July 2019 | poetry
My days are measured
By bottles of discount wine,
My weeks by clean linens;
Each morning
I seek salvation
in a cafe benison.
Sleep, sleep divine,
Why should eternal sleep
not be heaven?
For religion begins
Where knowledge ends.
My little fame in life,
I know,
Will be confined
to a freeway sign:
“Missing Elderly,”
numinous against
a gray morning sky,
Flashing, flashing, flashing
above a highway exit.
The door was closed
and did not open,
So how did the cat
go out again?
But remembering to floss
gives each day
a bright new meaning.
So knowledge ends
Where religion begins.
Italy’s third volcano,
what’s it called?
Not Etna or Vesuvius,
The one in the movie we saw?
I forget, though I should know;
And not Olympus,
with Hera and Zeus
and Jove.
For us mortals what does it signify,
purchasing stain remover
by the gallon?
Pessimism of drooled spaghetti
or long life’s delusive
grand ambition?
All hail Staphylococcus,
with my name on it;
Where fear reigns,
religion gains.
Dough, the financial guru says,
you’ll need ’til you’re ninety five,
or perhaps, I think,
to .38,
Or maybe I’ll rob a bank
or fail to pay my taxes
for a prison bunk
and hospital bed.
But what about the poor teller,
the cop
and the unlucky feller
who has to clean up the mess?
But hark!
The coffee grinder churns,
the espresso machine
still renders,
so why should I surrender?
Yea, verily, I declare
on my life’s embers
that where true knowledge ends
unyielding ignorance begins
and religion wins.
James Garrison
A graduate of the University of North Carolina and Duke Law School, James Garrison practiced law until returning to his first loves: writing and reading good literature. His novel, QL 4 (TouchPoint Press 2017), set in the Mekong Delta during the Vietnam War, has won awards for literary fiction and military fiction, and it was a Distinguished Favorite for the 2019 Independent Press Awards and a finalist for the 2018 Montaigne Medal. His creative nonfiction works and poems have appeared in online magazines and anthologies. Sheila-Na-Gig nominated his poem “Lost: On the Staten Island Ferry”‘ for a 2018 Pushcart prize.
January 2026 | fiction
The general’s family selects an earth spirit for his mausoleum
Tang Dynasty, China
May I say you bring great honor to the artisans of our studio by seeking our earth spirits for the general’s tomb?
The widow, sitting on a stone bench with her two sons, nodded solemnly at the ceramic workshop director.
The general is much admired as a fierce defender of the empire. The story of how he led the charge of his outnumbered troops against the rebel army will be passed down from generation to generation. Who can help but be thrilled by the way he urged his steed forward alone against the enemy line, slashing his way through stunned warriors, straight for the opposing general? One must marvel at his audacity and his courage as he vanquished the enemy’s leader, chopped off his head, tied it to his horse’s mane and rode along the front lines, terrifying the enemy and rallying his men to a bloody and glorious victory.
The widow turned pale. The older son gave a slight cough.
My apologies. Of course, you would prefer in this time to remember the general as the loving and devoted father and husband I am sure he was when not on the battlefield.
The widow stared down at her feet.
May I show you a few examples of earth spirits created by our artisans? Our grave-quelling spirits stand guard at the entrances of the tombs of hundreds of the honored dead, the first choice of emperors and noblemen. As you can see, our statues are finished with tri-colored Sancai glaze and come in many designs to ward off malevolent spirts. Our earth spirits combine the features of numerous animals into a figure to inspire fear in any enemy – tiger fangs, eagle talons, dragon tails. A warrior like the general with a lifetime of heroic deeds must have left many enemies defeated and broken. I fear their spirits could seek revenge in the afterlife. We must prevent these spirits from disturbing the peace of
the general so he will be a source of blessing and good fortune to what we all wish to be many generations of descendants.
The two sons nodded vigorously.
When selecting a design, it is important to remember our figures do more than protect against malevolent spirits getting in – they also prevent the spirit of the departed from getting out.
The widow drew a sharp breath.
Keep in mind that each of us has two souls. The soul that embodies our intellect, our spiritual self, ascends into the heavens. Our other soul, the one that animates our bodies, fuels our emotions, drives our earthly desires, stays with the body. Our earth spirits are crafted to keep these souls from leaving their tombs and walking the earth, re-visiting where they once lived and drawing near those with whom their lives intertwined.
The younger son and the widow looked at each other with alarm.
May I presume to suggest you consider our strongest and most fearsome figure? It is a little more costly, but it is the most powerful of all our earth spirits. I believe it befits a man of the general’s character and reputation. It has three horns growing from its head, the snout and fangs of a boar, and muscular arms and legs that end in deadly claws. A venomous snake encircles its arm. And, its entire body is engulfed in flames. The final touch is that it stands astride the body of a defeated monster subdued by its powers. I believe such an earth spirit will quell any disturbance and allow the general to sleep in the peace he deserves and for which you pray.
The older son leaned forward. Yes, our family will take two of those.
Robert Miner
Robert Miner is a Houston-based writer. He is a former political consultant who works in government affairs on energy policy. Follow him @robertminerpoetry on Instagram.
January 2026 | poetry
My Muse is Growing Up
My muse wears prescription glasses,
so she’ll never see
beyond the village
with its walled-in acres
of poolside loungers.
Plus, she quit her diet,
so her diaphragm gags her
esophagus and larynx.
I’ll find another voice
preparing to leave somewhere.
Starlings nest in her wool mouth,
under her tongue knots of familiar
as the juniper bush
bends her fingers to catch the night.
I call this girl my neighborhood.
Fingers like ten puny,
black summers waiting in the sky.
She skips into the juniper bush,
to where a rainbow saddles the alps.
She walks further into the horizon,
fall in the air and rain on its way
and who knows, like her,
the different smells of the grownups’ homes
preparing to bake butterscotch cookies
or braid the sabbath dough.
I call this girl my neighborhood.
Her walkie talkie is morosely
static in the tropical twilight.
She releases me from social media.
She holds onto the darkness,
believes like wildfire
in frizzy-hair-like echoes.
If she wades deeper, silences of darkness become
windows into waves,
and she and only she can see
the reclusive moon of doom imprinted
with ragtag teeth coughed up by the dog.
I’ll have to get her training bras and tampons.
I’ll still call this girl my neighborhood.
Warn her to put her guard up,
so she can make it to
the suburb stars of love
before we bury our body of time.
Grace Lynn
Grace Lynn is an emerging painter who lives with a chronic illness. Her work explores the intersections between faith, the natural world, art, and the body. In her spare time, Grace enjoys listening to Bob Dylan, reading suspense novels, and investigating absurd angles of art history.
January 2026 | nonfiction
Diapers
In rural northern Illinois northwest of Chicago, a raised, pressed, gray gravel path, long ago a railroad track, runs straight for miles, bordered by trees. On one side, farmers harvest their cornfields, green John Deere combines and tractors stirring up more dust than smoke from a forest fire. On the other side, houses on two-acre lots show off manicured, landscaped backyards with two and three-story mansions with castle-like turrets and floor-to-ceiling windows.
Walking through this shadowy tunnel one day, I meet Blackjack, a 14-year-old deaf, half-blind black lab. The man walking him, Mike, looks like Hemingway in his later, Ketchum years. He tells me he is a retired contractor.
I am strolling our family’s miniature poodle, a dog rescued when ten-years-old, now lying wrapped in blankets in a baby carriage because, at 18, partially deaf and mostly blind, she no longer walks.
Like aging men do, we start talking general aches—physical and familial—and how we handle them, then graduate to specific body parts. I brag two replaced hips, he a prostate.
“The friends of mine who had them taken out all wear diapers today,” Mike says, his voice low, gravelly. “Me, I got nuclear implants. They put in radioactive seeds that kill the cancer. They said I had eight years. That was back in 1998, more’n twenty years ago.”
Before surgery, Mike asked his doctor, “Will I still be able to get it up?”
“I’m not a miracle-worker,” his oncologist answered. “Can you get it up now?”
I tell him when eight or nine-years-old, I had to tap twice with the first two fingers of my left hand each light pole passed when walking to my elementary school on Dearborn Place or else something horrific beyond imagining would befall me.
I never missed touching one. Maybe I was afraid each would collapse if not tapped.
After one or two more serendipitous meetings, I no longer met Mike and Blackjack. Then Summer died. Occasionally I walked the Great Western Trail thinking I’d run into Mike, most likely alone. I looked forward to seeing him. After many strolls, no sign of him or his dog, I pretty much stopped walking there. Maybe he, like Blackjack, was no longer able to make it out, his prostate issues finally catching up to him.
The town we lived in bought a farm with a prairie growing an infinite number of wildflowers, a marsh where egrets and herons gathered, and multiple pairs of bluebird houses. I would have loved to walk it with Mike. Why hadn’t I asked for his contact information? Every time we met I left after saying goodbye thinking I’d see him next time when we would exchange phone numbers or emails, when more convenient, when we had more time.
Now I step onto the gravel trail, look up and down the shady path, see one bike rider in the distance, know it’s not Mike, know I won’t see him today, and know I won’t see him again, ever.
Richard Holinger
Richard Holinger’s work has recently appeared in Chautauqua, SIR, Cleaver, Whitefish Review, Cutleaf, and elsewhere. Nominations include the Pushcart Prize (5), Best of the Net, Best Small Fictions, and Best Microfiction 2025, including the latter. Books include North of Crivitz (poetry) and Kangaroo Rabbits and Galvanized Fences (essays). His 2025 poetry chapbook, Down from the Sycamores, is available from www.finishinglinepress.com, and a short fiction collection, Unimaginable Things, is forthcoming from Main Street Rag Publications. He holds a doctorate in creative writing from UIC, taught high school and community college English for decades, and lives in rural northern Illinois.
July 2024 | fiction
The blond man in front of her is too tall. European of course, Dutch perhaps. It’s claimed the Dutch are the tallest people in the world. She’ll find out if it’s true soon enough. Amsterdam is their next stop. Kyoko stands on her toes. She can’t even get a glimpse of the woman with history’s most mysterious smile, only the right upper edge of the gold-varnished, renaissance-inspired frame. How she’d love to see a friendly face, even if it’s just a painted one.
***
She planned the ten-day Euro trip with her daughters right after the divorce. A chance to forget, at least momentarily, to “make new memories together”, which was what the travel brochure said, “while admiring artworks with a lasting impact”. Now, she’s standing here alone. She’d already booked three tickets and didn’t want them all to go to waste. Her teenagers preferred shopping on the Champs-Élysées, without her. She just wants her daughters to be happy again. It already means the world to see the girls getting along. That hasn’t always been the case, but a common enemy unites.
She’s the guilty one, the instigator. She’s not even sure why she did it. She simply didn’t have a choice but to leave their father. If she has to describe the reason, the feeling when growing out of her favourite dress at the age of thirteen comes closest, the blue one with ruffles. She still loved it, but it didn’t fit anymore.
***
She had expected the Louvre to be busy, but not like this. Crowds are a strange phenomenon. Each has its own distinct character: some fierce and loud, others dumb and dangerous. Though obstructing her vision, this one seems kind, rocking her softly from left to right, holding her tight, making it impossible to fall over.
Josje Weusten
Josje Weusten, PhD (she/her), is a writer of (auto)fiction and a senior lecturer in literature and creative writing at Maastricht University. She is a Faber Academy London alumna. Josje aims to write fiction that stays true to Oscar Wilde’s words: “A truth in art is that whose contradictory is also true.” Her shorts have appeared in Litbreak Magazine and Flash Fiction Magazine. Her work has been nominated for Best Small Fictions 2023. Her first novel, Fake Fish, a near-future story on the devastating impact of fake news, will be released on November 14, 2024, with Sparsile Books (Glasgow, UK).
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