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THE BALLOON by Kiddo Cunningham

July 22, 2025

During my dissertation on the history of traveling theatrical acts, I came across a grainy old black-and-white piece of footage from a fair. In the silent reel, too few people hold the ropes of a hot air balloon, intending to keep it grounded. As the balloon takes off, four people continue holding their ropes, lifted off the ground. One by one they release, dropping to the safety of Earth below. Except for one person who holds tight. I was born with a condition of isolation. Drinking didn’t give me a sense of belonging, but it made the affliction tolerable. It gave me a lens of delusion I needed: This is temporary. It muffled what was insufferable.I cling to the rope as the balloon gains height. Departing this planet, legs swinging wildly. The people below gather and scatter. Every moment, I am shocked at how high I am, then I’m perilously higher. On a Tuesday, surrounded by barely-tolerant family, I listen to them read pleas off index cards, voices trembling. It’s supposed to touch me—change me—through the shaming. Instead, I feel more othered than ever. I keep a blank face and endure, quietly stoking my rage. When I finally let go, the fall is very far. Windmilling my arms and pedaling my legs noiselessly. There is grace in these movements; an artificial tranquility imposed by the silence. I hit the ground soundlessly, grainy figures run toward me, the balloon long gone.The readers are done so I take a breath to unleash the violence brewing. Instead, a choking sigh escapes. Bodily relief. Two impossibilities: compound the isolation or give up what made isolation tolerable. Fear of the inevitable forces of gravity that, for some of us, encourage us to hold tighter and escalate the very horrors we fear. I understood this instinct.

THE ROOSTER THAT SCREAMS by Laura Shell

July 3, 2025

So there is one rooster in the neighborhood that sounds normal, emmits the typical cock-a-doodle-doo cry in the wee hours of the morning. Then there is the other rooster, the one that submits a scream like someone is holding a hand around its throat. It's like an "Ehhhhhhh," sound. And it's much louder than the other rooster's call.So every morning, I hear the rooster that screams and wish I knew where it lived so I could find out exactly why it screams.

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The rooster belts out its usual "Ehhhhhhh," sound, then scratches at the scar on its throat.

SORDID LITTLE WORLD by Gerri Brightwell

June 19, 2025

You reach your forties and your life’s nothing but bus rides to work, and long hours in the lab, and a sandwich for lunch because with a mortgage and a spouse and two nearly-grown sons your pay doesn’t go far, and every day it’s rinse-and-repeat, your life fading away in this windowless room with its unsparing fluorescent lights, its stink of solvents and reagents, and then one day you mix compound A with solution B and what you’ve made is a substance so viscous and black you can scarcely believe it, you tip it out and it’s like you’ve poured emptiness into a puddle on your workbench, a hole where there can be no hole, an utter absence of light that you lower your head to peer at, and touch its tacky surface with a fingertip, then press your fingers into, and that’s when its chill soars through you, rapid and numbing and dragging darkness with it, and before you know it that darkness is everywhere, that darkness is everything, and you should panic but you don’t, your heart should race but there is no heart, there is no you because you are this void and it is you, and it is stillness, and it is peace, it is where time has never existed, so it’s a shock when it breaks apart and you’re yanked back by a burning in your chest and your eyes open to a glare of ugly lights and your colleagues kneeling over you, weeping with relief that they’ve revived you, and you’re weeping too because you are you again, back in this sordid little world.

I SEE THE BEAUTY by Diego Lama, Translated from Italian by Rose Facchini

June 10, 2025

Behind the dune of plastics, hidden among the clumps of charred O-Rings and heaps of shapeless garbage, there is a large tank. In the tank are cockroaches. Every day, I climb onto the metal cover and contemplate the gray dawn that creeps through the hills of waste. Then I defecate inside the tank through the top hatch. Every day, my feces nourish thousands of hungry cockroaches. In the morning, I take my net and fish. The smell of the tank does not bother me. On the contrary. Sometimes I climb inside and catch the biggest cockroaches that hide at the bottom. Then I climb back up to the pot of water on the fire and cook breakfast, lunch, dinner. I eat fifty, seventy, ninety cockroaches a day. I also make a good, dark, bitter, thirst-quenching, nutritious broth from them. The cockroaches feed on my waste, I feed on them. Every day, I go for long walks through the sludge in search of more food for my farm: human excrement, remains of dead animals, or shapeless things. And then I collect fuel to keep the fire burning. This is my life. No one ever comes near. They are afraid, disgusted, pitying, horrified. They are shortsighted and confused, all moving towards their end, even if they run away in different directions. They run away and do not see the beauty. I do not run away. I see. And then, at sunset—gray, blurry, misty—I sit on a heap of garbage and smile, because life, every life, is wonderful.

LOOKING AND HURTING by Alice Rowena Wilson

June 5, 2025

In the bar, she stares at him constantly, which is embarrassing in and of itself, but also because she cannot seem to physically control it, and she knows his friends will notice (she somehow does not count herself in this body of people, although that is where she belongs; within this crowd, her desire isolates her, carves out a space of hot, silent shame), and she knows that they, his friends, will murmur to each other, that they will note her desperate, pathetic, puppy-dog presence, but she seems to have a physical impediment that means she can’t stop staring, and even when she forces herself to look at other people, she doesn’t see their faces but instead the overlay of his face, their mouths and faces moving and talking in a sick parody of his mouth and face, and when she glances across and sees him talking to another woman, it is as if she has been punched in the chest, it takes the wind out of her, she wants to cry, to scream, to cradle the other woman’s head in her hands and press down on her eyeballs until they turn to wet, soft mush. She spends so much time repressing this jealousy, certain that it is neither good for her nor appropriate for her feminist commitments, that it is a relief to simply thirst for blood.

ALL THE NAMES WE HAVE TO HAVE FOR LOVE by Lei Wang

April 22, 2025

Someone saw some cloudsonce upon a time. So what?I can see them, too —a haiku But better to have seen them a thousand years ago. I am not being sentimental. I like plumbing as much as anyone, and I know the more pollution, the more brilliant sunsets. But the first poems, you could write about anything. Day turning into night a real phenomenon, a mouth and another mouth. The first poems had no metaphors because nothing was like anything else yet.The kiss was a courting ritual involving, what else, food. A capybara feeding a berry to another capybara, baby birds, wolves translating deer. The first kisses were a promise of future fish, future strawberries: they were symbols, poems. What we want are practical morsels. Let’s nourish the fuck out of each other, a lover says. Hungry, we say, for anything we desire.The first poems were reports. The world was new and you only wanted to factcheck what you saw: are clouds white to you? White as pillowcases? White as teeth? Does billow mean the same to you as to me? How does a frog go? Is the sea far away or no distance at all? Does the moon look sad to you tonight as well? And every night?Why are there so many nature poems? I asked an English professor once. Well, there are just as many city poems, she said. She meant: you see what you want to see.The painters in the caves at Lascaux were saying, bison exist bison exist. Not nostalgizing or vision boarding: just stating the facts. Once upon a time, the facts were enough.

FISHING FOR KAT by Wendy BooydeGraaff

April 11, 2025

He flies into town, late, rents a room in the neighbourhood, meets her first thing in the morning, holds her, remembers how her mother looked, same dark eyes, same dark curl on the top of her head. Every six months, he catches milestones: crawling, walking, first words, kindergarten, high school. Same room, same turquoise couch, same breakfast snacks. Years. Back and forth. He becomes an intermittent constant.At home, he cleans out the extra room, installs a Murphy Bed, hangs her favorite poster. He investigates the local university, uses it as a lure she won’t resist.

JAKOB, I DO! UNTIL I DON’T! by Ali Mckenzie-Murdoch

April 10, 2025

We drank Prosecco on the number 31, escaping the confetti blizzard, the plastic champagne flute cheap between my lips but the ring heavy on my finger, while my parents returned to their hotel and we continued on the early bus—Who gets married at eight in the morning?—and some passengers clucked and said Cheers, but most looked out to the felt-clad streets where stony-faced bankers marched to the rain, then we chugged up a small mountain on a train, and still in my wedding dress with the matching red patent shoes, I whispered footsteps in snow strewn with autumn leaves, and later, after we thawed our bodies in steaming water and fucked in the bathtub, bones squeezed between ceramic and lobster-pink skin, I hid the bruises beneath an evening gown, and we toasted again, ate pizza and lit candles jammed into green glass bottles while I picked at wax cascades with manicured nails never knowing when this day, this love, this marriage, would end.

VINYL HOUSES by Willow Campbell

April 8, 2025

There is a bony woman measuring things on the playground. She has a long tape measure that hooks in place. One end hugs the edge of a railroad tie bordering the perimeter of the wood chips. She measures the circumference of the area. She measures by the slide, the length of the monkey bars, the distance from climbing pyramid to swing set, and writes the numbers down in a three-ring notebook. The kids pay her no mind. They screech and race each other to the swings and climb up ladders and hang upside down. The woman deposits the tape measure into the sag of her bag and flips the notebook closed. She is silent and slow as she walks up the street, disappearing past vinyl houses.

FACIAL GEOMETRY by Sagar Nair

April 6, 2025

When he was a child, my dad lost two fingers working at the matchbox factory and declared three as his lucky number. He owned three of every shirt, prayed three times a day, and went to the Lygon casino on the third of each month. He ate ramen with three chopsticks, and sticky dots of broth sprayed across the table, onto his Tim Winton novels. We liked the crunch of Cajun grilled corn. We toothpicked kernels from between our teeth, and threw the cobs at each other's heads. Pretended to have seizures on the floor. On the drive to the convenience store after his AA meeting, he played Fleetwood Mac and The Smashing Pumpkins. Billy Corgan’s voice pulsed through the speakers. He checked himself in the visor mirror and his smile vanished. “I look like a blobfish,” he said. But our faces shared the same geometry. The sunset pinked the clouds, the West Gate Bridge speared the skyline. He bought me rice crackers, and when the cashier wasn’t looking, I tucked a Reese’s peanut butter cup under my windbreaker. I ate at home in the shrine room. The pedestal fan blasted, and I leaned my forehead against the Maitreya statue to be kissed by the coolness of its marble. Dad kicked me out to pray, but I pressed my ear to the door, trying to hear his wishes, trying to become his god.