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The Doll in the Woods
By Mackenzie Elmer (Photo by Connor Beer) I saw a dollstuck on a fencewhile walking todayin the forest dense. Her head was smashed in,her eyes were cracked.Her lovely white dressthe crows had ransacked. She looked so lonelysitting thereon rusted barbed wire,rotting in despair. I thought a lot abouttaking her home,rescuing her from her gravein the moldering loam. I’d fix her right up‘til she’s good as new.I’d clean her faceand polish her shoes. But I knew it was pointless,she was too far gone.So I looked straight aheadand quietly moved on.
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The Diner
By Melina Bowser The ceramic mug sits heavy in dainty hands— steam warming her face. Perfect circles stained the boomerang laminate countertop again. She sits quietly, taking long breaths between sips, thinking of a friend. Pulling out a book, she scrawls cursive words onto a page of ardor. Tears blur the pen ink knowing she will never read these words meant for her.
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Little Bads
By Jacob Hetrick Every good piggy knew the story by rote— how the wicked wolf had grabbed the first piggy by the throat and with a snap and a rip, and oh, a gush of blood! extinguished the little pig’s soul before it licked its lips and ate him whole. The second pig was not such easy fare for in his state, it was legal for pigs to keep arms to bear— to polish and preen and keep them seen and at every piggy’s hips, there was a cold metal sheen. So, when the big bad wolf came a-knocking, the second little piggy got his gun a-cocking, and with a…
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Empty
By Andrew Jones Food pantry struggles to restock. I can’t word that any worse. Let’s talk about politics; police violence, racial inequality, taxes, marriage rights, we can debate for days, but food pantries? How can something so pure come to rummaging the local paper to fill itself, like an empty stomach trudging below the railroad bridge, tattered sign dragging against a harsh November wind, each door they pass closed in this small town, each rifle loaded, each belly gorging on the daily news, new tax reform, new police training, same old empty food pantry.
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The Painter
By Kendra Tischer The lingering feeling of a kiss by a man The warm sensation of an embrace by a woman The innate power of one’s touch by frank eroticism The soothing stroke of muse’s cheek by painter’s hand The nude portrait of golden leaf by Gustav Klimt
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Henry, This Is What You Wanted
By Matthew Brothers Henry Bemis, this is what you wanted, “time enough at last.” Before, you were mocked. At your work, they scoffed. Bank teller, bookworm. Sad to say they don’t go together well. Reading on the job, your boss’ head throbs. Engrossed in the book, you convey the plot to the customer. She’s not pleased when she’s shortchanged, Henry, please. Your wife asks you to read her A poem. Then you see She’s blacked out the words. On your break, you go to the bank’s back vault. This place is perfect for reading in peace. Your stress is released. While reading, you cross into a land of “shadow and…
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In This World
By Kendra Tischer When I look into her eyes I see many worlds where I am with her but I also see an impossible world where I could not love her because there was once upon a time in this landscape of universes I could not love her the way she deserves. When I look into her eyes in this world and in all possible worlds where she exists I will choose her over and over again because the dimensions of my love scatter throughout the multiverse as she is my theory of everything.
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The Multiverse
By Jack Dolinger What if on Earth 32,the Pangea never broke apart?Is it still divided into countriesor is it one singular country? What if on Earth 56,there actually is a star wars?Would it be war against humans and aliens?Or aliens against other aliens? What if on Earth 82,Donald Trump is a DJ?Does he claim that hisequipment is rigged after a bad gig? What if on Earth 498,The Avengers are real people?Maybe the movies we haveare actually documentaries. What if on Earth 603,man never evolved beyond the cave?Maybe that Earth is in a healthier condition. What if on Earth 952,Jack Dolinger isn’t even my name?If I had my pick, I’d be…
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Can’t Be Spoken
By Emilee Friend “I love you”The words get heaver as I age;A weight in my chest.They stick to my tongue.Their taste foreign,meant for everyone else.But I’m a hoarder.I can’tI won’tPart with them so willingly. “I love you”My aversion isn’t noble.I’m not saving this for ‘the one’This is fearOf knowing what love isOf accepting its existenceOf realizing I might not fit the moldI know I can’t,I won’tGive them this. “I love you”I can write the wordsIn sloppy penmanship.They stare ate me from on the page,But my mouth can’t form the sounds,Haven’t been able to in years.I hate this.
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To Myself, Age Eight
By Jacob Hetrick A kid’s brain is a demented thing filled with slime and gunk and G.I. Joe, grasshopper legs and dog slobber and sawdust, Pokémon and Inuyasha and PlayStation, a fragmented mirror that reflects in miniature a thousand facets of family, of given love and learned hate, and in between the cracks in the glass you can see the backboard of the person to be. My home was a hollow conch that echoed with screams instead of waves and when I crawled off the bus, I found that that the screams followed, echoing inside my head until they shot like vomit from my mouth, ripping apart everything in their…
