• “Cascades” by Joanne Rixon and Sasha Penn

    Everything in this story is true. Present day, near M St and S 38th, Tacoma, WA, two miles from the mouth of the Puyallup River             Red and blue lights flashed in the rear-view and Mari winced. “Babe,” she said, complaining uselessly.            T. J. sighed and slowed, pulled onto the shoulder. There was no reason for the cop to pull them over, and they both knew it. He was a careful driver, especially with Lula in the car, and the car was in good shape. Too good, maybe: T. J. liked to show off, and while his Chrysler 300 was a few years old, even in the drizzling rain the…

  • “Bad Air and Bitter Herbs” by Jonny Eberle

    Every afternoon, I go for a walk. I like the ritual of pulling on battered running shoes caked with mud, zipping up my fleece jacket, turning the key in the brass lock. I try not to think of the invisible fog of contaminated air hanging over the city, sickening hundreds. The world is a chaotic, formless void, except for those twenty minutes once a day when I step out for my walk around the neighborhood. Today, there is a doctor outside the house next door. My neighborhood Facebook group has been buzzing with news of the doctors hired by the city to contain the plague. It isn’t the fact that…

  • “Little Winters” by Adam Blodgett

    I’m alone in the house, which is a blessing of sorts. I’m sick and it’s hard to be sick with kids. To put them in front of a screen to watch god knows what on YouTube so that I can snatch a bit of rest and be ready to go tomorrow, or as ready to go as I can be before the onslaught of dressing, feeding and moving a stubborn and unruly army, none of whom can tie their own boots. But this loneliness is hard in its own way too. The alone-ness is hard. I think of Demeter and wonder how she spent the days when her daughter was…

  • “The Seance” by Jack Cameron

    I can’t remember what was on those cups. Some sort of floral pattern maybe. I ended up using ones with chrysanthemums. I got them from the thrift store on Pearl Street. It took some doing, but I found that wine too. The one with the frogs on it. “I can’t remember which cup is mine.” I say out loud as if you’re here, like we were years ago. I pretend to hear your response from back then. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll be swapping more than spit before the night’s over.” And you grabbed a cup and swigged the wine like it was lager. It took me years of smelling incense,…

  • “Tripoli” by Chas Wilson

    Rocky had just worked a double shift and was having trouble keeping his eyes open.  He had been to the laundromat before his first shift started, so he had been going for over 18 hours.  He was beat!  Ten more minutes of driving and he would be home.  He cheered himself up with the thoughts of all that tomato-season overtime.  The cannery would pay him for twenty-two hours even though he had only worked sixteen.  He was saving every penny that he could.  He had big plans for his future and wasn’t going to squander this opportunity to make his fortune.  Nothing was going to derail him from making a…

  • The Writer’s Workshop Series

    Cultivating Presence Wednesday, December 2, 7 p.m. FREE. Registration is Required and Space is Limited. What does it mean to be present? What does it mean to be here, right now? Using music and poetry, we will explore the themes of home, honesty, and meditation as a means of cultivating presence. Materials needed: paper, writing utensil, colored pencils (in case you feel compelled to draw). Zoom Meeting Info will be sent just prior to event festivities. ABOUT THE INSTRUCTOR: Gloria Muhammad is a writer, teaching artist, and educator. Currently a paraeducator, she has worked with young people and adult learners in various educational settings. As a writer, Gloria is inspired by spirituality,…

  • “A Letter to My Past and Present Self” by Sarah Phillips

    Some relationships are haunting, like perfume in a scarf. You can’t quite remember when the fabric absorbed the scent, but it has soaked in—reminding you of a memory that you forgot.  I imagine this feeling is true of almost any semi-remarkable relationship that exist during a period of growth or transition. Those relationships that I had with people and places, remind me of an “older” and imagined version of myself, who had unlimited possibilities…before much of life was decided. At a time when the air was fresh with opportunities, and my skin was softer. I fantasize about the person who I want myself to remember.  I suppose I’m experiencing the…

  • “At Your Service” by Stephen Haines

    We mix martinis and Manhattans. We serve peanuts and pretzels and cold slices of pizza out of tepid, yellow, rotating containers. We take the month of January off for vacation when business slows to doldrum; business is never slow, and we haven’t had a vacation in years. We walk out of work—sweaty, pensive, and smiling at 4 a.m.—with our money buried deep in our boots, just in case someone tries to rob us at gunpoint. We cut off people older than our grandparents well before noon and watch them search their pockets as they struggle to stand. We observe carefully to see if the girl on her own likes the…

  • “It All Comes Down To…” by Bill Fay

    Whirling. How can intelligence be artificial? How can facts be alternative? Everyone’s placing bets on the Cyclotron — will it be a Neutrino? My Money’s on the God particle. WhirlingWhirling. A silicon starred galaxy held in my hand Learning everything useful and useless simultaneously Portrait of a painting of a portrait. Let the eyes mix them A Mardi Gras dance of color. WhirlingWhirling. How can algorithms be pantomimed? Avatarish analogs to evolutionary allegories! WhirlingWhirling. Phage therapy for Superbugs. How can biotics come from antibiotics? Antidotes from antigens? Homeopathy for AIDS,                       for SARS,                       for SIDS, My Brother should have asked me before he died! STOP Whirling His name is Bill Fay.…

  • Death Notices by Troy Kehm-Goins

    I have seen death             amniotic night          blue-black membrane       stretched from dusk into twilight witch of Endor, medium to Sheol while you attempt             to stand          upon spindly bones       awaiting the Divine breath shade of the prophet Samuel, dead and wishing to remain so       (Here I am! Here I am!) I have tasted your life             brisk     beautiful     wild     unkempt       even as it unravels my bowels Saul, first king, anointed of the Lord my fingers smell of tamarisk             burning bush ash and earth       knotted and gnarled umbilical cord the Lord your God, the Lord your God Troy Kehm-Goins is a Puyallup poet and artist…