Poetry: “Scott,” by Dan Pinkerton

The leopard paces, shudders, compulsively
licks his paws. He growls and we come to imagine
his growls an inhumane score, an avant-garde
sort of thing. The leopard devours a selection…

Prose: “Here Is Henry’s Deer,” by John Brantingham

When the deer pops out, Henry steps on the brake knowing this downhill stretch of road is covered with ice, and nothing he can do is going to save the animal, and here is Henry who is rushing to his son’s apartment because he heard the kid was going to sign up for the Navy […]

Poetry: “Atlas,” by DS Maolalai

on the tram track up chancery,
coming from capel street,
two men throw their shadows
with the 10pm sunset…

Poetry: “Fishing for Winter King Salmon,” by Tina M. Johnson

Night squalls spit snow into the air.
Wolf moon breaks winter’s smoky choke
as pines along the island flare
beneath hibernal whitewashed cloaks….

Prose: “The Letter,” by Colby Galliher

Eleanor snapped the Kit Kat bar in two. She placed one half on the side of her white tea setting. The other half she handed to her husband Mitchell, who sat across from her at the rectangular kitchen table. The lights in their small house were on and the kitchen was warm. Fragile curls of […]

Poetry: “In Houston, It Is Impossible Not to Consider Traffic,” by Glenn Shaheen

I do my best, I make it to the six
square feet in the middle of the city
park where you cannot see or hear cars.
Eyes dimmening, my eyes are failing, I’m
only eligible for a surgery I’m not…

Prose: “Hong Kong, a Love Story,” by Mel Christie

KOWLOON, FEBRUARY 1988

I’m a-walking down Nathan Road with a strut in my legs like I’m dancing, crowds thick as steam off the paving, cars pressed cheek to cheek and blowing fury, shop sign neons stretching,

Poetry: “La-Te-DA,” by William Heath

In Key West we go to the La-Te-Da
evenings after dinner, sip prosecco splits,
dance to live singers of varying merit,

Poetry: “Fire Season,” by Tina Johnson

For Georgia

After her LA neighborhood ticked
down to evening cool, my grandmother
tended the roses. Holding back the thorns

Prose: “If Leaving Me Is Easy,” by Mike Gosalia

Me: Hey, I didn’t get the proofreading job.
Clara: Oh, I’m sorry, Bert. Keep applying, okay?
Me: Yeah, thanks. I got another interview for a college admissions essay editor. It’s in a week and a half. It’s also remote, but this one’s full-time, at least for a while…