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Less Than One Percent by Joshua Swainston
Mikey called us the Subaru Mafia on account that I drove an Accent, and he had his
Forester. Nichole, Mikey’s wife, thought that Subaru Mafia sounded like we were lesbians. Alex had
a Nissan. The name didn’t even make sense anyway. We were couriers for drugs, gold, watches,
cash, whatever, for the less legal side of the city. Like Door Dash, kind of. Nicole explained, “In Los
Angeles, white men driving family SUVs during the daytime make up less than one percent of all
traffic stops.” That was the business model. Who knows if that’s true or not? I only got pulled over
once. I was out on a job early to catch the school drop-off rush, blend in, that sort of thing. I’d
picked up already. I don’t ever remember what it was. I hit a speed bump harder than I wanted and
spilled a Kombucha on my lap. Swerved. I didn’t even see the cop until his lights were on. No ticket,
though. Just a “be safe out there.” That’s the point, though, right? Appear without reproach. The car
still smells like Kombucha.
…
Absorption vs. Abortion by Cynthia Pratt
I already made the mistake of asking
my world history teacher what he meant
by circumcision to describe one of the rituals
of ancient peoples. My raised hand, a beacon
in still, cold air, voice clearly enunciated,
because my mother always encouraged
understanding of words in the context of
learning. My mother, a former, one-room
school teacher, now a mother of four daughters,
taught me to ask, speak up.
…
Dung Beetle by Samantha Pardo Irigoyen
I never took myself seriously.
Despite what I was, I always
wanted to be a Butterfly.
I would watch them above me,
with stained glass wings
that casted out a spectrum of beauty.
In those moments, I’d feel beautiful.
Years later, and every morning
I wipe the steam off the
mirror to see myself clearly -
a Dung Beetle.
…
Numbers by Ashley Went
At 26 I lost my dad to the numbers
Of cancerous cells colonizing his organs.
Statistics gave him a fifteen percent chance
Of surviving for five years.
Metastatic multiplications strangled him for two,
And he went from healthy to 3B to 4
Until one day he was gone.
All that he was,
It was too much to be collapsed
Into 59 years.
…
Crossroad by C. L. Halvorson
Ah. Greetings! I see you’ve woken up. That’s good.
Oh, no, be careful. Don’t move too fast. I imagine you have a frightful headache. Am I right?
I thought so. Just sit back for a while, it’ll fade soon.
Yes, that’s good. Rest for a minute, there’s no rush. Take a break! Enjoy the scenery.
Of course I’m joking. Honestly. There are no windows and no doors. Unless you count white tile as scenery, I was being amusing.
Well, that’s your opinion, isn’t it? I thought it was amusing.
Oh, please, don’t groan like that. I’m sorry. I always forget what shape people are in when they get here. Doubtless you’re in no mood for a jester. My apologies.
Well, of course there have been others before you. You’re not the first one to end up like this, and you certainly won’t be the last. You’d have to be pretty full of yourself to think you
were that unique.
I’m not saying you have a big ego, I’m just saying that assuming you’re the first person to have the experience when you find yourself in a new situation isn’t very sensible. I wasn’t trying
to be insulting.
…
The Girl With The Key by Kristina Corcoran
There is a girl dressed all in black who braids her hair with stars
The sparkle in her eyes an enigma, her cheeks the ruddy shade of Mars
Under lazy sunshine she sits and reads her magic book
And thinks of spells to cast as she gives the world an impish look
Her sense of awe and wonder guides her dreaming heart
Desiring to visit other dimensions in case this universe falls apart
So with a flick of her nimble wrist she opens special doors
And steps through to worlds of unknown legends and lores
Aloft on joy’s breath she sees a kaleidoscope of lands
From forests of trees like jade idols to deserts of cinnamon sands
She rides the dragon of night as it takes a bite out of the moon
Its brooding light bleeding on shifting spectral dunes
And with the dawn of molten gold she sees the gods play stochastic chess
Laughing amongst themselves to judge who is cursed and who is blessed
She philosophizes with artists who travel on astral railroad tracks
As they ride past turquoise fields and mountains of burgundy wax
…
Mercy by Mary Bradford
For Bishop Mariann Edgar Budde
“Everything faded into mist.
The past was erased,
the erasure was forgotten,
the lie became truth.”
George Orwell, 1984
Some say love it or leave it.
I prefer to stay and fight.
Even as bloodthirsty gods of
perverse patriotic passion
demand—require—
blood sacrifice.
…
Stay Safe! by Tia Pliskow
Ladies beware!
Cries the post on the Nextdoor app
And just as I was starting to buy into the illusion
Of safety and enshrouded my fear.
I cannot walk downtown alone at night —
Or at any time of the day, really
Concerned with the rustling behind me
Is it cat or human
I can fight off the claws, but not the arms.
…
The Hunt Mistress by Emily Powell
Hush now.
Listen quietly. Huddle close to the fire and say nothing of the wind. It may hear you. It may not like what you have to say. Close your shutters, lock your door, and don't listen to the spirits when they come knocking. If they like you too much they may take you for the Hunt. They might snatch you right up and force you to ride with them; twirling, tumbling, howling through the night sky for the rest of eternity.
Oh, but what a ride it will be. There's a sort of breathless freedom that comes with charging through that sky. There's a comfort with feeling the heat of your fellow riders
and knowing that you were never alone and you never will be again.
Hush now.
Dew by Jake Lane
Foggy fish breath and broken canals can’t underestimate the soul any more than a humid hawk can
understand the vastness of lament. We’re born, terms and conditions applicable, subject to change,
slogging our way through muddied canyons and hose water.
…
Project Blue Beam by Rita Andreeva
It was supposed to be a perfectly ordinary cold and gray Pacific Northwest morning. At least I thought so until I realized that there was an insistent, bossy voice yelling at me from behind my bedroom door.
"Get up, get up! I'm hungry, I'm bored, I want you to be up! Get up, get up!"
Which was impossible because I lived alone. Well, not counting my cat.
This was probably one of those fancy dreams I read about, where one wakes up into another dream. Cool!
"Open the door! Open the door!"
Nothing to be afraid of, it's only a dream. I got up and opened the bedroom door. Toby, my orange tabby, ran in and jumped on the bed. I sat down next to him.
I asked, "Was it you telling me to get up?"
"Of course it was me," he replied. "Who else would it be?"
I'm definitely dreaming, I thought. For sure. No doubt about it.
"Scratch my head behind the ear," he purred. "And by the way, you're not dreaming."
"I think I must be."
Green Banana Girl by Cat Melaunie
Once upon a time, there was a girl banana
One bunch all the same
Her mother banana, father banana,
and brother, the odd plantain.
This banana lived in a small fruit town
Filled with fruit that all lived the same
The Apple Couple and Orange Families
All had the same name.
…
Out of God’s Control by Courtney Davis
I grew up the daughter of a missionary. From a very young age, I was told what was right and what was wrong. The world was very black and white- Don’t lie, cheat, or steal. Be kind to your neighbor, help the poor, read your Bible every day. I’d wake up each morning and see the world as a series of tasks to be completed; a list of “Dos” and “Don’ts.” And there was a real sense of validation when I looked back on the day and saw that I handled every interaction in the way that I was taught to.
…
Chagall’s Angels by Stephani Hemness
Red, red all around
not of flames not
of hell, surely
as angels are here.
Circle up, debrief- what did we do today?
What was brought to those in the blue, blue below
…
2025 Ground to Sound Film and Art Festival
For the Second Annual Ground to Sound Film and Arts Festival we encouraged wordsmiths to submit works of flash fiction and poetry exploring the intricate connection between the bustling Tacoma landscape and its unique watersheds. We wanted to explore themes centered around our shared waterways and stewardship of the sea.
This program was in partnership with Foster’s Creative and City of Tacoma' Environmental Services.
Pieces selected for performance:
Ripples in the Water
Feels Like Plastic
The Orange Moon, and Everything Else
Honorable Mention:
Sea Glass
Lunar New Year: Year of the Wood Snake
2025 is the Year of the Wood Snake and in honor of Monkeyshine season and the Chinese New Year CC opened a themed call for submissions! In Chinese astrology, the Year of the Wood Snake is a time for growth, stability, and creativity. It's also a time for personal development and navigating challenges.
We're encouraged the community to submit a short story, poem or essay revolving around these symbolic themes (or centered on the Wood Snake itself).
Pieces selected for performance:
I am the Tree Snake by Sasha Victor
Wasteland by Christina Slack
Magic by Julie Baldock
And Dust You Shall Eat by Ronen Perry
Jezebel by R. G. Mint
The mosaic floor in the bed chamber depicted scene after scene of war, violence, and death. It was a fitting aesthetic appreciation for the queen, who waited for news—any news—and traced the warm sunlight setting across the tiled artwork. Myrrh burned. The scent of the incense was a sweet and welcome distraction from what was to come.
“Word from the battle, my queen,” a foot soldier huffed at the end of his run. “Your son, the king, has fallen by Jehu’s hand.” He caught his breath in the moments waiting for his queen’s response.
“And what of Jehu?” The queen turned toward her balcony, unwilling to show whatever reaction her face may convey.
More calm but still ensconced in his duty, the foot soldier spoke again. “He rides for Jezreel. He will be at the palace by sundown.”
The battle had been lost to the dowager queen’s peril. A loss made worse still by the approaching usurper. Though feather-bedded and gilded in fineries, her life had been one of political unrest and religious tumult. It came to her as no surprise that her end should be of a similar kind.
Sea Salt Caramel Fudge by Mercury Sunderland
sea salt caramel fudge
sits delicately inside a tin
it has traveled across continent borders
to wait for the upset stomach
of one
who has grown so tired
of plain rice & ramen
how does it taste they ask
when simple riches are washed down
with pepto bismol & tums
…
Honorable Mention by Layla Ormbrek
Behind dingy cellophane,
the photograph in the family album
encases me, where I grimace like I’m behind bars—
lips stretched taut across gritted teeth,
eyes plaintive, fixing my father, the resident cameraman,
asking any witness not to believe
the bottom half of my face.
My age, ten,
my hair, mostly brushed, my pantsuit, floral,
a K-Mart layaway acquisition,
my hands, clutching a certificate reading
“Honorable Mention.”
A bone thrown by the school district arts committee,
a pack of energetic, under-employed moms who
anoint the preteen illuminati each spring.
Abyss by Jamie Fiano
You do not have my consent to label me
I have not so much as muttered the words required for you to put me in the boxes which shape your reality.
If you seek clarity about my identity,
you may ask me an open-ended question.
You may invite me into conversation where you will expose your mental limits, and I will expose mine.
I will hope for the lines of my limits to intersect with the lines of yours,
that we might co-create escape routes to different dimensions
and we will dance and play in dialogue and nuance.