Issue I



Didn’t think we’d make it, did ya? Well, here we are—two and a half months late. And what a journey it’s been! Dylan and I thought up Fish Barrel back in May after a guest speaker came to our high school and encouraged us to start our own lit journal because why the hell not? For a while it was nothing more than a whim, something we’d act on… eventually. It took a solid four months to actually get the ball rolling, another month to email market all the unattainable poetry stars and program directors we could think of, two months to work through submissions, and a month to figure out how in the world to set up a website (thanks WordPress!). But, fortunately, and at long last, we’re here. And we couldn’t be more honored to share with you the words so graciously shared with us. 

In true writerly fashion, we set out with no intention. We made our way as it came along. All we knew, and all we still know, is we wanted honest, empathetic work. We wanted work for lovers, losers, the downtrodden, the confident, the gregarious,  the reserved, and everything in between. In short, we wanted the world. And boy did we receive it. These submissions varied in form, length, intention, location, and occupation—from professors to classmates to nationally renowned poets; from Philadelphia to Oakland to Chicago to our own South Carolinian backyard—and we could not be prouder of the result. 

Moving forward we plan on doubling down, on continuing the hunt for the world’s weirdos. We plan on continuing with compassion. Most importantly, we plan on continuing with you, our readers. We thank you for your time, your patience, and your support. Also, we’d like to thank Sophie Young, Alyssa Wilson, Camryn Hambrick, and Madyson Grant for being with us every step of the way and diligently stepping up as readers when our squabbles could not reach an agreeable end. Love y’all <3. 

Peace! Prosperity! Read on!


The Editors

P.S. If there are any web designers out there, hit us up!!!! We are desperately in need of your talents!!

Issue I Poetry


gone before the solstice / past tense pastoral

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Adelina Rose Gowans is a 17-year-old second-generation Costa Rican/Honduran-American writer and artist. Currently, she’s a senior at the South Carolina Governor’s School For the Arts and Humanities, where she studies creative writing. She’s also a 2020 YoungArts Winner in Writing, the first place winner in the Leyla Beban Young Writers Foundation 1,000 words for $1,000 contest, the second place winner of the Hollins University Nancy Thorp Poetry Contest, Art Director at Faces of Feminism Media, and the recipient of eleven Scholastic Art & Writing awards including national gold and silver medals. Her work has been previously published or is forthcoming in Ambit Magazine, The Interlochen Review, Tinderbox Poetry Journal, The Minnesota Review, Storyscape Journal, Atlas + Alice, Barely South Review, Cargoes Literary Journal, and elsewhere. In her free time, she loves art and fashion, hiking, playing Dungeons and Dragons, and spending time with her family.

Issue I Poetry



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Sophia Durose is a twenty-one year old writer, ex-circus performer, and avid pug lover from Florida (unfortunately), now living in Philadelphia (fortunately). Her work has appeared in literary magazines such as “Rainy Day Magazine,” “Revelry,” “The Same,” “Contemporary American Voices,” “National Poetry Magazine,” “The American Library of Poetry,” and “Apricity.” Her first book of poetry, “Losing Teeth” was published by Shantih press in May of 2019. She wishes she could say she lives with a pet pug, Edgar Allan Pug, but she (unfortunately) lives alone. Currently, she is working towards her English degree at the University of Pennsylvania.

Fiction Issue I


Once Strawberry Season Comes

In a three-star hotel ten miles from the Mall of America, Nathan and I sit on opposite sides of the bed with our backs to each other. I’m wearing lingerie. On the wall in front of me is a pair of square paintings, each with a pale yellow background and a bundle of purple watercolor carnations. I haven’t seen anything less interesting since Katie, our six-year-old daughter, held a hermit crab to the bridge of my nose and said, “Mommy, watch him come out!” only to learn the shell was empty a minute later. Yet I stare at the flowers willingly after my husband tells me to please change. He can’t do it. He begins to cry. 

In college, people joked that Nathan and I might as well dress up as a bird and a bee for Halloween, considering the amount of time we spent together. Looking back, I don’t know how we did it, how we managed a relationship without letting our grades circle the drain. He was a business major, training to become an insurance claims adjuster, while I studied poetry, or, as my father put it, sentenced myself to a lifetime of poverty. Nathan didn’t care. He told me that doing what I loved was brave, that it showed I really cared about the world. He was wrong of course. At that point, I only recycled when a blue bin was within arm’s reach and didn’t know the first thing about global warming—apart from the fact that it was an issue no one had a solution for. Still, I didn’t correct him. I wanted him to believe there was more to me than oversized denim jackets and Ritz crackers in Ziploc bags, so if he thought I made the world a better place by annotating Rita Dove in my free time, then so be it. 


 College Nathan was different from adult Nathan. College Nathan was handsome—the kind of handsome you spot in the muscle milk section of Target, the kind of handsome that convinces you your fridge is lonesome without a six-pack of chocolate muscle milk when you’ve never tasted a drop of chocolate muscle milk in your life, didn’t realize until thirty seconds before that chocolate muscle milk existed, let alone that Target sold it. 

When I sat across from him in Death in Perspective, a class my mother made me take because A) she paid for my tuition and B) “everyone should know how to write a will,” I swore to myself that I would never talk to him, never embarrass myself by saying something inherently irrelevant in his presence, and I kept that promise until the fifth week of class, when we took a field trip to the local cemetery. 

 “Do you think Margaret went by Marge or Betty?” Nathan asked. I walked over and read the headstone he stood in front of: Margaret B. Conner, beloved wife and mother, 1942-2013.  “Where’d you get Betty from?” I said. 

He rested his arm on my shoulder and pointed at Margaret’s grave. “Her middle name starts with a B, so I figured it has to be Betty. It’s the only acceptable B name.” A few seconds passed before he recognized his mistake. “Well that and Bonnie. Bonnie is your name, right?”  I nodded and asked him to remind me of his.

 “Nathan, after Nathan Sewell, a hockey player from the nineties,” he waved his arm as if brushing something away, “Don’t worry no one knows who he is.” 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Nathan after Nathan Sewell, the forgotten hockey player.” He smiled and joined me in a handshake. “You too, only-acceptable-B-name Bonnie.”


 The television flips through slides of hotel amenities—the indoor pool, the fitness center, free wifi, breakfast in the lobby at six. My phone sits beside it on the dresser. I’m tempted to stand up and check it, to see if my mom has posted any new photos of Katie on Facebook, but Nathan paces the floor. He walks from the bathroom door to the blue sofa chair and back, saying words like “tired” and “monotonous,” though I’m not sure what for. I figure it’s too late to start listening now, so, instead, I examine the paintings on the wall and wonder if I watered the kitchen daffodils before I left. When Nathan’s rant hits the time it takes for four slides to fade in and out on the television, the lace of my lingerie begins to prickle against my skin. I itch what Katie calls my “side pillows,” the layers of fat on each side of my stomach, but that only irritates the skin more. If it would have been rude to grab my phone before, it’s plain wrong to change my clothes now, so I place my hands over my hips and lay back in bed, wishing it was my bed, the one at home decorated with blue and yellow hummingbirds, the one that doesn’t feel as stiff as cardboard, the one that is technically our bed, except I’m the only one who sleeps in it. 

Nathan lives in and out of hotels around the country, fixing roofs after tornadoes, hurricanes, and other natural disasters. With Hurricane Helene, the tsunami off the coast of California, and a handful of tornadoes in Oklahoma, he hasn’t had time to come home this year. Still, every day on the way to school, Katie asks me when he’ll be able to play Mario Kart with her again, and every day I respond, “I don’t know, hon. Daddy’s chasing a storm right now, but he’ll be back before you know it.” I’ve said it so much now, I’ve almost started to believe it. “Are you even listening to me?” 

I sit up. Nathan’s in front of the bathroom, leaning forward with his arms out. “Of course I’m listening, but that doesn’t change the fact that I still don’t understand what happened, why you don’t like me anymore.” 

“For heaven’s sake, Bonnie, I do like you. I just don’t want to sleep with you. Those are two different things and you know it.” 

I shake my head and laugh under my breath. “Then what is it? Me? My muffin top? The way my glasses slide from the bridge to the tip of my nose? Or maybe it’s my thighs, the way they jiggle whenever I move. Tell me, Nathan. Tell me what’s so wrong that you can’t even be with your own wife.” 

“I already told you, I don’t know what it is,” he slumps back down on his side of the bed, “I don’t know anything right now.” 

I clench my jaw and look back at the paintings. The air conditioner cuts on, sending a dense wave of cool air through the room. On the balcony a small bird pecks at cracker crumbs from the night before.

In my sophomore year of college, Nathan and I had our first kiss. I’d gone to lunch with hima few times, but was dating a boy named Jacob, who sometimes sat in my poetry course. One day, while Jacob was buying us M&Ms at a gas station, Nathan pulled up to the pump next to ours. He knocked on the passenger window of Jacob’s Honda Civic, so I rolled it down. “Do you have a ten? I forgot my wallet in the dorm.” 

I handed him a twenty from the console and said I’d pay Jacob back later, to which he thanked me and turned to walk back to his pump, then changed his mind. In the corner of my eye, Jacob stood at the counter, pulling a card from his alligator clip wallet. 

“What is it?” I asked. Nathan looked at his feet and shook his head. “What?” I said again. He leaned into the passenger window and kissed me, softly and quickly, like it was something we did all the time. His hand lingered on my cheek a second before Jacob walked out of the gas station. At the sight of him, Nathan pulled away and returned to his pump without so much as a second glance. The next day, he found me after class and said he didn’t regret anything, said he wanted to do this and would scream it across campus, said I was the only one, the only one for the long haul.


My phone rings from the top of the dresser. When I pick up, I hear my daughter’s voice. “Mommy, guess what?!” 


Nathan stands up and mouths Katie? so I nod and put her on speaker. 

“I drew a pink butterfly at school today and Ms. Jasmine said it was the prettiest butterfly she’s seen in the whole wide world.” 

“Honey, that’s so great.” 

“I’m proud of you, Katie girl.” 

“Is that you, Daddy? When can we play Mario Kart again?” 

Nathan smiles. “Soon enough, girly, soon enough.” 

We speak a while longer, remind her a few times more of how much we miss her, then say our goodbyes and hang up. When I set my phone back on the counter, I’m surprised by the room’s silence. Nathan must be too because he looks at the indentation on his side of the bed, where he sat just a few minutes ago, then goes to the restroom. At the click of the lock, I twirl in place. Something about talking to Katie made me feel like we can do this, like we can still be parents, like, somehow, we can love each other again. 

I see us now: We’re at the farm down the road picking strawberries. Katie walks in front of us, stopping at each runner, tossing red and greenish white berries into her plastic bucket. I tell her we can make jam later and she squeals, which makes Nathan squeeze my hand twice, our signal for I love you. The sun begins to fall over the horizon, burning a deep coral into the clouds, and we drive home together, the three of us, for the first of many times.

Nathan walks out of the restroom. I want to tell him that we’ll be picking strawberries in no time, that no matter what we do or say in this hotel room, we can still be a family. I plop down at the foot of the bed, about to pat the space next to me when he sits there. 

“Bonnie,” he says, resting his hand on my knee. His touch makes me aware of the lingerie on my body and, again, I’m overwhelmed with a desire to change. “Bonnie, everything is the same.” 

He rolls a yellow thread in between his fingers. Up close, he no longer looks like the man I kissed goodbye at the Atlanta airport, the man who promised the storms would die down, promised he’d only be gone for a month or two. I try to convince myself it’s only the aftermath of his tears, the red and pink splotches on his cheeks, but then I notice the deep wrinkles in his temples, the dark bags under his eyes, the silver patches of stubble across his jawline. I brush the thought away and rest my head on his shoulder. 

“Isn’t it great? I didn’t think it would work out because we haven’t seen each other in so long but everything really is the same, which means life can finally go back to the way it was before you left. I even thought we could try out that strawberry patch down the road from Katie’s daycare to celebrate,” his shoulder tenses, “I mean, when you get back of course. You are coming back, right?” 

The thread whips back and forth, hitting the tip of his thumb with each coil. “Everything can’t go back to the way it was because everything is the same. I go to work and I hate it. I eat powdered eggs and I hate it. I stop at red light after red light and and, Bonnie, I hate it. Every day, every laugh, every sigh is expected. I can’t do it anymore. God, I can’t do it.” I lift my head and pretend not to notice my question went unanswered. “Hon, I don’t know what to tell you,” I itch my right side, “That’s life?” 

He falls back onto the bed. “Life is cotton candy at state festivals and roller skate stickers on Happy Meal toys and drive-in movie theaters so far from home that, by the time you have to drive back, it’s 2 AM and you haven’t felt so exhausted since graduate school, but you’ve got half a bottle of Coke Zero in the cup holder and the love of your life in the passenger seat, so you know it’s all worth it. That’s life. This—whatever this is—” he waves his hand, “is not life.” 

Down the hall, a woman laughs. I lie down next to Nathan and can’t help but wish I didn’t feel the need to be close to him, the need to trace my finger over the hair on his forearm, to inch toward him until our shoulders are touching. I can’t help but wish I didn’t need him as much as he didn’t need me. Still, I find his hand at the base of his stomach and slide my fingers between his, rubbing my thumb across the soft part of his palm. We stay like this for three slides on the television, after which Nathan turns on his side, resting his neck in the crook of his hand. 

“Do you remember the night before your 26th birthday? You said there was no reason to celebrate one year closer to death, so we celebrated your birthday eve instead. The Bi-LO by 7-Eleven was out of peanut butter cookie dough and strawberry cake mix—unsurprisingly, considering that Bi-LO closed its doors a few months later—so we filled our buggy with a quarter-pound bag of Sour Patch Kids, a few peaches, some latte-flavored Oreos, a jug of apple

juice, a package of maple bacon, a can of whipped cream for you, a tub of Cool Whip for me. When we got home, I set it all out on the quilt blanket we used for a table while you showered and put on those kitten pajama pants you used to wear every night. Then we stuffed ourselves 

with calories and talked about things we always knew were real but never thought possible, things like Katie and good-paying jobs and a wooden dining room table, somewhere we could set up Thanksgiving dinner and throw junk mail after a long day. We were so young then, and didn’t know anything about life, how it becomes a routine you’ll pray every night to escape,” he sighs, “I don’t think we can ever get back to that.” 

I smile, partly because I forgot about that night, how times used to be easy and manageable, simple and exciting, partly because I can’t remember the last time we laid in bed together, side by side, and talked about anything. I scoot closer to Nathan’s body, nestle my head in his chest, wrap my arms around his back—careful to make sure he can’t see my tears. “You’re not coming home, are you?” 

He pulls me closer and kisses the top of my head. My heart beats hard against my chest out of fear that any other movement will prompt him to get up from bed, pack his suitcase, return to another life. After a handful of slides pass on the television, the air conditioning cuts off, emptying the room of a quiet rumble I didn’t notice until it was gone.


Camryn Hambrick is a senior creative writer at the Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities in Greenville, South Carolina. She has received a Scholastic Gold Medal for Humor, a Scholastic American Voices Medal, and has work published in The Interlochen Review. In her free time, she enjoys spending time with her family and her new dog, Bob Ross.

Fiction Issue I


The Jacket


Kirby Wilson is a senior at the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities as a creative writing student. Their work has not been published before, but their work in poetry has been recognized by the Scholastic Art and Writing Awards and their work in nonfiction has been recognized by the YoungArts Foundation. Some of their favorite authors/poets include Tao Lin, Margaret Atwood, and Richard Siken. They primarily enjoy writing flash fiction, but they do write longer fiction stories occasionally. They have five dogs who follow them around the house, and a cat who they follow around the house.

Issue I Poetry


Spring Cleaning

Two certificates of psychology from DePaul,
banged up and weighed down by the TV remote.
Balled up Alice Cooper t-shirt stinking with sweat
on the couch, watching Lithuania score
against New Zealand. Wine stains
on nearly everything: the couch’s red leather,
white carpet, cushions and magazines.
Over it all an egg smell, overcooking,
or just a man. Cat slipping
over loose door hinges toward his hiding place,
a single boot print splintering
the door, gouged lock.
Call in the middle of church,
not being able to talk right now, in the middle
of Isaiah 46:10. Something about doing what He pleases.
Still going. Squad cars blocking the bagel shop
and police tape and trying to sneak by anyways
because he’s alone in there.
Because you have two tickets for the Alice Cooper concert
and he paid for one. Police breaking flower pots
on the porch and no one knows where the cat is—
or the causes. OD? Stroke, heart attack?
Maybe New Zealand hasn’t won since June
and the field is too damn green. His wife on the phone:
animal sounds. Black bear, lion, woman
watching two men carry the broken door, lolling
shroud on top: look away. Sitting on the curb,
memorizing that blue raspberry emergency flash,
waiting for your Uber to show.


Sophie Young is a senior at the South Carolina Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities. She has been recognized by the National YoungArts Foundation and the National Scholastic Art & Writing Awards. She has work published in The Interlochen Review and Crashtest. Her greatest achievement remains getting her cat to sit for treats.

Issue I Poetry


Everyone I’ve Danced With Is Dead.

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Mamie Morgan lives in the woods with her husband and their two pitbulls, Henrietta Modine and Wednesday Stewart. Her poems and essays have appeared or are forthcoming in Washington Square Review, Nimrod, Glass, The Oxford American, Yemassee, Smartish Pace, Muzzle, Four Way Review, Carolina Quarterly, The Yalobusha Review, Inkwell, The Greensboro Review, and elsewhere.

Issue I Poetry


Barbara La Marr Shatters a Wine Glass

Then blames the dish towel
Whose horse pattern zapped her back

To the night Peter whisked her
Away to an alter in Mexico,

Let hooves beating desert ground
Be the only sound before I do.

Still born words, really. You see,
Two days before the wedding,

Barb entered room 304, dress in hand,
To find Peter dead on the motel floor.

How once something is clear,
It can’t return to its crib of unknowing.

As in: I want to erase
The day in the Applebee’s parking lot

When mom said,
Not all of a marriage is love.

Meaning: I want to forget
The hours dad stared out the window,

Waiting for a savior to call him out
Of town, so he could leave

Again / For the last time / For now

Some Things Not Even an Air Pump Can Fix

In Remembrance of The Dancing Plague, 1518

A toilet paper ad says Love is Sacrifice
So I host a garage sale with all of my belongings,
Sixty percent off. Now I’m out of pajamas

& no less alone. Felix, you say kids shouldn’t know
The buzz of thoughts in an empty room,
But aren’t we kids? On Instagram, your wall shows off

A new shade of yellow, which makes me think
The plague wasn’t about dancing
But hoping for something hopeless.

Rest, wheat, laughter that forgets its briefcase
Of guilt. Yesterday, I made you a Spotify playlist
Four times, none of them good enough.

When I finished one, another song would pop up,
Reminding me nothing is full. Not the basketball
Across the street, not the girl rolling it back to you.


Camryn Hambrick is a senior creative writer at the Governor’s School for the Arts and Humanities in Greenville, South Carolina. She has received a Scholastic Gold Medal for Humor, a Scholastic American Voices Medal, and has work published in The Interlochen Review. In her free time, she enjoys spending time with her family and her new dog, Bob Ross.

Issue I Poetry


Fox and Its Frequencies

Red as sauce stain on a sleeve,
face pinched like someone
unglad to meet you,
it curls this afternoon
on the neighbor’s picnic
table, beside playhouse
for the daughter
now off to school.
Like her it checks in infrequently
raising its puppet head
in fussy nonchalance,
chaperone. It ought to
have a necktie
and a spread collar
to live among us so easily,
the barn is its den,
underneath, dug
alongside the limestone,
exits wormed through boards
laid down between Cleveland
and Harrison. The foxes
started showing up
in the patriarch’s last decade
along with deer,
their candle hooves
tentative in the drive,
and ring-neck pheasants like
first guests a costume party,
the town surrendering
its gamble back to country.

Hardly anyone out these days,
no kids
to sight them and give chase,
few cars
except at work-start and work-end.
Sleeping mostly,
in sun like housecats
who stay houses away.
The neighbors
stopped parking nearby
because the fox
likes to piss on it,
high up, moon roof
or windshield
so wiper blades fling a bit.
The fox is gone
by the time I point out
that it has come back.
My father shrugs,
“he does that,”
or not. Something
like the fox might say
the same of him,
were it watching

New Orleans

Why wouldn’t the party close
and send us all home?
Some mornings
unmysterious as faces
the streetcar uncountable blocks ahead
in a haze that may be river fog
or traffic dust, or merely
the limits of my reality machine.
Keep the roof
roof-height. Midnight needs
aren’t needs, but do I need
to be the always baby in twists
of my own pastry.
I knew true
heroes there, altogether
in the biggest pill bottle in the world.

Midnight meds
aren’t meds, and the deep
river is always open.
I am going to pass
through the Quarter, stop
at Joe and Rosemary’s,
pick up the book everyone
is talking about. The gods
of night are reading it
in sweaters by porchlight.
Only vetiver remains
in some garment I keep
though I’ve washed
everything by now,
the pillows, the armpits,
the narrative distances
and down Belfast Street
the sun doing a certain
thing to houses.

The Mystery of Brothers

Either way, I must tell us apart by slight features.
Had we been good enough, one would have been good enough.

Why do I love them? What room is there in history for love?
So many of us, it seemed, at the beginning. Bedrooms, hallways,

a dining table as long as the tree felled to shape it,
or did it seem there was little to distinguish the house

from the forest surrounding its four framed walls?
And from what forest crawled this unforested feeling

in me as we close up the house, say farewell, etc.,
with only ourselves left to say whether or not we’re good?

Mystery is a poor way to go about being yourself.
Having lost both parents now I see a doubleness

that binds and separates us from the dying company
as we sort out photos, cards, recount who did and

did not come. Oh how I hate the word “visitation.”
I had forgotten that I believed in sisters. Two came,

not ours, but two of a large number of sisters,
classmates, not close, but like planetary systems

large families make a recognizable gravity.
Their presence was a kind of counterargument.

Soon it will be evenings alone, beans in their
overnight soak, and the problem of drinking.

Sure there are other mysteries, like the nudists
who gather on weekends behind a tall green fence

down the farmed hill from our family cemetery
and whether the relation is consonant or tense.

Issue I Poetry


The Kitchen

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Eliana Herman is a 24 year-old living in Chicago, working (remotely) on the helpline at the Alzheimer’s Association, and trying to squeeze in whatever time she can to write. She graduated from the University of Michigan in 2018 with a degree in Anthropology and two minors; in Creative Writing and in Environmental Studies. Ever since she graduated she’s been working to create a writing community similar to what she found in her undergrad writing workshops. Luckily, she’s found two friends who want to exchange work and feedback every month. Almost all of her writing has been unpublished so far, with the notable exception of the opinion column about Environmentalism she wrote during the first semester of her freshman year. In her spare time she reads novels on the beach until it gets too cold, and does yoga. She writes to better understand other people and herself. She writes to give language to feelings that are hard to capture, with the hopes a reader might have needed that language for their own twisted heart.