Featured Writing

A woman in a sun hat facing a tattoo parlor's colorfully decorated storefront

Semicolon

By Patricia Ljutic (This story contains suicide.) My friend Lila had an ever-present yearning to be somewhere other than where she was, as if emotional burrs lodged under her skin and began pricking her before she could settle anywhere. She spoke about changing where she lived, but had such a…

read more...

Author Archive

A pair of hands hold up a black book.

A Statement on Religion

By James Croal Jackson Perhaps divinity is in devotion– pages of textover thousands of years, eternal ramblingin the clockwork ticking the days to etch instone the wings I’d searched away, blindfaith in running water, erosion of the endlessnights I’d stay awake to eke out meaning.

read more...

A small wooden piece with a comma.

Proofreading

By James Croal Jackson I know        I know    if I can understand you    I am an asshole         but I want you to do well              I want you to write in the sunbarefoot on brick with…

read more...

A line of cars waiting in traffic.

Tuesday

By James Croal Jackson we again drink through tuesdayon a rooftop around the corner ofwhere we grew up watching trafficnearly crash into every other carat rush hour there’s no room forinterpretation at 6 pm everyonecomes home from work crankythis fucked economy of wakingto pay bills a sunrise for the rich

read more...

A tree in the park.

Disc Golf

by James Croal Jackson My excuse for a poor score:the frisbee has teeth. And a mind.It chose to rebel inside the wind– I agree, of course, when you sayour food delivery job is temporary.We have hours before we need to clock in– an ordinary morningstraddling the Olentangy river.Any way to…

read more...

Cherry blossoms in front of a building

Transition

by James Croal Jackson I walk this familiar streetof spring. Cherry blossoms, sunshine, the desireto drink. Yesterday I snuck into a fieldwith a flask to avoid the knife room Itell myself to stay out of. My longing a blackrolled-up rug. I tell myself Stay wound, trying howI can before I…

read more...

Kiss Of The Cantaloupe

by James Jackson Sweet-suckled Slovenian lips– Cleveland where I found you, Columbus were you lost. Some days a black blanket we would lay under to seek stars seeking something cold & how our temperatures dropped over the years. We’d burn nights matchstick young, whiskey and coke, peel clothes to cool–…

read more...