INTERVIEW
Summer 2016

Interview with John Keene
by SOILI SMITH

What does it mean to bring together real factual artifacts such as the Declaration of Independence, and invented ones like the newspaper clippings in the stories? And the archive is sort of essential to this, because what kinds of forms might the archive take?


FICTION
Summer 2016

Any Wonder
by CHELSEA BIEKER

I have some things but they are not real. My job isn’t real and I walked away without a word. All I did was enter data into a system. I made many mistakes everyday, but no one caught me and no one cared.


FICTION
Summer 2016

The Moon Man
by JUSTINE CHAMPINE

Red roses with blossoms the size of a baby’s head grow wild over the windows, and there is a tiny freshwater pool out back where schools of minnows frantically multiply and move together as one dark, quivering arrow.


FICTION
Summer 2016

One Of Us Is Sleeping (excerpt)
by JOSEFINE KLOUGART

The catastrophes you encounter in life may seem unreal, but they are: real. The alienation that makes you think that some people are more real than others is a construct; people are no more or less alien, no more or less real.


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POETRY
Summer 2016

BLOOD MOON, summer 2015
by KATIE MERTZ

a little bit in love
and I am beating
myself like a last meal  
wearing worry on the skin
and bruised all over  


FICTION
Summer 2016

Our Lady of Perpetual Realness
by CASON SHARPE

The crew splits up. I tell Kalale I want to show off my look! She’s like yeah, with the boys. She is right. I know what she means when she says it.

 


POETRY
Summer 2016

Silent Friends
by JOANNA NOVAK

The two men flail on the balcony.
Sky glitters behind them.
One with goalpost arms.
The dork with a toilet bowl mouth.



FICTION
Summer 2016

Salute [May 2014]
by LAUREN BARBATO

The girls had heard from the boys that the boys were looking for the girls. Outside English, History, Spanish class. Inside the gyms, stables, dormitories. For one week only, they were in demand.


REVIEW
Summer 2016

A Review of Kids in Triage by Kilby Smith-McGregor
by AARON BOOTHBY

You wake up in a bed, in a hospital, having to remember why you’re there and what has happened to you. You wake up in your bed in the not-hospital, having to remember why you’re not where you were before. In the differentiated days of childhood every day is entirely other, like every person you meet. Everyone is curious, strange, queer. You wonder why what’s happened to you doesn’t happen to another, as if all bodies might be the same body. You learn they’re not. This state doesn’t end after childhood, but you forget that it doesn’t.