July 2024 | fiction
Grandpa would say go outside I can’t hear myself think and if the air was clear and bright the mother between us said run, let your lungs gobble that good air, get your Vitamin D, and sometimes the air was thick with low-lying fog by the river, and the mother was shrouded, warning of slippery rocks, stray dogs, of Mr. Bob—who couldn’t live near a school—and sometimes the air was searing and the mother shimmered, drew us to the shade, silent while we bickered—having long understood that we did it for sport—and sometimes the air was sharp as icicles and the mother between us said put your scarf over your nose and mouth and sometimes the air held something sulfurous from downriver factories or—worse—that funk from the rendering plant and she said go inside, go drink some water, go help your Grandpa for a change you know he does his best, he’s just doing his best.
Michelle Morouse
Michelle Morouse’s work has appeared recently in Vestal Review, New Flash Fiction Review, Gemini, Midwest Review, Prose Online, Bending Genres, Best Microfiction, The MacGuffin, and Unbroken. She is a Detroit area pediatrician and a Pushcart nominee.
July 2024 | poetry
There is nothing more that we can do.
His mouth closed firmly like a window sash.
His face composed like laid brick.
Her every nerve thrumming.
His mouth closed firmly like a window sash.
Her fingers, face muscles, pudenda alert.
Her every nerve thrumming.
So it would be now.
Her fingers, face muscles, pudenda alert.
His cup, “World’s Greatest Dad” on his desk.
So it would be now.
No more tomorrow.
His cup, “World’s Greatest Dad” on his desk.
Her husband’s disembodied hand on her thigh.
No more tomorrow.
How will it be?
Her husband’s disembodied hand on her thigh.
The degrees floating on the wall behind.
How will it be?
There will be nothing.
The degrees floating on the wall behind.
The pores on his nose looming large.
There will be nothing.
And there is no God.
The pores on his nose looming large.
His white coat like hardened snow.
There is no God and
There is nothing more that we can do.
Elizabeth Hill
Elizabeth was a Finalist in the 2022 Rattle Poetry Contest, with her poem also appearing as Poem of the Day on February 20, 2023. She was nominated for the 2023 Pushcart Prize by Last Stanza Poetry Journal. Her poetry has been published in 34th Parallel Magazine, Boomerlit, SAND, and Catamaran, among other journals. She is a retired Administrative Law Judge who was responsible for suits between learning-disabled children and the school system. She lives in Harlem, NYC with her husband and two irascible cats.
July 2024 | visual art
Belly of the Space Needle
Kathy McConnell
Kathy McConnell is an award-winning photographer who teaches cell phone photography and writing at Walla Walla Community College in Walla Walla, Washington. She posts regularly on her blog, Box of Tales. The photos submitted for this edition were edited with a Samsung comic filter. Her philosophy of photography is to look for patterns and sightlines. Comic mode generates images that appear as hand-drawn illustrations.
