Fiction


Monsoon Valediction

by JULIA MARÍA SCHIAVONE CAMACHO

Rosa inhaled the smells of damp earth and wood as she climbed the steps to the train platform. A sea of saguaros, ocotillos, and mesquites in myriad shades of green stretched before her. The sky was a hazy pale peach. She turned and spotted Esperanza and Clemente, gazing at each other as they stood among the refugees down the platform, the immigration inspectors and guards nearby. A bird trilled.


Ice Walking

by BENJAMIN GOODRIDGE
Art by JENNY KENDLER

When I fell through the ice, time stopped. The light faded, water enveloped my body like a slick, sharp cocoon, and that fleeting mystery of life, always one step ahead as we barrel headlong into the future, was suddenly thrust in front of me.


The Quarry

by JEFFREY FLANNERY
Art by ALYSSA IRIZARRY

She followed the blooms and flows of the common jellies, brainless clumps of gelatin unchanged for millions of years. These beautiful soul blobs have survived ice ages, tepid seas, meteor strikes, mass extinctions, and now, man.


Tomato: Heirloom Manitoba

by MATTHEW GIGG

Most supermarket tomatoes are picked green and then gassed with ethylene during transport so they can ripen just as they arrive. Leonard shook his head at this. The system is too convoluted if we have to gas our food. That’s how they keep control. Make the system so big and complex that no one has the time or energy to question it.


Insects and Arbour

by BRYAN BOODHOO

It starts to rain. The force of the falling pellets tears a few leaves from their branches. A smirk crosses my face as I realize autumnal beauty is inextricably linked to fragility.


Dodder

by MELISSA JEAN

You are my dodder; your long orange stems choke me and steal my nutrients, your white flowers grasp and cling. Now we must grow together, for I am the plant you’ve parasitized. If I die, you will cross to another plant, for your survival lies in your dependence. And even if I survive, here I am, rooted, stuck; there is nowhere for me to go.


Green Tomatoes

by NICHOLAS FINCH

The sun had barely cracked yellow on the horizon when we left the trailer park. I made a joke to Lansky. I don’t remember what I said exactly, but he laughed so hard he damn near fell out of the truck. What I do remember is how white his teeth were when he smiled, and how thin the bones in his arm felt when I grabbed his wrist to keep him from falling, and how my hand wrapped around in full—from thumb to pinky.


Waiting for the Hoarfrost

by KRISTEN M. PLOETZ

Two days before the winter solstice, an epiphany pierced Bettina’s parietal lobe and angled straight down into her thumping heart. When it happened, she had been clomping around in her backyard wearing a moss-colored dress and canary yellow boots, inhaling the view of her hardscrabble lot.


Fields

by HEATHER E. GOODMAN

In the flooded cornfield, water splashed at Sam’s knees, and carp thumped against his legs. Their muscled bodies felt the way he envisioned ghosts: thick, heavy, just out of reach.


Antennae

by HANNAH RICHTER

A half-open bag of potato chips had never plagued anyone so much as it plagued Porter Wesley. It wasn't so much the bag or its contents (Porter indulged in most snack foods), but rather it was the newfound inhabitants of the bag that Porter swore would give him an aneurism. Yes, November had blessed his beaten-down 1988 hatchback with a colony of ants.