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.

Issue I Poetry


Not All Lifelines Are Found on Your Hands or An Ode to My C-Section Scar

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Brianna Pike is an Associate Professor of English at Ivy Tech Community College. Her poems and essays have appeared in So to Speak, Connotation Press, Heron Tree, Memoirs & Mixtapes, Whale Road Review, Utterance & Juxtaprose. She currently serves as an Editorial Assistant for the Indianapolis Review and lives in Indy with her husband & son.

Issue I Poetry


The Femme Expression Tango

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Issue I Poetry


Everything I Have Loved And Learned, As Told By Brooklyn

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Kendall Willis is a writer from South Carolina. She has been accepted into the South Carolina Governor’s School summer programs for creative writing in 2019 as well as 2020. When she is not writing, she can be found baking mediocre cookies, singing with the windows down, or traveling to big cities when a pandemic is not taking place.

Issue I Nonfiction


Banjo Epiphany

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Azimuth is a brother, friend, and globetrotter who occasionally writes and tries to grow things. His work has been published in The Sun magazine, The Daily Tar Heel, and Freedom from Religion News, among other outlets. He dreams of being able to dance salsa again one the pandemic is over, but is settling for very inconsistently learning how to play the ukulele his mother bought him five years ago. A Southern Gentleman at heart, he currently makes his home in West Oakland, California.

Fiction Issue I




Kayla Burrell is a senior in high school from South Carolina. She has two dogs and a rabbit. She loves writing horror stories, but in person, she is kind and compassionate (or tries to be). Her favorite show is The Walking Dead, and she loves running!