Portrait of the Artist Lost in Target

By Ryan Griffith
Where are you Andy Warhol, in all these acres of antiseptics and ointments? Are you hiding under the racks of slacks like a petulant child too cool for his mother?

The Twin

By Sam Baldassari
At the hospital, I’m the bad news. My sister, however, lives. She grows, laughs, and bleeds. Wears clothes and removes them. Scribbles in a journal. Prays.

Spring Again

By Jess D. Taylor
My second March without a backyard, and while yes, I miss things about the last place we rented together (especially the thick grass where the girls ran circles), our first rental is what I keep conjuring.

A Recurring Mistake

By Diane Gottlieb
Is there any other kind? Bless the soul who learns from her first. Not me. I’m a sucker for repetition, even when it hurts.

Photo Story: Mermaids

By Andrea Daniels
Peanut smoked every bit of meth that night in the hotel. Her sister loaned her money. Not exactly. A check for rehab, far from drugs and close to trees.

Calling at: Pharmacy, Florist, and Off-Licence only

By Lucy Goldring
Strange to go against the flow, to squeeze through bodies hell-bent on bagging seats aboard a train going nowhere.

Photo Story: Her World

By Julia Labusch
My girl and I used to spend hours every Saturday evening strolling our way around the cul-de-sac; her on her Ariel-red trike, and me walking beside.

When the Solid Gives Way

By Kathleen Latham
The dog trotted onto the frozen pond to fetch an errant stick. That is how I picture it, at least. The boy trudging along the snow packed shore.

Photo Story: The Jungle Gym

By Hanne Christensen
I remember this moment. Shrieks and laughter that I ignore. Cold metal on my hands, dizzying anticipation while I calculate whether woodchips are sufficient enough to soften my fall.

Rubbernecking

By Natalie Warther
It could be a tire term, or the title to a story about two duckies in the bath. It could be a waterproof turtleneck company, or even a condom-to-neck sex slang.

The Audubon Bar

By Maureen Aitken
When it was too late, we realized all the punks here dressed like birds. Ravens in the corner, sipping Cape Cods. Hector, with his Kodachrome Mohawk, surely a parrot.

A Red Balloon, Too

By Andrew Stancek
Still waiting for Dad, three days later, with enough kibble for Rocko, a half-full bag of birdseed for Raa, the heel of a pumpernickel for us. Mr. Stefan is sure to drum on the door today, squeezing out rent money.