I like to tell it like it happened in July so
there can be implications of watermelons,

In December, though, the blood on the house and snow
are peony blooms in red and white.

But if it’s in July, there can be an image of my grandmother
leaned up against her spade,
the handle tucked up into her body,
the silver head tucked into the soil,
the top of her lip moist,
the dead dog next to her, inert.

If it’s in July, there can be flies,
swarms of flies,
covering the opened up parts of my dog
so that I can’t see the insides.

I can have my grandmother rest
for a bit over the hole and say:
the foxglove ain’t comin up this year.
Although, there’s never been any foxglove
and all I can imagine are thick leaves
and milk oozing from its anonymous roots
to saturate the soil.

In December, we find her still-alive and the neighbor across
the stumped over corn field sews her bits back together.

If it’s in July, she can stoop down to grasp a leg,
to chuck my dog into the hole.
It can be under the willow tree,
and I can crouch on my hams to peer over the side before
my grandmother begins to throw the dirt back in.

In December, my father goes out at night to find the
dogs that attacked her.
When he finds them,
he shoots them and throws their
bodies on their owner’s porch.
If it’s in July I can feel the sun on my head.
Grandmother pats the last of the dirt with her hands
and asks me if I want some potato salad.
In December, my dog lives and I feed her small pieces of old pizza
while she rests on a blanket in the basement.



Nicole Mason received her MA in Literature at Northern Michigan University and currently teaches Composition and Creative Writing at Indiana University of South Bend. Sometimes she writes poems. Her work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in SOFTBLOW, (b)OINK, Farther Stars Than These, and Cease, Cows.


The morning is silver with birdsong.
Clapboard chapel sides

thunk down in the grass
as nude pews shudder.

The priest is sick.
His coughing will curse

both houses. The rings will roll
off the knuckles that don’t exist.

Crinoline waits, a virgin
in the dress shop, untouched

by the woman’s fingers.
It wants to be cut, trembles

for scissors. There will never be
a dress handmade from the shades

of the morning for the woman,
never specked with silver

sequins like finches pipping,
she vows. A bell’s throat

won’t clang and the hands
won’t clap after the kiss, after

the giving away
everyone wants, she fears.




Kamal E. Kimball is a poet currently living in the Ohio River Valley. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Zetetic, Literati Magazine, Indolent Books, Kaaterskill Basin Literary Journal and elsewhere. She is a member of the Cincinnati DIY Writers and founder of Fresh Darlings, an online writing community. She works as a grant writer and journalist. More at 


It is hot – so hot. The sort of heat that seeps through your clothes to your skin, drips down your scalp, and makes you want to scratch, an itch that won’t stop. I wipe the back of my hand on my face and stare at the beads of sweat stuck there.

“It’s hot,” he says and takes a long drag of his smoke.

The smoke chafes my nose, my throat. I try not to cough. He said he would quit. He has said that quite a few times. I watch a bird soar through the sky, its blue fringe glints in the sun. It banks, lands on a tree on the other side of the street, pecks at the bark, gives up – flies off.

“I wish I was a bird,” I say. In my mind I mime a pair of wings. They would stir up a brisk breeze, a balm for this stale day. I would fly through the drab, dank sky; the wind in my wings would drift down, would coat the earth with hues of red and rose and gold – the shades of my soul.

He puts his hand on my thigh – a mute plea to bring me back to him. Does he wish for wings too? Wings that would take him to someplace else, someplace new?

“I had a bird when I was a kid,” he says. “A finch. It died.”

I stare at his face, his deep-set eyes, his thin mouth, the small sad line of his lips.

“It’s no use,” I say. He nods.

The hard lump in my throat chokes me. My eyes feel tight. I stand up.

“I love you,” I say. He starts to reach for me, stops, drops his hand, nods.

“I know,” he says.

I get in my car, drive down the street. I should stay, should pack my bags. But if I do, I might change my mind. There is a stop sign in front of me; I slam on the brakes. I can’t move, can’t drive, can’t go back. I can’t see through the tears. Why can’t love just be enough? Some birds mate for life. So why can’t I give up my wings? If I could, would they fall to earth black and burnt? Would they rise out of the ash, gold and rose and red and brand new? There is a sharp knock on my door. He stands there.

“Please?” he says.

I sob. He holds out his arms and I get out of the car. He smells of smoke and pine. We stand there, in the bare street.

“Let’s talk,” he says. I shake my head. I watch a flock of geese, a crisp black V in the gray sky.

“Just give me one more chance. I can be a bird too,” he says.

I turn to look at him. He holds out his hand.



Alicia Robinson received her B.A. in Anthropology from Oregon State University. In addition to Anthropology, she studied Archeology, Prehistory, and Creative Writing. She is currently applying for graduate school to study Biological Anthropology. Alicia lives in Oregon with her partner David, their two Siberian Huskies Nova and Whiskey, and their cat Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. She is constantly working on new short stories and takes inspiration from her own life and her beautiful home in the Pacific Northwest.


“How do I look?”
“You look fine, honey.”
“Is it fine or beautiful?”
“You look like a mom,” he said.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”

Lillian Ratcliff fluttered about the nursery as if a butterfly had taken possession of her body. Moving unopened diapers from shelf to shelf. She went to the crib, adjusted the mobile and cracked the window because of the faint odor of fresh paint.

“What if they don’t approve us?” She said, rearranging the stuffed animals in the crib into a neat row.

“We’ll be fine.”
“How’s our credit?

“Lil, we’ve done the best we can. Our references are solid. Our credit is sufficient. We have money in savings. The Hooper’s got their baby last year, and they don’t look near as good as us on paper. And remember Cassie Ingram, Judith Lloyd’s cousin. She got a beautiful baby boy last year, and she’s not even married.”

Lillian wore a path from the crib to the dresser. Animal silhouettes cut into the yellow wallpaper back-dropped the crib. In the corner, an oversized luxury glider, upholstered in white and wrapped in plastic.

“I don’t know,” she said, giving the room a second and third re-organization.

“Do you have the medical records?”
“Yes, dear.”
“And the tax returns?”
“Yes, dear.”
“We’re good people Lil, and we will make great parents.”

Lillian nipped at the fuzz on her cashmere sweater and adjusted the hemline of her skirt as her husband drove.
“Have you thought about how our life will change? How different things will be?”
“I have,” he said, his eyes never leaving the road. “Lillian we’ve gone over this a million times. You need to relax.”
She wrenched the skin on her hands into an angry shade of red.

It was a twenty-minute drive from the house to the three-story concrete and brick building with Italian cornices. Lillian and her husband walked the granite steps leading to the elaborate, recessed entry, hands interlocked. A garden of white trumpet lilies encircled the building.

Inside the main lobby, cast stone walls met pink marble wainscoting. Centered on the coffered decorative ceiling was an enormous octagonal bronze and glass pendant light fixture.

“This place looks more like a museum,” Lillian said. He squeezed her hand.

“It will be okay,” he said as they rode the elevator.

The waiting room walls were ornamental plaster and held a dozen women who looked much the same as Lillian. An attendant offered fresh water with cucumber. They waited a sharp seven minutes.

“Dr. Gideon will see you now,” a well-proportioned blonde said.

Inside his office were two chairs, a single computer, and a centered plaque with his name.

“Good afternoon,” he said. “We have decisions to make today. Are we excited?”

Dr. Gideon looked no older than thirty, coifed hair, perfect teeth and a well-tested smile.

“Yes, we’re excited,” Lillian said, cleaving the dryness in her throat with a sip of cucumber water.

“We have our records,” the husband said as he passed their folders across the desk. Dr. Gideon took the paperwork and tapped the corners until each page aligned.

“Well,” he said. “Let’s get started.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Girl,” Lillian giggled. Her husband smiled.

“Yes, girl, perfect,” Dr. Gideon said. Typing as he spoke.

“Five foot ten.”

Dr. Gideon perched himself on the edge of his seat, “now for the nuanced traits.” He said, picking up the folder marked medical records.

Lillian shifted, matching Dr. Gideon.

“Aunt with dementia,” he said, looking toward Lillian.

To the husband, “father with cardiovascular disease, brother with colon cancer, sister with breast cancer and psychiatric disease.”

Lillian peered at her husband as Dr. Gideon set the folder on the desk and reclined.

“We can use Crispr to edit the genome of your embryo with unprecedented precision and efficiency. But we may need to make a few compromises.”

Unseen, Lillian dug her heels into the carpet. “What does that mean?”

With your deposit and financials we can either cover aesthetics or disease polymorphisms. There won’t be enough money to cover everything you want.”

There was a lengthy pause. “We can make this work, Lil. We can have a healthy baby.”

Lillian grew as her husband shrank.

“I’m not leaving my baby’s appearance up to chance,” she said. “My mother told me not to marry someone with flawed genetics. I knew better.”

Her husband was about to speak, but Dr. Gideon, sensing the divide, interjected.

“We can mix and match. Eye color, or hair and disease polymorphisms,” he said.

“See, Lil? We can do both.”

Lillian jumped up, “I’m not compromising.”

“Maybe I should give you both a minute to discuss your options,” Dr. Gideon said. Lillian’s back was to the desk, arms tight to her torso and folded.

“You know Lil… we can always have a baby the old-fashioned way. We can use the money for something else.

“Why would I ever leave my child’s genetics to chance? What would our friends and family think? We’d be the laughingstock of the neighborhood. That’s ridiculous.”

“Maybe we need some time to think, Lil. A little time. That’s all.”

Lillian charged from the office before either her husband or Dr. Gideon could respond.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for my wife’s behavior. We’ve been saving for this for almost five years.”

Dr. Gideon nodded, “I understand.”

Her husband moved toward the open door.

“Before you leave, can I ask you a question,” Dr. Gideon said.


“What would you name her?”

“Annabelle.” He said.

“Beautiful,” Dr. Gideon said. “Beautiful.”



R. E Hengsterman is a writer and film photographer who deconstructs the human experience through photographic images and the written word. He is a 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee, proponent of self-flagellation and a  flawed human who writes under the beautiful Carolina sky. You can see more of his work at and find him on Twitter at @rehengsterman.


Across the old woman’s ceiling, the stain
spreads its puckered areola,
water hooping frayed ripples in the plaster
where something broke, leaked
in the apartment upstairs, where naked
lights shine cold-clear as through windows
cobalted with Madonna and child.
This godforsaken place.
Why doesn’t the landlord
fix the pipes, clean those drains?

It’s the young single mother, blonde
as fuel in a match, who tells
what she’s heard about the woman upstairs:
thirty-four. Barmaid at the green
of the local golf course.
Boyfriend. Breakup. Back pains
and stomach. A mistake.
An accident. Hadn’t told
the doctor. Something gone wrong,
spilled out, half-formed and rather
than call for help, admit on the phone,
she tried to flush it
down the drain. The half-forgotten
sleeping thing, flipped sideways,
its face a doll’s face,
its ear a doll’s ear
not quite ready to hear the world
clogged and overflowed the pipe.

A delicate matter for delicate people,
this is not told widely among the tenants
but the old woman sees how the stain is sponged
after the upstairs lady moves away
and she has had time to chew over
how many times she bruised her own son’s face,
the teacher who never speaks of her ex
and the secrets women keep, burning
white rings in ceilings above their heads.




Kelly Weber is the author of the chapbook All My Valentine’s Days Are Weird from Pseudo Poseur Press. Her poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in several publications, including The Midwest Quarterly, Triggerfish, and Clade Song, along with such anthologies as Nebraska Poetry: A Sesquicentennial Anthology and The Flat Water Stirs: An Anthology of Emerging Nebraska Poets. She has taught composition and poetry at Wayne State College, where she received her BA of English Writing and Literature and her MSE in English Education. She is currently working toward her MFA in poetry at Colorado State University. More of her work can be found at


It rained that day.
His woman was fucking phantoms
in the shadows.
Doorways opened into empty space five stories up.
He was a ghost among real animals.
His lover was rooting for the hyenas.
She could barely see him.
He embarrassed the statues with his fervor.
Dispatched from heaven, then from the fifth floor.
All his time was free.
She whispers to the vultures
that the worst is almost over for them.



Colin Dodds is a writer. He grew up in Massachusetts and completed his education in New York City. He is the author of several novels, including WATERSHED and The Last Bad Job, which the late Norman Mailer touted as showing “something that very few writers have; a species of inner talent that owes very little to other people.” His poetry has appeared in more than two hundred seventy publications, and has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize and the Best of the Net Anthology. The poet and songwriter David Berman (Silver Jews, Actual Air) said of Dodds’ poetry: “These are very good poems. For moments I could even feel the old feelings when I read them.” His book-length poem That Happy Captive was named a finalist in both the Trio House Press Louise Bogan Award and the 42 Miles Press Poetry Award. And his screenplay, Refreshment, was named a semi-finalist in the 2010 American Zoetrope Contest. Colin lives in Brooklyn, New York, with his wife and daughter. You can find more of his work at


The town was small.
The museum was small,
free, and uncrowded.
He looked at the painting
with the artist’s name
faded to nothing.
It stayed with him
all that summer
and the years that followed.
A smiling girl with a sleeping dog.



Robert Halleck is a retired bank president who fills his days with hospice volunteering, greyhound rescue, and poetry. He has a weakness for open mic poetry readings and autocross racing. He underwrites a yearly poetry prize at Norwich University. In the last 50 years, three volumes of his poems have been published. His recent work has appeared in the San Diego Poetry Annuals, The Paterson Literary Review, The Galway Review, The Lake, and a number of other interesting places.