Dylan Hong

April 2026 | visual art

Water Ways

 

Dylan Hong

He is a student who explores natural elements and temporal change through photography. He investigates how unpredictable outcomes emerge when responsive elements—such as light, structure, wind, time, and physical force—interact with the natural element of water. Focusing on water’s continuous flow and its resistance to being fixed in a single form, the work captures fleeting moments that would otherwise disappear. Through photography, these moments are preserved as fragments of memory. By observing subtle shifts in movement, reflection, and surface tension, the images reveal how invisible changes accumulate over time, gradually transforming space. In this way, the portfolio presents water not only as a physical substance but as a medium through which time, interaction, and transformation become visible.

Caroline Hayduk

April 2026 | nonfiction

The Valley

The roads were full of craters, little divots grown wide by snow melt and balding tires clunk-clunk-clunking. There was a gravity to the town felt in even the smallest of valleys. This gravity kept feet planted behind the counter of one of the many Pizza Bellas. Even when teachers used the word “brainiac”, even when there were AP classes on the books and a brain that could remember, down to the millisecond, when someone important was assassinated.

Large pie special with two XL liters of Pepsi, $19.99, 45 minutes to an hour,

delivery or pickup, wings by the half-pound or pound.

A slew of Kennedy’s had come and gone, but this became the language of being, the real memorization in milligrams (Percocet), slices, minutes, pounds.

Some went to college. Counselors had pamphlets and muffins for a few quarters. It was a relief if they didn’t OD or drop out. There were a few moments when gravity would unclasp the youngest and brightest, long enough for them to go to one of the two colleges down the street for something like business or education. They absorbed their parents’ businesses or their old classrooms. The two who were suspected to become lawyers did. Some moved away, some never really arrived.

A high school built to stand two hundred years only makes it one hundred and eight. The chips each year took out now clearest in the rubble of what was an auditorium, classrooms, a few gargoyles on the perch. There was a champion team time and time again, in a century of sweat and shouts.

There was another option. It involved the military or the police, either recruited or disrupted by.  Then, somehow, back at the pizza shop. There’s one on every corner.

A little dream dying the second it’s born, a rubberband snapping back to form.

 

Caroline Hayduk

Caroline Hayduk is a poet, editor, and educator. She holds an MA and MFA in Poetry from Wilkes University. She has been published in The Penn Review, South Florida Poetry Journal, Santa Fe Writers Project, and others. Night Bones is her debut chapbook. She is a full-time instructor of Writing at Luzerne County Community College and lives with her boyfriend/book designer, Eric, their two cats, and millions of trinkets.

Greta Kaluževičiūtė

April 2026 | visual art

a friendly reminder

ilgesys

 

Greta Kaluževičiūtė

Greta Kaluževičiūtė is a Lithuanian writer and amateur photographer. Her work explores intimacy, proximity, and the psychological tension embedded in everyday encounters. She is also a psychoanalytic researcher and holds a PhD in Psychoanalytic Studies from the University of Essex, UK.

Ken Holland

April 2026 | poetry

Burn Pit

 

Always, our need to know.

 

The way a burn pit is in conversation

With its burning.

 

How we are ordered to breathe,

To stand and breathe

 

So our blood can acknowledge

What is entering the lungs.

 

The particulates of precious heavy metals.

 

Vulnerable as we are, ordered

To be more so

 

To perform upon command

Even when we suspect it to be lethal.

 

And somehow, still, our need to know.

 

The temptation to put the knife-tip of fire

To our tongue.

 

Smoke rising like the voice of a chanteuse,

The Steinway’s lacquer liquifying in the heat

 

Air to breath to blood.

 

And no one, no one

Is allowed to leave.

 

The singer still singing her desire,

The burn pit burning brighter.

 

Ken Holland

Ken Holland has been widely published in journals including Rattle, Atlanta Review, Tulane Review, and Tupelo Quarterly. His work has been nominated three times for the Pushcart Prize. He placed first in the 2021 New Ohio Review poetry contest and was a finalist in the 2024 Concrete Wolf and the 2025 Moonstone Press chapbook contests, which Moonstone subsequently published. Also, a finalist in Bicoastal Review’s 2025 contest. More at kenhollandpoet.com

Jason Davidson

April 2026 | poetry

Cadaver

I dreamt last night that Mothra died. Three pebbles and a few rented orphans attended her wake, a modest affair. I was working. I was lurking inside a bouquet of Forget-Me-Not’s. I was fucking around inside the last coyote’s lair and I still needed a hair-cut, a blue noose, a way to stop choosing my adventures. No one picked up Mothra’s body from the good morgue. No one cared. And I was scared, so I answered the telephone. The man from the morgue said: Everyone is dead here, Henry Sugar. Your mother’s wings are getting in the way of my salad. Would you like to play Marry-Fuck-Kill? Silly me, as if I am not still beholden to how poor we were, the burnt toast, the loaves of old ghost stories. I dreamt that I scared myself awake, on the way to the death chamber, the womb reclaiming. At the morgue, Mothra smiles at me like an old flying saucer and I book us two tickets to Tokyo. We wander around the Marunouchi, and she is reminded of San Francisco. She asks: Was I a wonderful mother? and I hate that every question has an answer. Lying is a strangled yodel and Mother Mothra is easier now that she is dead. It’s a simple thing to stay silent and so I quit my mouth like an overdose and went mild. She drinks sake. We eat o-nigiri and remember Ghirardelli Square. I wish my blood could turn our quiet love to technicolor. I show her the shop where my husband and I bought the painting of the tree, the color of sour limes. She asks me if I cried when she died. I don’t remember. I do not say that I forgive her, as my tongue is only as thick as rose-beds. I touch her ashy wing and little parts of her fall into me, a telescope or hesitant quicksand. I say: I am happy, now. On the third morning, I miss my husband and take a flight home. As the jet rises over the city, I look out the window. Mothra is still on that park bench, staring with eyes that will never close, over the vast bay. I let go.

 

Jason Davidson

Jason Davidson is a poet, fiction writer, playwright and performer. He’s written and directed over 200 works of experimental theatre and his one-act plays have been widely published. His poetry has appeared recently or is forthcoming in Hobart, SoFloPoJo, Heavy Feather Review, HAD, Luna Luna and other journals. Jason lives on California’s Central Coast with his husband. Find him on Instagram at @jasonwriteswords or visit his site at jasonwriteswords.com.