by Audrey Larson

Audrey Larson is an artist and writer who lives in Bellingham, WA, USA. They are known for their love of dreary beaches, public libraries, and old bicycles.

by Jordan Penland

Jordan Penland is a 27-year-old, half-Black, half-Ecuadorian artist/cartoonist from Los Angeles, CA. He predominantly works with watercolor markers and gel pens on paper to create brightly colored drawings with a strong doodle aesthetic.

by Jessie Carson

First, finish watching Mister Ed on TV at your sister Pearl’s house. Give her a hug before you leave and walk the short distance home. Pass the man who would soon murder your family as he passes you in your yard.

by Samuel Freeman

On a cold, rainy, April morning, Catherine called to tell me our baby was coming. Her gynecologist was sending her straight from the clinic to the hospital. The baby—our first—had stopped growing and needed to come out, even though her due date was a month away.

by Robin Gow

We are the earring collectors. We are goblins. We are hungry. We are queer. Our most recent pair are stained glass windows. A wooden frame with thin colorful glass on the back.

by Katherine Li

Take, for example, my family. We are a closed system. The sum of our energy remains constant, even when it takes on different forms: over time, rage turns into bitterness; happiness dulls to a slim sense of satisfaction.

by Jonathan Bessette

Steven trips through the front door at 5 a.m. with Kim in tow. He swears the Blundstones on top of the other piled shoes had grabbed him. Carla slinks into the hallway wearing the silk red pyjamas he bought her in Singapore—he promised not to make noise when he got back.

by Megan Callahan

When she wakes on Tuesday morning to the prickle of smoke in her nose, Janie’s first muggy thought is that her father has come home, miraculously—has simply walked in the door like he never left. Her second is that her mother has picked up smoking again.

by Michaela Di Cesare

Nothing feels better than someone else’s mother saying she’s proud of me. I instantly regress to a blissful embryonic state, suspended in warm amniotic admiration.

by Elliott Gish

Ella wants to have a baby. She tells Maddi this while they are both drunk, crushed together in the throes of awkward and slightly unsatisfying sex.

by Miriam Richer

In August I feel dark and stretched and translucent, like a shadow inching across a bedroom floor. I’m living out of a suitcase in a sublet I found on Craigslist: a two-bedroom apartment swirling with Keith Haring squiggles and earth-toned arabesques.

by Eleni Zaptses

When Baba asked me to come to her annual eye exam, I should have been suspicious. My mama and Teta Maria typically handled all health matters concerning Baba. I wasn’t the first, third, or even seventh person who was called for help.

by Mischa Jakupcak

Raised in a log cabin on a goat farm in Montana, Mischa Jakupcak is a writer, photographer and filmmaker. With a BA in Creative Writing from University of Arizona and an MA in Filmmaking from London Film School,

by Grace Wang

It was one of those perfect summer days. A beautiful home-cooked meal on the patio overlooking the river with produce freshly picked that morning. The next day, in the sunshine, we walked down the stairs from the backyard into the river, and just played.

by Amanda Yskamp

Amanda Yskamp is a writer and a collagist. Her artwork has appeared in such magazines as Black Rabbit, Riddled with Arrows, and Stoneboat.

by grace (ge) gilbert

If the villain is absence, I write over and over again, then all we see are reactions to it. / Villain once meant peasant, low-born. / It’s easy to mislay the villain if the villain is negative space. 

by Sophie Hoss

And this is what it is: / A hand up my shirt in the quickening violet, / a caul of dusk holding galaxies of night. / It isn’t honest, but it’s all I have. 

by Dani Janae

I have yet to meet a snake in South Carolina. / My brother tells me a story of his front yard, / a hole in the ground. His neighbor charges

by Dana Murphy

We met on opposite sides of a door— / swift as a kiss of steel splits fresh wood / our smiles unbridled a careful follow me, / returning our fingers to their pastmost forms:

by Erin Robinsong

The ocean is as close as the cunt / you come from & now it’s like we // never met, some irrelevance far / from our star, the metropole

by Julie Triganne

I was cast as the dove in a church recital: / “I am the dove of Christ.” Five years old, / I held a paper-plate bird. If the dove means salvation, / reconsider salvation. Pluck feathers from the gravy. 

by Stephanie Yorke

the little debit / machine says ma-ma-ma / to get the satellite’s attention / by now she’s impervious / so he uses her first name

by Diana Halfpenny, translated from Suzanne Jacob

The alarm has only just sounded, and already the three women have started to run. Are they running towards or away from something? When I first saw them in June 2014, I assumed they must be running away

by Dominique Russell, translated from Hector de Saint-Denys Garneau

It’s not about pulling things by the hair / Tying a woman’s hair to a pony’s tail / Piling up the dead in a line / On the edge of a sword, on the edge of time.