by Jake Goldwasser

Jake Goldwasser is a writer and cartoonist based in New York. His poems have appeared in the New England Review, Bennington Review, and elsewhere. His cartoons and comics regularly appear in the New Yorker.

by Daniela Rodríguez Chevalier

Originally from Mexico and with a Quebecois pépé, Daniela Rodríguez Chevalier is passionate about film, comix, poetry & hybrid forms, art-making in community, translation, and independent radio.

by Sarah Giragosian

Before the infamous “shower scene” in Alfred Hitchcock’s horror film Psycho, there’s target practice in the parlour, a sequence that at once grips and baffles me. Why does Marion Crane stay? There are too many red flags: Norman’s rictus of a smile, the sad stitching of the taxidermied raptors, his—cough, cough—hobby of “stuffing things.”

by Kaye Miller

i remember July before the wildfires, when we nestled on the porch beneath clothesline, the dripping of dishrags, and tucked ourselves small between grill and propane tank, waiting for that first tin-roof chime of rain. our team of fifteen, before the campers came, our anticipation, o’ sweet pinewood porch, watching the cap of clouds on the horizon. a ghostly pillar of cumulonimbus, slow gliding into camp.

by Lena Palacios

As a child of the late 70s and 80s, Paula often fell asleep in front of the TV and awakened startled to “snow” or static. She would tempt fate by calling on the demonic spirits of the other side of the white noise like Poltergeist’s little, blonde White girl, Carol Anne.

by Mia Dalia

Of all the many nuisances the Laurel Hill Cemetery’s ghouls have had to cope with over the years—and there had been many, from population booms and busts and the industrial revolution to gentrification, community tree planting projects, vandals, loud mourners, goths, Halloween junkies, junkies in general, etc., etc.—nothing irked them quite as much as hipsters.

by Trynne Delaney

While I lay in bed for the seventh day, only rising to shit and piss, eat, drink, and attend to the very most essential animal functions, I became aware of the mirror. It was my ex’s idea to install it there, an obelisk of a thing that took up half the wall, where we could see ourselves on the bed.

by Randal Eldon Greene

Lucy hugs me close. I am Lucy’s favourite friend. We go everywhere together. She takes me to the store, I attend church with her, and we love to go to parties together. Parties are our favourite.

by Cora Lewis

The first summer after college, I worked as a hostess in a restaurant. The place was open to the street at night, and—as with every place open to the street—rats would run in from trash-laden sidewalks, darting towards the kitchen with its smells.

by Matthew Wood

Jared Dean was completely fucked. It was way past curfew, and he was high out of his mind. He was more stoned than he’d ever been in his life. Every time he looked up at a streetlight, or a car drove by, there were smeary trails behind them, and he could not stop giggling. He was alone.

by Ann Zhang

There were no couples in Lottie’s Bridal, only my sister and I and, on the opposite side of the rack, a group of teenage girls petting a flowery tulle dress. A blonde girl who laughed louder than her friends snatched the hanger and held it against her neck.

by Abubakar Sadiq Mustapha

Meet the young fishermen who refuse to let their spirits sink. After their community was ravaged by floods, leaving homes and farmlands submerged in water, these resilient boys found a way to reel in a new sense of purpose.

by Oleg Sotnikov

These photographs are about the play between the sun and plants. As the sun sinks into the horizon and it shares its last rays before the night, a leaf shifts slightly to follow its light.

by Emma Vitallo

In "Stills of Play," I photographed a dollhouse constructed by my grandfather to create a rich, multi-layered experience that resonates with themes of memory, heritage, and self-discovery. The dollhouse creates a dynamic stage where toy horses and unicorns symbolize childhood memories and familial bonds.

by Gary Barwin and Elee Kraljii Gardiner

Take rain
for example, the glint (in)visible on
dark nights

by Louise Carson

‘I only came to oblige. But here I am.’

And ‘You’re the only one who seems to understand –
about tails.’

by Ennie Gloom

“Tell me where it hurts,”
we say in unison,
lying next to each other
in your twin bed.
You insist you must be first,
it’s an emergency.

by Atreyee Gupta

would you like tea, the white queen asks, 
of course you would because I want some— 
come dine with me.  

by David Ly

Death would cast its circle around me leaving little time to decide if the end should enter by way of Wolf’s teeth or upon Lamb’s swift, unwavering light-tipped arrows: both sensed me coming undone as I quivered being their next mark.

by Trish Salah

if it comes on some invisible,
what is this thing, evening? 
is this song singing?

by Meryem Yildiz

the rule or ruling, the best saved for last. i am full of intent, in heart and in mind, and in the name of god is a silence spoken only to oneself.

by Nadiyah Abdullatif and Thomas Feige, translated from Noémie Weber

Nadiyah Abdullatif is a Mauritius-born, Scotland-based editor and translator working from Arabic, French, Mauritian Creole, and Spanish into English. Her work has appeared in Wasafiri, ArabLit Quarterly, and The Markaz Review.

by Jessica Moore, translated from Laurent Tillon

LECCINUM, THE BOLETUS, 1782

In which we discover that the soil holds a number of surprises for Quercus the oak, and that he will encounter organisms very different from himself: fungi. This encounter will be violent, and Quercus will be betrayed.

by Deborah Ostrovsky, translated from Laurence Leduc-Primeau

The man puffs on a pipe, with a monkey in his arms. One time out of every second exhale, he disappears behind plumes of smoke. Come in, he says, when I’m already inside. Swallows and umbrellas are perched in a tree above a velvet rug. The man, who doesn’t have a monocle, points me to a photo of his uniformed son under a pile of bird droppings.