Thirty minutes after takeoff, I realized the old man sitting next to me had died. We hit some turbulence, and his hand fell from the armrest onto my right leg. I waited, expecting the old man to pick his arm back up, but his eyes remained closed, his head stayed cocked back, and the backside of his hand continued to rest on my lap.
Fiction by Cara Albert
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Remember what you were told about the proper greeting. You must not look him directly in the eye. You must not speak unless you are asked a direct question. You must do what you are told. This is very important. Sometimes your mind wanders and you say what you are thinking. You know this is true. Listen. You must do what you are told.
Flash Fiction by Sean Keck
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Second Place Winner in the 2019 Ada Limón Autumn Poetry Contest
My first love consumed me / fast, the way an oyster / which slides unbroken past the teeth / is pressed apart by the tongue. / She was the first women my mouth / knew and from the very first, / in that dirty pink-tile bathroom, / I understood how it felt / to want something until my lips / went raw.
Poetry by Kate Leland
Awarded Third Place in the 2019 Ada Limón Autumn Poetry Contest
Once, I gave my mother a memoir, I Just Lately / Started Buying Wings. There was a mother in it / like my mother’s mother: cold then slightly warmer / as my mother grew, as her tennis shoes climbed / closer to gas pedal and brake
Poetry by Lucas Jorgensen