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By Alex J. Tunney

After the school day was over, I would walk to my job at the library, which was just out of the way or seemingly always on your way to something else or, more specifically, located on a stretch of road slightly between two neighborhoods and surrounded by areas that aren’t parks but trees grow there unbothered anyway, and occasionally, after completing my assignments—the books ultimately ended up where they belonged—I would hide away, out of the way of supposedly prying eyes with my back against the brick wall, trying to dive into another world while trying to figure out my own because at the time I didn’t have the words myself—no—truly, I was afraid to discuss out loud what I was ‘dealing with’ but the library had a number, a Dewey Decimal number, that classified it: 306.76, which was a number that I memorized and was a shelf that I must have hovered around multiple times before even daring to take a peek of what was located there.

Alex J. Tunney is somewhere in New York and has been published in Lambda Literary Review, The Rumpus, The Billfold, The Inquisitive Eater, and Pine Hills Review.


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.


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.

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