From the Archives: “Grown” by Janelle Adsit

we choose familiar places for goodbye places with trees, twigs hardly fastened, and geese droppings like paste beneath us which we avoid so as not to stay or take the place with us. the bed of water holds the green—only green—so not even our reflections can remind us. Originally published in Winter 2009.

Fiction: “Weight” by Woody Skinner

It’s your birthday. You sit in your room finishing your homework and listening to music while you wait for him to come over. The television is on the Disney channel, but the volume is down. Your room is very small, and all of the furniture in it is made of wicker. You’re beginning to feel […]