by Thomas Benz

Kawakami Sumio, Ginza, 1929

The Larkins were not splashy people. You wouldn’t find their photograph in a slick magazine featuring charity balls, nor would their obituaries be filled with public triumphs. Yet they were in that unfortunate category of people who were average with above average yearnings. It wasn’t so much that they envied the rich, or anyone else with the privileges of exclusive membership, as they were curious, wanting every now and then a taste of the extraordinary, a peek through a gap in the carnival tent,

by Nathaniel Eddy

unknown (late 1700s-early 1800s)

Mitchell appeared at my door like one of those summer storms that blows in swift, unexpected. Dark clothing, hair like a blanket of slanting rainfall. I had taken the day to stay home and practice self-care which meant I’d remained in bed looking at the internet. News headlines and social media feeds, articles about moon bathing, intentionality, the endless therapy memes. I had been watching a video about breathing techniques when Mitchell knocked and told me that Francine had asked him to leave. He said this in the way of someone under anesthesia: thick,

by T.J. Martinson

art by Odilon Redon, 1882

Your Pocket God stopped eating last week. For the first few days, it was easy enough to excuse the way it pushed away each offering of raisins like a fussy toddler, but now, eight days later, excuses are hard to come by. Still you try.

“It’s probably just a spiritual fast,” you tell your dad during breakfast as you anxiously hold your starving, gaunt Pocket God, watching it turn over weakly in your palm. 

You hope your father will agree that there’s nothing to worry about,

By Laura Schadler

art by Caspar David Friedrich, 1817

I.  

The woman’s recurring dream found her online dating, tapping ineffectually through a glitchy and pixelated app. In each subsequent dream, she feared it had been too long to respond to a message from the previous night. 

The woman had married at a strange in-between time when almost no one online dated. 

In a second dream, a small panther prowled along with that sultry shoulder swivel, as if on its way to kill something. She often woke distraught.

image curtesy of Public Domain Review

by Lucy McBee

My name is Elizabeth Holmes.

But I’m not the one you’re thinking of.

I’m not a Stanford dropout.

I’ve never been on the cover of Fortune.

A former Secretary of State has never sided with me over his own grandson.

I can’t speak Mandarin.

I’ve only worn blood red lipstick once, to a Halloween party. I went as Elvira (and was mistaken for Morticia Addams, I suppose because I lacked the requisite cleavage),