Fiction: Alissa Nutting

from Unclean Jobs for Women and Girls



I don’t know if I’m able to have children myself. Because we haven’t been able to conceive, my boyfriend calls our sex “free sex.” I’m not sure if he’s referring to the cost we save on contraceptives, the funds it takes to raise a child, what. If I ask, “What do you mean, free sex?” he says, “You know. No consequences.”

Kyle and I have a lot of free sex. Working on a children’s show, I almost feel bad about how very much sex I have.

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Prose Poems: Carol Guess

from Rogue Agent Burlesque



Cranberries stain boot soles blood red. Smell of scrub pine and salt. The road stops, starts again across the water. Because there’s no bridge here comes the thrill of forgetting. The light’s green, and holding, but what is it holding? No mistaking this coastline for Finland. Signs sell whole farms: Ocean Spray contract included with bog. No one’s harvested these reds in years. Days of driftwood and rowboats, gumdrops, fisticuffs of school. Grays Harbor drinks from every floater. The night train whistles past Aberdeen Junction. This is how you get here: stay.

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Fiction: Elena Georgiou

from The Immigrant’s Refrigerator



Who would have believed that ground chickpeas with garlic, olive oil, and lemon juice, formed into a paste, would be welcomed by the British public, and end up on a shelf at Safeway? She certainly wouldn’t have. In fact, she was so unaccustomed to seeing this product outside of her parents’ home, she didn’t immediately register it in the dips section of the supermarket in Stamford Hill.

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Poems & Paintings: Joan Fiset & Noah Saterstrom

from How It Was with Scotland


down the road around the bend

follow the white bird’s wings

hoops & sticks & skips into dusk

one bite from the roof

carnival lights calliope

one sugary shard from a windowpane

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Poems: Michael Klein

from then, we were still living



But wasn’t it always a scene

in a movie to delay it in the world?

The always movie?

In America, we make movies

before anything really happens.
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Cross-genre text: Deborah Poe

selections from Hélène, a hybrid novella


In the northern darkness there is a fish and his name is K’un. The K’un is so huge I don’t know how many thousand li he measures. He changes and becomes a bird whose name is P’eng. The back of the P’eng measures I don’t know how many li across and, when he rises up and flies off, his wings are like clouds all over the sky. When the sea begins to move, this bird sets off for the southern darkness, which is the Lake of Heaven.

Chuang Tzu

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