Cover art by Laurena Finéus

In “Jardin de Mackandal” (The Garden of Mackandal), the focus is the breadfruit tree, a hardy symbol of survival. Known for its role in Haiti's reforestation, the breadfruit tree thrives in poor soil and is a reliable source of sustenance, especially in times of crisis.

Comic by Sunny Strader

Sunny Strader is an artist based in rural Illinois, USA. She makes comics and sculpture, works as a psychic medium, and runs an astrology snail mail club from her home studio, sending mailings to readers around the world.

Comic by Katrina Dahl Vogl

Katrina Dahl Vogl is a Mexico City-based writer and illustrator. She received her MFA from the University of New Orleans in 2023.

Creative nonfiction by Mary Fontana

The Pyrenees and the Alps, which stretched from east to west, meant that many trees were unable to move south ahead of the ice.

Creative nonfiction by Theresa Lin

In his essay “Exhaling,” Carrère quotes Freud, who quotes Ludwig Börne: 

Take a few sheets of paper and for three days on end write down, without fabrication or hypocrisy, everything that comes into your head.

Creative nonfiction by by Suzanne Manizza Roszak

Being transported into this forest requires that you first drive a string of streets too narrow for more than a single car, then take a stretch of highway that cuts not through hills but instead through improbably flattened and uniform terrain.

Fiction by Sharalyn Barg

In late spring the year the virus came, the company treated us to a mental wellness seminar. We joined the video call from separate soundproof booths.

Fiction by by Garima Chhikara

Ira thrived in the lost hours, the unaccounted hours of her day, when she did absolutely nothing—hours that were fluid, intimate, and ambiguous.

Fiction by by Adam Dizon

Lying in front of us was the body of a young horse. It looked deflated, its stick-like limbs sprawled over the side of the table, one hoof hovering just above the floor.

Fiction by by Anja Jovanovic

It always went something like this: a post-lunch stop at the 7-Eleven would turn into passing by the park, leaving footprints on the hot tin slide and debating whether or not they could still squeeze into the baby swings

Fiction by by Lars Love Philipson

It’s a beautiful June afternoon, and I’m standing barefoot on the gravel driveway, watching Dad load bag after bag into our white BMW. He and Mom will be gone for a long, long time.

Poetry by Brandi Bird

refresh girluser type
write speak don’t

Poetry by Emma Moss Brender

All this time I was thinking about the black lines 
I imagined a woman welding chance trusses against a white sky

Poetry by James Hawes

Steve Ambrose likes to watch YouTube videos of people making knives.
Steve Ambrose is lonely.

Poetry by Adegboyega Kayowa

When I finally told you that walking
was harder for me than for others, I was worried

Poetry by Julia Luna

fizzling [inaudible] she
glass made gracious

Poetry by Sarah Oso

It swells together then rattles
into front yard hickory dance

Poetry by Pablo Saborio

Socrates’ dæmon watches a mass of empire vanish.
Doors appear as callous neophytes in the hierarchy of thresholds.

Photography by László Gábor Belicza

László Gábor Belicza’s photographs of Bábolna explore the deep connections between humans, horses, and nature within one of Hungary’s most historic stud farms.

Photography by by Andrii Halishchev

In this project, I tried to show how the photography function could change over time. In 2020, I shot a roll of film of an abandoned airfield with dozens of old jets which I recently discovered near my hometown, Vovchansk, Ukraine.

Photography by Ruxandra Mitache

At the beginning of a new year, I walked the same streets as a ritual: quiet houses, untitled small gardens, sparkling waters, and windows shaping the light before sunset. 

Translation by Phyllis Aronoff, translated from Éléonore Goldberg

Yes, sometimes my apartment feels like a box, a huge coffin in which I’m buried alive. I feel like jumping out the window. It’s true, emptiness is very attractive to me looking down from my windows.

Translation by Jacob Mattke, translated from Yara El-Ghadban

When it came after the workers, nothing was done. They came from detention centers: prisoners, refugees, and undocumented immigrants who tilled the Dead Sea’s salt flats.

Translation by Jessica Moore, translated from Dominique Scali

Ys is an island. We don’t say “the isles of Ys” or “the Ys Archipelago,” because it is only on the main island – that big hunk of land lost between Saint-Jean-of-Newfoundland and Ouessant – that people can live year-round.