In This Issue

Poetry

The end of the road, we prepare spaghetti, tea,
Watch four sheep watch us.
They walk to the end of the island. They turn,
Lost from sight at the curve of the earth.
We are at the top of the curve,
on an island as thin as paper,
as flat.
Close, close as one can get to sea level.

Fiction

They asked how much a chair and the TV set cost. They asked about the dishes in her cupboards, and the comforter on her bed. More people arrived and entered her house. She took checks at this point, telling the people that they could come by the next day and pick up whatever they had paid for. This went on for a few hours until it was nearing the time when her children would come home from school.

Creative Nonfiction

When I first walked into this house, I drew in my breath and my heart sank. It looked like a picture out of a magazine. My real parents never grew out of their graduate student lifestyle, and I never learned a higher standard. My mother used to scold me to clear a path through my room in case of fire.

Book Reviews

He writes about these towns that normally you blip by on the freeway: what the people are like, how easy it is to get jobs there, to get stuck there.

Contributors

She is the single mother of a teenage boy who has given her much fodder for poetry in the last three years. Her work has been published in numerous print and online publications...