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Roger Camp is the author of three photography books including the award-winning Butterflies in Flight (Thames & Hudson, 2002) and Heat (Charta, Milano, 2008). His work has appeared in numerous journals including The New England Review, New York Quarterly, and the Vassar Review. He previously worked as a reference librarianContinue Reading

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Jeremy Szuder is a born and bred California native, raised with a tender and dedicated loyalty to the arts. His works have been published in Fine Print Literary and Visual Arts Publication, After Happy Hour Review, All The Sins, Home Sick Zine, several issues of L.A. Record Magazine as wellContinue Reading

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I waited for my dad as I stood in line for food rations under a blue-gray sky streaked by the contrails of war planes. Every Monday for the last eighteen months we had met outside the Klein building for our weekly food vouchers. The combination of drought and the warContinue Reading

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And I sat down on the pier, the lights from the city I had only just met shining on the water like false sunlight. Sea lions slept in drying piles on swaying docks. A few of them wailed, a chortle or a war cry that echoed on air. Two inContinue Reading

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A quiet place in the rain, To be alone, With cold, Damp, Companions, Holding exposed, The virtues of isolation. Numbness dissipates,Distraction, Escape, Lulled away… A soft static wash,     In the soundscape. Chill flows, Shivers of urgency, Dislodging buried slivers, Coaxing them to the surface,Embracing Affliction, And the wisdomContinue Reading

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He heard somebody telling somebody else about some woman in New Boston who smothered her baby. He knew smothered was bad because the person telling looked sour and the person listening frowned and shook her head. But he thought smothered sounded pretty and soft like pillow or blanket. He askedContinue Reading

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1592 – The Holy Roman Empire, Prague A sharp knocking jarred Judah from his deep slumber. The darkness outside his window did little to reassure him. He was much too old for midnight visitors. “What is it?” he called, his voice choked with the grit of sleep. “Maharal!” called aContinue Reading

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i wake in the belly of a fasting beasta broken day devouring itself.there are too many poems about morningi announce to my empty room. a loose bouquetof light drifts to where you last laystillthe shadow of your leaving scrawled against the wall.there is no night left in this bed.oncedrunk offContinue Reading

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You are living in a boxGrowing smaller. You were born inside the box,and it has been a part of you (apart from you)forever, like a shadow is and isn’t, like the wallsthe shadows play on or the fires that cast them.A shadow is its light. In such a manner, so’sContinue Reading