Emma Sywyj

January 2026 | visual art

Wall & Window, China - Emma Sywyj

Wall & Window, China

View of Miranda, Italy - Emma Sywyj


View of Miranda, Italy

Emma Sywyj

Emma Sywyj is an award-winning artist and photographer who has been creating art for twenty years. For five of those years, she was based in London, studying photography at Camberwell College of Arts, UAL. From there, she received a BA in Photography and a Foundation Diploma in Art & Design. She has exhibited her artwork internationally in the US (New York, LA), at Art Basel Miami & San Francisco, and in Athens and Budapest. She has also exhibited nationally in the UK, including in London. She has been published in several UK art magazines and international journals, and has exhibited her video artwork in galleries & film festivals worldwide.

Robert Miner

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.

Fabio Sassi

January 2026 | visual art

Frankie - Fabio Sassi

Frankie

Fabio Sassi

Fabio Sassi creates photographs and acrylics using materials considered worthless by the mainstream. He often puts a quirky twist on his subjects or employs an unusual perspective that offers a fresh angle. Fabio lives in Bologna, Italy, and his work can be viewed at www.fabiosassi.foliohd.com

Grace Lynn

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.

Richard Holinger

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.