The Business With The Mine
The Guiri Journals by Jesse SalvoSantiago de Compostela, Spain There is a café here in Santiago called Avante! frequented principally by students and post-grads, whose walls are near-to-exclusively covered in Leftist memorabilia. I have overheard some Americans—most recently a group of Patagonia-clad boys from Colorado—excitedly call it “the communist bar” as if perhaps the First International were meeting down in… More
Five Stories
Fiction by Slamp TruckmanVampires are real. UFOs are real. Ghosts are most definitely real. Werewolves are not real.… More
Sylvia
Fiction by Kelly GrayAt night, the fox continues to call. She wraps the back of her throat along the crescent moon and her teeth fall out of her mouth to form galaxies.… More
The Peak of His Powers
Fiction by Jacqueline DoyleYes, I object to your taping my remarks. You might try listening instead.… More
Belong
Fiction by Caralyn DavisShe’d been alone so long that she didn’t know how to bring men in from the periphery. They couldn’t see who she was. They didn’t last.… More
SARS-CoV-2, At Folsom Prison, Track 1, “Opening Announcements”
Fiction by John BullionWhen the virus comes out here, it will not introduce itself. It will not breathe its name into a microphone or echo out over the loudspeakers. It will creep in quietly, moving to an unheard rhythm.… More
Didavwiski
Fiction by Ben UmayamHe talked of shamans, but you don’t like that word anymore. You prefer to use the Cherokee name, didavwiski, two souls in one body, male and female, who have immense healing powers that help navigate the ongoing cycle.… More
Epistle from the Passenger’s Seat
Essay by Adam Gianforcaro…I want so badly for us to crash headfirst into a wormhole and time travel back to sunset. Orange and pink and persimmon. The glitches we saw in the sky, the almost-clouds. A time when time wasn’t time at all but all color and calm.… More
My Daughter, Myself
Essay by Andrew BertainaIt has been a hard year, or so your new therapist likes to say, filling the silence in her small office, two padded chairs facing one another over a small table, after you’ve spilled some new petty frustration about the kids, your girlfriend, your life. She sips her water and peers over at you kindly.… More
The Shiner
Fiction by J.B. StoneWhen Kenny arrived home, his left eye was a river that never stopped streaming.… More
The Burbidges in Grand Marais
Fiction by Carolynn MireaultA custom polyvinyl chloride pool inflatable of Jesse McCartney was on its back in a white wicker chaise.… More
No Windows
Fiction by C.A. MurrayA delicacy to celebrate my sobriety is probably what the doctor would prescribe.… More
Three Stories
Fiction by Brett BiebelThe risk. It’s just too much, he says, and this is where I got to draw the line.… More
A Christmas Movement
Essay by Paul CrenshawThe snow kept falling and we curled up tighter together as the days stayed dark. I held my daughters close and we laughed so hard our stomachs hurt.… More
A Conversation
Fiction by Stanton YeakleyEugene and Carol sat on their sagging porch outside the house they bought when they were young and oblivious to the permanence of this flyover country. Their land was hard, but Carol, at least, remembered when it had been harder.… More
Porkchop
Fiction by Heath DollarEnglish teachers would draw steep mountains on the chalkboard and label them with nonsense such as “Rising Action,” “Climax,” and “Denouement,” a word he found unbearably pretentious. Life was nothing like that. Most people repeated the same tasks over and over day after day. They got up. They went to work. They came home. If a publisher wanted realism, that was as real as it gets. Life was more about cycles than linear, or even alpine, developments. And what was the climax of his average day? Lunch? … More
“The car had been through a reconstructed transmission, a busted carburetor, and was an absolute lush for Valvoline.” – Jordan Farmer, “Brothers”
