There are no swans here, just corn / and potatoes pushing past small- / town dirt. I want to be done / with want, so I tell my feet / to stalk the wheat
Poetry by L. Renée
I practice the front crawl. I push. I breathe. I sturdy myself. I blow out when my head’s in. See and hear the gurgle. In order to keep myself aligned.
Flash Fiction by Kim Chinquee
I had been just as surprised as one might expect when, at the age of ten, while making breakfast one morning, I cracked open what I thought was a normal chicken egg and found, covered in egg white, a tiny naked man—full head of hair, a Roman nose, strong tightly-muscled arms. So statuesque, lying prone in my mixing bowl.
Fiction by Michael Mau
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