Jack and I followed the creek for half an hour. Once in a while we peered past the clumps of bushes and trees along the embankment, frustrated that we could still catch glimpses of picnic tables or awnings or trailers, the glint of trucks or cars or bikes. Soon, weContinue Reading

Rules of the game, Pray thee know, Are many in the beginning And few when you go. Take up thy May flowers And scatter them wide For your funeral is coming After you’ve died. And those who come to pay the last goodbye with sorrow in their hearts and tearsContinue Reading

Imagine a vehicle of dream and paradox,where light is a force,void is an entirety.Imagine the improbabilityof that. How worldscould extend that far. You will travel a long time. Track the closest bodyto your window, watch itenlarge to swallow its ownaura in a wild throat as itslips past. You’re small,an afterthought.Continue Reading

In the darkness,women and childrenare wading in the water. I. Cebu, Visayan Sea When the imagination failsto discover a girl, Magdalena,scanning the tie linesfor clumps of swaying guso,the harvesting of which willschool her into lifting on moredistant, choppy, speculative seas. II. Gorumna, Droim Quay, Ceantar na nOileán Bríd Ní MháilleContinue Reading

I hold your severed fingerin my hand.I make it pointto the skyto the place I’m sure you are.I wish I had more of youto cherish. Deborah Coy, former school librarian, has long loved Fantasy and Science Fiction so her poetry often falls into these genres. She has published in multipleContinue Reading

You say maybe we can’t be friends because you think I can’t express anger. You have a degree in psychology. Anger is important to you. But Anger is a tsunami— a greedy, gluttonous predator— an indifferent drowner of you and me. Anger is an insatiable carnivore, but since you’re anglingContinue Reading

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, Phoebe, Folio and the New York Quarterly. His work is represented by theContinue Reading

I can forgive myself for leaving him where he was, but I can’t forgive myself for spending one whole year in depressed rage, forbidding anyone from saying her name in front of me. For three hundred and sixty-seven days and nights I lived in a world washed free of colorsContinue Reading

The rain has come.I no longer know what exactly the color of Light has behind its transparency.I don’t remember the sound of the wind blowing in my sleep.There is a closed door somewhere that someone wants to open, but cannot.All the noises are mixed up together, someone is shouting,But it’sContinue Reading