By Nathan Lemin

The day before the man was evicted, animal control came and the police wrote him a ticket because it was the second time they said, and this time his dog jumped and bit the back of his downstairs neighbor, but only because she turned around just in time, for the dog was trying to eat her cat, which she’d scooped up in her arms as soon as she saw the dog run out of his apartment, and the man wasn’t paying attention, but when he heard the scream he came out and beat his dog bad, so animal control took it to get put down, and I swear I heard it say as I needled the neck scruff:

“I run a lot every day the bike is scary because I pulled it on myself but I get to eat turkey if I run next to it but not if I run next to cats I don’t know why but I haven’t been hungry in the morning sometimes the man gets angry when I don’t eat so then I eat to make him happy the man put a can in my yard filled with smelling things and the cats steal from it and we go to the lake now so I swim and eat the fur feathers poop on the ground it’s cold but good cold I love when the man looks at me.”



Nathan Lemin is the private chef for a couple of mutts and obsesses over liminality in Northern Arizona University's MFA in Creative Writing program.


Art by Michaela Sullivan.

By Elva Maxine Beach

unveiled the subconscious of a nation, and of my husband, who is now becoming my becoming wife, whose new wig arrived in the mail today along with the weekly pill organizer she needs to keep track of the hormones she takes to transform herself, while I sit back and witness my spouse’s delight in her new life; I am depleted of the natural hormones that once kept my skin tight and young, my own life a post-menopausal prisoner of The Great Pause.


Elva Maxine Beach spends her days teaching writing, her evenings watching stars and Star Trek with her lovely wasband-wife, her dreams flying with hawks over skyscrapers and oceans, and sometimes she makes time to write and occasionally publish her short stories, poems, and essays.


Mosaic by Mort Hill.

By Robbie Gamble

I was waiting for a train in Penn Station, maintaining my little island of space within the flow of humans on the move, and I looked up from my book to see, right in front of me, the unmistakable profile of Robert Pinsky, staring up at the trackboard, trying to locate his train, and for a brief moment I had this urge to introduce myself, which flared and snapped shut like a Zippo lighter; I mean, what was I going to say?— “Gee, Mr. Pinsky, I’m not just a fellow traveler, I’m actually an emerging poet, and I love your work; in fact, I was thinking about the strings of inventory in “Shirt” just the other night, such an awesome poem!” – and he would have to shake himself free from the anxiety of missing his connection, tuck away his formidable mental to-do list, mumble some gracious pleasantries, maybe ask a question or two about my own influences and trajectory, all while keeping an ear out for the overhead PA track announcement, as commuters shouldered by us all around; all that work I did for him in my head before returning to my book, staring down at some random phrase until I sensed he had moved on into the cavernous bustling, just another guy trying to get to somewhere else.

Robbie Gamble writes poems and essays, bakes bread, and tries to be kind.


Art by Nick Botka.