
“Polar Vortex Claims Lives as US Cold Snap Continues” by Hadley West
My TV tells me that the Midwest will be colder than parts of Antarctica this...
“a monster’s guide to girlhood” by Lexie Price
1. kill a girl named safety-constance with hair that falls in waves of...
“Narcissus” by Claire Hutchinson
Yolk-yellow flowers with trumpet mouths proclaim their self-importance to the...
“car ride” by Caroline Jennings
thinking about how long it may take for the trees around me to go from their...
“Messina, Sicily” by Claire Hutchinson
the frigid january air snaps at what skin is exposed to the grey...
“how beautiful, the sight of her” by Heather Drouse
i want to escape to the far reaches of the forest and lie down in the space...
“The Fisherman’s Daughter” by Alexis Jamilee Carter
the fisherman’s daughter knew how to bait a hook, catch some looks trout...
“I do not know, I cannot say” by Toby James Haymore
I do not know, I cannot say Why whispering willows swing and sway And though...
“Little Flower” by Brittaney Mann
Little flower all alone How many bugs have you known? Little flower all alone...
“Carbonated Nostalgia” by Elise Lusk
When I think of home Warm feelings fizzle Like bubbles inside of me Before...
“For These Sins, The Flames Are Furious” by Alexis Jamilee Carter
They’re burning witches tonight. The local news channel runs a special segment on it. Greg Gallagher, the local anchorman with hair a little too stiff and a smile far too forced, narrates a touching piece on the strength of the community while he walks around the makeshift pyre in the middle of town. His eyes never leave the camera. He says he...
“The Shoe Box” by Elise Lusk
“Holy shit.” I whip my head in the direction of the shout and see my Grandma on all fours, a puff of grey barely poking out from under the yellow sun hat she’s sporting. Her face, covered in two inches of soot, gives her raisin skin an airbrushed look. From a distance she looks as youthful as the creepy china dolls Mother displays on the cedar...
“Firehouse Red” by Lauren Dial
Its umbilical cord was still attached. Iron, the smell of red, reeked off of it as drops of blood splattered onto the tiles. Charlie rushed the baby inside. He shouted for someone to get a doctor and began pulling off taffy wrappers, cigarette buds, and other trash still stuck to the infant’s sticky skin. I tried getting a better look of the...