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Wheels and Bushings

Maureen Langloss

It was six o'clock in the morning when I started collecting clocks, and now it's 9:37. 10:37. I mean it's 10:00cm. These clocks are all wrong. Time is spilling out of them and getting everything. . . getting everything. . . that word when the clothes are on the floor and crumbs are in your bed and you've spilled wine and yelled at George.


Poetry, Fiction, & Nonfiction   

Two Poems: The Town & Home

Mikko Harvey

Is it really warranted, for you to bring a gun to New York, city of high achievement? Thoughtless we both stood, me, trying to talk you down from taking an overdose of cerulean powder, you, intent on ingesting a headlamp so you could witness the inner beatings of your gut.

On Seeing

Robin Romm

            Recently, I was talking to my friend, Camas, at a party when the subject of our college admittance essays came up. I haven’t done a lot of…

Her Young Death/Loose/In You

Eva Mary Hooker

Mutability is within the soul itself. It listens its way in / With eager mouth. God was never so economical. / Death inscribes its signature without blot...

Seasonal Without Spring: Summer

Andrés Cerpa

Was that season artery or vein? when the days stretched like Broadway, & the nights undid our shirts – the temperature so slight you could raise your arms in flight & feel nothing, the body as air. But there was also the need for hurt. And dusk: a ghost of a boy tempted to feel his weight, to put his palm to the depth, touch the pupil, the dead turbine of god’s one good cataracted eye.

From the Archives

Swimming Lessons

Samantha Cohen

We were in awe of her. She sat in class, perfectly wrapped and folded, each of her parts a clean extension of each of her others...

On Seeing

Robin Romm

            Recently, I was talking to my friend, Camas, at a party when the subject of our college admittance essays came up. I haven’t done a lot of…

The Curiosities

Amaud Jamaul Johnson

The year, this distance— when brightly his face hums and ticks like a washed penny and you can see him now as a co-worker or neighbor…

Chatroulette

Hilary Vaughn Dobel

Ghost of my own design, was it your / gloved hands tracing out my spine the night / I lied my way into the ER, hoping / to be touched?

From the Blog

On Violence

$138,000 into the story, there is nowhere else to go. I spent my twenty-seventh year typing letters of application, the nerves in each hand wrecked by…

On Shame

156,000 into the story, the room is empty.   The man I have started dating listens to my stories of how the dinners at the American Academy would unfold,…