SUMMER 2021 ISSUE: 
The Montage

If I’d had my father’s Leica camera, I’d have taken a picture of Dad every day of his life, 32,956 images displayed on a wall made with sand, stone, lime and brick, just like the Great Wall of China. 

By Monica Woo

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I remember the first night George Cabal came to Bar D’état because it was the last night I saw Sheridan Gaffney. I was sitting at a table outside, sniffing a whiskey and watching the oak branches hang motionless in the cool February air, when this George Cabal comes around the corner and bolts past me through the door. 

By Jeremy S. Ford

Bar at Night

poem
CUELESS

I’m shivering on stage

in a one-act play.

The audience

shuffles in their seats

as I memorize

the spotlight’s glare.

By Frank William Finney

Empty Stage

nonfiction
FLAWS

I open my eyes to a Priest hovering over me, making the sign of the cross. He is giving me last rites. This can’t be, I think. I’m Jewish.

By Brahna Yassky

Sherman, Man-Machine Series.jpg

Afternoon sunlight pierced through the taxi driver’s windshield and blurred his vision, just as it had every day since he had lost his prescription sunglasses, and just as it would every day until he could afford new ones. 

By Jack Benzinger

Taxi

Let’s face it, we’re all trying to get the best high we can, one way or another. If we’re honest about it – and incidentally, honesty is not my strongest attribute – we all crave that adrenaline spike, that thrill blast, that rapid-heart-beat-hot-dash of ecstasy. 

By Anna Stolley Persky

Newspapers

By the time Grandma died, her house had become a museum. This morning, when we pulled into the oil-stained carport, Mom hesitated before turning off the ignition. 

By Jordan Nishkian

Long Empty Road

poetry
ENOUGH

How this moment of life

is everything,

is really all there is.

How foolish it might be

to try to capture its magic,

its luminous being in words

on the surface of paper

made from dead plants or carbon.

By Kay Parke

Leaf

In one of those rare moments of childhood clarity, it struck me that the bodega was our family’s true religion. My parents would never admit to this, but I knew my revelation was true. 

By Quizayra Gonzalez

Candles

Dulce sat in the closet, barely inhaling the musty air, flinching as she listened to the screams. It had been forever since she hid from the arguments, maybe years since she had been able to fit in the closet. 

By Ona Marae

Frozen Popsicles

Looking up at the stars

My body fills with light

Pure joy radiates off me

By Halle Preneta

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Takeshi Tsukemoto noticed there were white covered books, rolls of paper, rulers, a compass, protractors, colored pens, pencils, an electric pencil sharpener, and a right-angle square scattered on top of the dining room table when he got home at one in the morning. 

By Bruce Kamei

Stripe and Spheres

poem
DOE

She chews on her tongue

as she watches our fruit

disappear into this long cold winter.

She doesn’t budge from the earth.

By Eric Machan Howd

Deer

nonfiction
MISTER C.

Three years after breaking up with Shelly, and only two weeks from finishing my student teaching, I found myself awake in bed at three in the morning, speaking into the empty darkness of my room, “I can’t do this anymore!”

By Terry Connell

Empty Classroom