The reporters called and asked me: Did you know him? / I was his teacher, I said many times that day. Yes, I knew him.

Poetry by Martín Espada

for Jim Foley, journalist executed on video by ISIS (Islamic State of Iraq and al-Sham), August 19, 2014

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The Places You Go When You’re Alive

I walked into the kitchen and peered through the sliding door. Brad stood on the deck. The night had sucked him into a time machine that spit him back out looking more worn and tired than ever before. He rubbed his face and held a jack knife in his right hand. The kind my father used to carry when he hunted. The blade faced the outside of his thigh and he blinked wildly.

Fiction by Sarah Walker

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We’re the only ones we / race against, we think. We speak / in tongues. We know that family / matters most. Bang, bang. “What will / we have today?” we ask / when we serve at oily restaurants.

Poetry by Colin Criss

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Fire Escape

Somewhere in the middle of my tasks I heard the bell above the door ding. Before I saw who it was I dashed back behind the counter, where I felt a rush of air and heard a buzzing noise, almost as loud as a lawnmower. A fly about the size of a large cat landed on counter near the register. “Hi,” it said. “My name is Mary.”

Fiction by Eric Rasmussen

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Hydronym & Ghost Forests

In the lowlands of Virginia, an ecologist says, /If you remove humans from the picture, the coast is preparing itself.

Poetry by Emma Aylor

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