars have sputtered into dust –Frail points of light,In droves devouredBy a swirling mass of black.Orion’s arrows flit no more,And the darkness strips the bear of his hide –The hand of God has swept the skies of all their light,And by his hand, the Sun and constellations die. Yet the blood moon shines in all its garish red –Though no sun remains to be eclipsed.The night has disemboweled the light of day,And its ravenous visage be drenched crimsonIn the viscera of its slaughter –Gaze you now upon the gore-stained face of God,Peering down with a penetrating stare,Upon frozen earth and flaming seas,From a blackened, stellar veilOf damned, digested souls.…

  • Polar Route by Kael Moffat

      Beneath silvered scraps of cloud, the sprinkled towns of north Quebec and Newfoundland huddle like embers of a banked fire whose clicks and pops are swallowed by distance and the whine of brawny engines.   I press my fingers against the inner pane and feel the ghost of sub-zero air just inches away and wonder about prayers rising into the night, evaporating from shards of glass and eviction notices or springing like flowers from permafrost. I close my eyes as if I could hear them all.     Vladimír, who sits to my right, told me as we cruised above the Arctic that he speaks Czech, Hungarian, English, German,…

  • Leda and The Swan Hat by Kat Ogden

    “Oh, bother.” A sharp, cold wind knocked into Leda as she stepped outside the library. Her mood, which had been quite reasonable, shriveled to two cranky lines between her brows. The promising spring day had disintegrated into a leftover piece of February. Wind gusted up and down Sixth Avenue, blowing garbage down the street like tumbleweed. “Ouch,” Jane yelped. She’d come out right behind Leda, and the door hit her. “Why’d you stop like that?” “Look at this,” Leda gestured dramatically, waving her hand. “What a mess. I’ll have to go home and change.” Jane stared dutifully in the direction of Leda’s flapping hand. “I don’t see anything but a…

  • New Family by Paul Barach

    Charlie’s parents couldn’t see DeeDee and neither could Charlie, but he was Charlie’s best friend because DeeDee loved to play.

  • “Any of 100 Days, 2014” by James Stuart

    Every morning has become the same. You oversleep by thirty-six minutes. It is a lazy habit – one that has been reinforced by oddly-timed snooze cycles and a general lack of consequences. With each trill of your phone, nine more minutes slip away.

  • “MILK//” by Laila Tova

    Momo use’ta say, coffee nee’ a li’l’ milk; anyt’ing too Black no good and ‘er second son-in-law proved ‘er right by beatin’ ‘is chil’ren for bein’ pure.

  • old hiking partners by Bill Fay

    Author's Note: in tribute to a fellow hiker of the Pacific Northwest. "oh shaman of the meadows, seer of the bear-grass, to light and dark the craggy crevasse, wizard of the wild-weary smile..."

  • Cantankerous Old Man by Chad Lester

    "My dad had a way with words. There’s only a single frayed wire that runs from his brain to his mouth. Much of my life has been spent keeping him on his best behavior."

  • When Trying to Find Yourself by Claire Haindfield

    When you find that you’ve gone missing, Grab your favorite sweater of loose threads and Long-gone snaps. [...] Observe footprints and fingerprints with care-- Pick around for every loose hair-- This is a crime scene now.