Issue Thirteen

Fiction

Favorite Ghosts by Bryce Emley The Holy Ghost is my favorite one. Every Sunday at church after the ushers pass the gold plates through the aisles, Pastor Harris stands in his big grey robe and raises his hands and everybody stands and we sing that song about glory be to the Father, and when we get to the part with And to the Son and to the Holy Ghost, the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and the skin on my arms prickles.

Rosenthal by Connor Heckman There is a buzzing sound in my head as Herman runs around checking and double checking everything. We still have a few minutes before the Snap. The crew are all tucked away in their cradles. Herman goes through his final motions over and over again.

Seven Trees by Isobel Horsburgh The first tree that grew from her grave was an apple. A seed snagged in her back tooth an instant before she died, just as the bear smelt the crab and swiped it from her hand. The second tree that grew from her grave was a lemon.

Ahead of the Game by S.L. Dixon Chitter and chatter, the voices, song and conversation, it forever fills the air; growls and ticks, electricity and oil, the noise of humanity. It slides behind the quiet sounds, the chirps and clicks, the night creepers calling out from the tall corn.

The Banshee of the McCraes by Louis Rakovich When I was young, my brother and I used to make fun of the hag who called herself the banshee of the McCraes. We’d stand in her path as she made her way into town, and we’d wail, and ask, “Like this?”

Leviathan Hunter by Robin Wyatt Dunn I am the leviathan of my people, hunting the Leviathan of the deep― Oray! Oray!  My stomach is iron!  My thoughts too. Tuck me under your folds, ocean, as I fire myself into your deep. As a boy I loved the stories, and now I am one.

Magic Mirror by Erin Michelle Jendras The mirror is liquid. Images shift, distort, move. I didn’t know that when I bought it in the discount section of Marshall’s. Then it was just an ordinary mirror with a gilded frame that I believed would lend a touch of elegance to my crummy apartment. Now it is alive.

Language of the Gulls by Katrina Smith Louisa Mae quotes the scripture: “The earth was formless and empty.” We’re walking on the beach and Louisa Mae is moving slipshod through the sand, her ankles bowing and creaking, arms askew like a scarecrow girl.

Poetry

Beth Cato
The Migration of Winged Jukeboxes

David C. Kopaska-Merkel and Kendall Evans
Warp Time

Emily Banks
Instructions to Forget
Aubade

Stacey Balkun
Abandonarium
Imagining My Birth Sisters as Kites
Belle

Alexandra Erin
Young Sailor, Sweet Sailor

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