by Starr Davis On a dead night in March, my lover tells me a story that is not mine to tell. The other night the cops found a man’s body...

by Abigail Peabody You are in fifth grade, sitting next to Sarah Murphy on the school bus, and she tells you she is wearing a B-cup bra....

by Gabriel Rogers Ryan and Kalev and I sit on Ryan’s back porch in Jocoro drinking Regia beer in gold cans. We’re going over material for...

by Diane Payne It’s hot and humid but I’m determined to pull some weeds while I look at the clouds and wonder if they’ll finally bring...

by Karuna Eberl After a hurricane, life is sepia-toned. Lawns are dead. Trees are leafless. Roads are covered in debris, and anything...

by Brandon Shimoda When my mother was pregnant with me, she took a class on color theory. The class was at California State University...

by Adrian Potter 1. Sometimes, we die of such blackness, after becoming a smudge on the margins. Slice right through layers of scar...

by Lisa D. Chavez (This was originally a talk at a panel discussion from the AWP Conference 2021, titled “Difficult Muses and Damaged...

by Ploi Pirapokin I woke up on my thirty-third birthday, shaken by my surgeon at 4 a.m. “Congratulations on surviving your appendectomy!...

by Jennifer Tseng Once upon a time, I floated within my mother’s sea. I’d never seen a book or a person suffering. I’d never seen...

by Chris Moore A man working on a construction site right outside of my apartment window just had his hand crushed

by Jennifer Manalili The house that sits on 4344 Marcia Court in San Diego is a fake. A phantom house.

by Casandra Lopez SHIRAAAW’AXNE (I SPEAK ) It is evident that if allowed to roam at pleasure, their early extinction is inevitable

by Rachel M. Hanson I stepped out of the house at dusk, still able to see shrub oaks thinned out for winter,

by Heidi Czerwiec I’m a mushroom hunter. In order to find mushrooms, I need familiarity with what they feed on.

by Paxon Balthazar Kalāhikiola Chang The H-1 spans from West to East O’ahu, contouring the Leeward side of the island

by Aaron A. Abeyta I wish to be an ancestor of fire and how flames came to be, an ancestor of particular slants and dances of light wherein

by Susan Olding In the early 1990s, as a recent transplant from downtown Toronto to Eastern Ontario—more or less due north of Syracuse,

by Nehal El-Hadi The first Arabic-language play to be staged in Toronto as part of a theatre’s regular season was a double-bill about the