• “Pure Vision” by Dawn Ellis

    I am present Here, In this moment, Just after 6 a.m., in Rumpled clothes From yesterday Thrown on to Meet the empty beach, Before the noise of The day begins. When peace like a river, attendeth my way… Squinting at the morning rays, Sunglasses forgotten, I have pure vision of Blue bay And sky, of Golden morning and Two retrievers Walking with me. Blessed hope, Blessed rest of my soul… I feel the comfort of Steady crunch, Tennis shoes on Beach rock and Paws of my two friends Padding alongside. They stop to roll on The sun-warmed beach and then Spring up to sniff everything, Especially crab shells. I hold…

  • Past Themes and Instructors of The Writer’s Workshop

    The Spoken and the Unspoken: Making Your Dialogue Sing June 17, 7 – 8:30 p.m. FREE, Registration Required–Space is Limited ABOUT THE INSTRUCTOR:Heather Momyer is the founding publisher of Arc Pair Press. Her fiction chapbook, How to Swim, was published by Another New Calligraphy, and her stories and essays appear or are forthcoming in Another Chicago Magazine, The Forge Literary Review, Puerto del Sol, Bennington Review, and other journals. Awards and nominations include a best fiction prize from 303 Magazine, Pushcart and the Sundress Best of the Net nominations, and an honorable mention in a Glimmer Train fiction contest. She holds an MFA in creative writing and a PhD in…

  • Cotton Candy Ghosts of the Pier by Elizabeth Beck

    like a late summer bee diving into a bowl of pollen He’s outside smoking beyond the thin curtain framing him, bridal, in the gauze of just-before-night ecstatic blue, blazing almost neon before thundering into black lit ends of cigarettes as lighthouse beacons beckoning, warning those are scuttling, tearing rocks His mouth is full of them a graveyard of stumbling blocks a velvet viper poised and coiled In the coals of his nicotine fired chest there is diamond dust that glitters up into his eyes when he holds something, tightly, that should not be held and takes whatever he can get His hands on leaving skin flush-painted off-brand signs on a…

  • “You Are a Poem” by Jennifer Preston Chushcoff

    Every agony and ecstasy Every pulsing, beating, breathing Moment You are a poem. Your body beloved Is Hallowed. Sometimes broken or bent, But always remember this, Always Holy, Always Healing. You are becoming. You are a poem. Made of earth, of comets And collisions A violent beauty at birth. Your cries, your voice, A sacred song. Each unseen defeat, Each anguished faltering, You gather and rise up— A Battle Hymn Written on your skin. You are a poem. Jennifer Preston Chushcoff is a word nerd with a Halloween heart. She was born and raised in Southern California and continued her trek north after attending UC Berkeley. Jenn has been frolicking…

  • “Funeral” by Troy Kehm-Goins

    An erasure of Chapter 69 of Moby-Dick The bodyflashes Slowlyinsatiate rapacious floats further and furtherfloats murderousfor hours and hours pleasant joyousdeath floats infinitemocking mourning life needed itthis desecrated bodynevertheless floating straightaway the corpsewith trembling fingersleaping over a vacuum There’s your lawthere’s your orthodoxy!Thus the great terror death a worldyou my friend?There ghosts them. Troy Kehm-Goins is a Puyallup poet and artist who has been published in WRIST, Post Defiance, Read Write Poem, and Les Sar’zine. His work is a mixture of the everyday and the mythological, drawing upon diverse influences and inspirations. He has also self-published four poetry chapbooks, the most recent of which is Black Psalms. He resides online at…

  • “Visitation” by Bill Fay

    It hid in butterfly wings silkworm mouths and the spinnerets of Black Widows, in the preening feathers of birds on screen savers, in baby carriages with ribbons and bows, in bridal gowns between the folds. Shook the ragdoll, boney fingered. Bewitched neighbors to strangers and strangers to enmity. Clung to dorms, doorman, dowagers unheard, flew on shuttle cocks like showy singing birds, on the edge of tear-ducts, home to harried eyes, in the Black Forest and North Sea sunrise. Rode grocery carts and prescription warnings, kissed children in their kindergarten mornings, tripped kitchen corner window pane alarms, charged the drawers of rolltop desks with charms. Rattled naked nations with tendrilled…

  • “Hepatology” by James Stuart

    Sometimes, when the boy thinks of his father, the back corners of his mouth begin to tingle, and saliva fills the space around his tongue. It is a sensation unlike simple hunger and without the Pavlovian charm of say, a sudden craving for a sliver of Junior’s Famous Cheesecake. Instead, it is akin to the shiver that runs the length of the spine and reminds a person of their ultimate place in the grave. A feeling more of dark mystery than tangible satisfaction. The timing and intensity of these episodes vary and predicting them is an imperfect science. For instance, the mere mention of his father’s name is not enough…

  • “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…