FICTION.

The Glass Mountain

by Aimee Pokwatka

“Quiet, now,” she told us. “It’s like Tinker Bell.”/ “What’s like Tinker Bell?” Gnome asked. It was a stupid question, but we forgave him because his eyes were the color of a sandstorm, and he sat still as an injured bird./ “If you don’t believe, it won’t come true.” Aunt Halina was patient with these types of questions. She wasn”t really our aunt. She smelled like melted butter, and she had a scar on her chest that she wouldn’t let us see. She started the story again. (...)

POETRY.

The Voice Before

by Melody S. Gee

Echoes uncurl down this canyon/ like patient honey rolling. Rocks repeat/ everything I say. A tree falls/ as many times as I can hear it. (...)

The Dogs

by Julia Johnson

The wide range converges./ The moon dilutes itself on the plate.// A blue shape, a coat of sorts, wears itself out. (...)