ART
My Inside Outside Voice — Lizzy Rockwell

FICTION
All Too Familiar — Shy Watson
Rock Climbing + Cyclist + The Neighbor +
Little Lakes and Ponds — Kim Chinquee
The Table — Dylan Fisher
Honeybees Can’t Read — Sean Maschmann
The Restaurant Artists — Rick Andrews
Mole Rat — William Jones
The Seven Days of the Itch —Mari Klein
Walk — Mina Austin
The Ascent — Alan Crowe

GUEST FOLIO
Edited by Allison Adair
Pastoral in Pieces + The Curator of Legumes —Rose McLarney
The Deepest Blue + Some shreds are still discernible in the desert — Huan He
Drunken Peacocks + Cutting My Father’s Toenails + In Want of Wanting —Tishani Doshi
Epithalamium (Lines) — Daniel Poppick
I Have Been Thinking About Clytemnestra + On Being a Woman in an Empty House — Sara Moore Wagner
I Stand Between My Two Dogs + Middle-Aged Rock Star — Michael Kleber-Diggs
Do and Undo + Fortune + Only Later Did I Realize — Lauren Camp
A Dream of Gold, Eternity, and Clownfish + Protestant Ephemera — Andrew Hemmert

NONFICTION
Two Sides of the Same Coin — Molly Gleeson
Snot — Cristina Pop
Recording — Margaret Everton
Homegrown National Park — Ben Wielechowski
Things You Think In The Dark — Alex Herz
The Anywhere Door — Megumi DeMond
182 Main Road, Sea Point — David Luntz
Weed — Shawn Lisa Maurer
Twilight of the Cowboys: A Glance at the Origin of Country Music — Marcus Spiegel
Strange Moons — Annie Raab
That “Thing” Upstairs — Alyce Miller

POETRY
A Canoe of Light and Time with the Dog — Levi Rubeck
23 March 2024 + 14 June 2024 — Mary Margaret Alvarado
Failed Prayer for Little Henry + Just This — Tate Sherman
Oklahoma Poem + Devil’s Night + The Nor’easter + Goldberg Variations — Matthew Rohrer
Whorls + Post-Elizabethan Pills + Apricity — Billy Collins
Move 37 + Mighty Low — Heather McHugh
Ode to Ichthyostega, Who First Walked Out of the Sea + I must keep in good health and not die — Emma Bolden
It’s a Bit Dark Over by Bill’s Mother’s — Rachel Becker
Good News — Eric Roy
Nocturnal Garden + A Presence — Stuart Dybek
Out of the Blue + Bill Matthews’ Students Can’t Believe He’s Dead + Rest in Peace — Meg Kearney
My Hard Philosophy — Sid Ghosh

RECOMMENDATION
Norma Jeane Baker of Troy, by Anne Carson — Maria Zoccola

Little Lakes And Ponds

Kim Chinquee

Now that I finally make it to the boathouse, I want to row. I moved to Buffalo sixteen years ago, and its waters have always intrigued me. I grew up on a dairy farm in Wisconsin outside of Green Bay, and there are little lakes and ponds where my family would go for a break from chores, getting leeches on our skin that my dad would burn off with his matches. After my dad’s breakdown and my parents’ divorce, and moving to Green Bay, swimming wasn’t allowed in the bay, though sometimes us teens would jump over the fence and immerse ourselves. I don’t remember many waves there. I don’t remember why swimming wasn’t allowed. I hardly remember the defiance.

There was also a man-made lake called Ashwaubomay where my friends and I would ride our bikes to in the summertime. We weren’t old enough to drive yet. And our parents didn’t seem to care where we were. It was the 1980s, and having grown up on a farm and then having moved into what I see now as not exactly a big city, I wasn’t sure what it meant to have a parent. A few of my friends seemed to have them, perhaps, but what I remember most is the absence, parties in basements and garages, a place called Larry’s Woods, and if you were cool, you knew the trails, and if you had a car and/or someone to drive you, you knew how to get there. It seemed fun then, I suppose, but as soon as summertime was over, we’d be back in the stroller land of classes, hallways, the candlestick lands of our teachers. And certain parents unlike mine who seemed pretty good at least pretending they cared about our futures.

After high school and joining the air force, I was stationed in Biloxi. I married a man who was practically raised on the ocean, at least that’s what he told me. He grew up in Jamaica, and after I had our baby, I loved taking the baby out to the Gulf. The shore was so shallow it seemed I could walk for miles before finding any danger.

That marriage didn’t last. There was a war. He was deployed. He volunteered. The war wasn’t so much about us until I got used to him being gone. I suppose he came back different, but perhaps I was the one who changed more.

But that was years ago, and I came to Buffalo after my son, our son, graduated from high school. By then, my ex had remarried, had more children, grew his own family.

After moving to Buffalo, I maybe had some sense of a direction, when it came to my career. My second job as a professor. I was less directed, when it came to the logistics of north and south and east and west. I remember driving around after first arriving, wondering where I was: what body of water connected one to the other. There’s Lake Erie, Lake Ontario, and how is that connected to Lake Huron, over the bridge that I just crossed over from where I lived in Mount Pleasant. And Lake Superior, and Lake Michigan, off the bay from where I grew up in Wisconsin: this lake and that lake and that other lake.

I’m not a stupid person. I ride my bike all over the place now and the trails have helped me find my way. They connect one river to another, one lake to the next, and sometimes I ride to the top of a bridge where one can see the traffic of the Peace Bridge, connecting one country to another. And when one looks down, one can see the water underneath, the break wall.

And that’s where I am now with my crew. We’re together on a boat that, as a team, we’ve lifted out of the house and put into the water. And—from a separate motorboat that we’ve also launched—out of a megaphone, our coach spouts out commands aimed for the coxswain, who reiterates her words much louder on a speaker. I hold my oar. I’m in position number two. There are terms that I’ve just learned like hold water, let it run. And when I’m called to do a soft row or a full, I damn straight follow through.


Kim Chinquee is the author of eight books, most recently Pipette (Ravenna Press, 2022). In 2025, her prose poetry collection Contact with the Wild and flash fiction collection Octopus Arms are forthcoming with MadHat Press, and her novella I Thought of England will be published by Baobab Press.Herwork has been published in journals and anthologies including NOON, Conjunctions, StoryQuarterly, Indiana Review, Ploughshares, The Nation, Notre Dame Review, Story, Fiction, F(r)iction, Post Road, Buffalo Noir, and many others. She’s received three Pushcart Prizes, serves as editor for New World Writing Quarterly, Midwest Review, and ELJ (Elm Leaves Journal), and directs the writing major at SUNY-Buffalo State University.

Calendar

by Maeve Barry

The calendar will be a gift for our grandparents. All of their children will get one. The photographer will take the photos in the parking lot of an Irish restaurant. It’s where we eat after funerals. 

In the lot it’s raw with no sun out. We wear big coats but will take them off for the photos so it looks like it’s spring. Our parents are in a rush to take photos cause they’re worried about one of the grandparents dying. I’m not worried about either one of them dying. Last patches of gravelly snow jut from the ground. A pokey reminder. My teeth clack. We watch for my grandparents’ car. I’m fourteen. I am a computer. The hot pink thong that I wear is the one that I stole from American Eagle. 

My grandma hugs me and it smells like vagina and mildew. My grandpa hugs me and I flinch. He hits the side of my head like he’s showing everyone how high his hand is. 

I have an aunt who’s a doctor and a bitch. Her two daughters go to Wellesley and they go right up to my grandpa and kiss him. They complain really loud about how some guy spread out on the train on their way here. They love my grandpa. My older girl cousins go to Wellesley College and they don’t know anything. 

My mom knows, more than any of us, but she’s so busy acting like she doesn’t that she won’t look at me. She’s tried honesty. Now she wants siblings and a mom who will look her in the face. Now I’m the only person she can talk to about it. 

***

To Christmases and Thanksgivings I wear my tight red little dress so they can all see my tits. I show up with my hair high in a ponytail and my neck soaked in hickies. I know how to time it. This Christmas the hickies were from a boy who wore only one t-shirt. It said ‘Consent is Sexy.’  That boy kept moving his mouth down to my tits and I kept pushing it back up my neck. The next day in Worcester we sat at my grandparents’ table before midnight mass. They all sat there in the purple glow off my neck skin. Last week my mom said, None of that for the calendar. 

It’s February and my neck’s back to normal. I wear my tiny spandex skirt and black tights and the thong that I stole and a floaty t-shirt.

            I’m going to the bathroom, I say, and no one answers. No one is looking. They’re all leaning over the new red, screaming baby. Trying to corral the uncle who’s been drinking since he woke up. Trying to calm down the autistic cousin who is nineteen, red and screaming. My mom doesn’t look at me cause she’s busy looking all over, hoping someone will look at her. I walk to the door and feel my ass move through my skirt. Only my grandpa’s looking. 

The restaurant is called O’Connors. That’s not our last name but it might as well be. There’s a long sticky bar. The bartender was told not to serve my uncle until after the photos. Maybe my uncle knows about my grandpa. He’s never said. The bar is all cops. The bartender is young and his hair’s kind of red, not red like a siren, like my red-head cousins. Not like my grandpa’s was before he lost it. Now his head’s patchy snow. The bartender opens his mouth and he’s really Irish. 

            What can I get you.

            He looks right at me.

            A white Russian, I say. 

            It’s what my grandma drinks. I say it to seem older.

            The bartender smirks. His fingernails are so dirty. The celtic cross poked into his bicep is the same as the one on my uncle’s ankle. The same as the one on everyone’s graves.

There’s milk on my mouth. I stand. I wait for a second outside the bathroom door before I close it. When he opens it I see his face in sharp light. I see its grooves, bags, its raw eyeballs. Maybe a little older than my Wellesley cousins. I can’t imagine anyone would want to touch them. Our grandpa didn’t. The bartender’s grimey nail snags my tights. They don’t tear. We don’t kiss. He lifts my leg. The toilet paper dispenser digs my ass in a nice way. The nicest part of it, maybe. I stick my milk tongue down his ear and that isn’t clean either. My tights tie my ankles. I pull my pink thong to the side. I wrap all my arms and legs around him like I’m his baby. My ass hits the toilet paper. It pulls away. It hits again. I look at the brown stain on the white ceiling. It’s shaped like Japan, not Ireland. His breath sputters. I hate it the way that I hate my mom’s breathing and my brother’s chewing and my grandma two-foot-stepping every stair with her gout puffy ankles, pressing down on my arm, like she needs me to help her. My face scrunches. I never push or trip her.

            I don’t love my grandparents, I say in my head while he fucks me.

            What’d you say, the bartender pants.

            I said I want you to fuck me.

            I’ve never said that. I hear my own voice like through a screen in a movie.

            He presses his hands on my shoulders. I rip at his hair and pretend that it’s already white. He springs back with release. He keeps saying Jesus.

There you are, my bitch aunt says when I walk back to the photo stools and the guy waiting there with his camera. 

            Aren’t you freezing, my mom asks. What happened to your tights?

            Nothing happened to my tights. I balled them and pushed them deep in the trash can. My brother kicks a deflated football. It goes nowhere. The photographer wears a fedora. My legs turn red when air hits them. 

They sit me in the front row on the stools. There was a break between me and the cousins who are older. The Barnard cousins get placed in the back. They’re mad you won’t see the pants part of their pantsuits. 

Once, on a plane, my mom sat next to a psychic. The psychic told my mom that she fell toward the middle of her siblings, and that she was one of eight. My mom is the fourth of six. To the three oldest siblings he didn’t do anything. My young uncle is drunk and my young aunt is dead. And I am sitting in the middle of the front row of grandkids. The sitting girls close their legs. The photographer tells my brother, Put down the football. 

When the camera clacks I snap my knees open. Every time, fast so no one will stop me or notice. Purple circles glow the inside of my thighs. From his slinky hips. The hot pink triangle of the thong that I stole. I flash the camera. Hot pink yells itself forward. It’s in every photo. It will hang in their kitchens, where they’ll all have to notice.

Dr. Pangloss’s Intelligence Quiz

by Debra Coleman

1. A Woman is found on a crusty linoleum floor at the base of a steel staircase. She’s semiconscious, sputtering, “I fell. My head is bleeding.” (Her head is not bleeding, though gluey liquid percolates from her eyes.) What is the first thing the person who found the Woman should do?

A. Prop her up on the lowest step and leave work for the day.
B. Help her to the passenger seat of the office manager’s car.
C. Call an ambulance.
D. Drive her to a dark campus auditorium where her husband is attending an art lecture. Escort her inside and ask her to point to the husband in the audience.

Answer
The only correct answer is C, though some people prefer to avoid the drama associated with flashing lights and sirens. These people will opt instead to help the Woman with the quiet, dangerous interventions described by answers A, B, and D.


2. The Woman, a senior architect, returns to work the next day even though her gait is up-all-night drunk. Ten minutes into her first meeting, she excuses herself because the room is whirling. Which of the following would be most helpful?

A. Buy her a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle of Notre Dame to help her recover.
B. Tell her she must come to the office Christmas party because it will cheer her up.
C. Suggest that she work part-time so that she’ll feel only half as nauseous.
D. Help her corkscrew back to her office.

Answer
Because Call an ambulance isn’t one of the choices, D is the most helpful intervention. Answers A and C don’t address her problems. Answer B is incorrect because the Woman doesn’t yet know she needs cheering up.


3. After several weeks of home rest, sleeping through a stack of movies from Blockbuster, the Woman has not improved. Her employer hires a neurologist named Dr. Lickspittle. After a cursory exam, what is the next step Dr. Lickspittle should take in order to check for a traumatic brain injury?

A. Order an MRI of the Woman’s brain.
B. Confidently proclaim that he sees no evidence of a TBI.
C. Tell the Woman to return to work, adding, “You don’t have a difficult job anyway.”
D. Refer her to an ear, nose, and throat specialist due to ongoing vertigo.

Answer
None of these answers are adequate for the diagnosis of a TBI. Answer A should be done, though it is difficult to image microscopic damage to nerve fibers. Answer D wastes time, as the Woman learns upon arrival for rehab, where she is told, “You’re too late for us to help you recover.” The Woman should immediately find a new neurologist.


4. Three years later, the Woman is sent for tests of her cognitive abilities. After several months, Dr. Scrupulous explains the results. Which of the following is most accurate?

A. The Woman will never be gainfully employed again.
B. Some of the tests were designed to determine whether she is a malingerer.
C. The Woman’s cognitive abilities have dropped from the 95th percentile to the 55th percentile.
D. Unlike those born with disabilities, the Woman will need to adjust to a sudden and unfamiliar person: herself.

Answer
A, B, C, and D are all accurate.


5. While taking a knitting class, the Woman discloses that she has a traumatic brain injury and has trouble following the sequence of pattern instructions while simultaneously chatting. What is the best reply?

A. “I would never have known if you hadn’t told me.”
B. “Well you look good!”
C. “You look fine to me.”
D. “I wanted to mention your shirt’s inside out.”

Answer
The best answer is D. No one wants to wear their shirt inside out in public. The other three answers sound like compliments, but for what?


6. After being out of touch for decades, the Woman meets a longtime friend for lunch, and describes her career-ending accident. What should the other’s first reaction be?

A. “I’m so jealous. I’d love to retire.”
B. “I wish I could nap every afternoon.”
C. “It must be wonderful to have so much free time on your hands.”
D. “You should volunteer to make copies for the architecture department.”

Answer
None of these reactions are appropriate. Skip to the next question.


7. After they finish a brisk hike, a new friend offers kudos to the Woman. Which of the following is the most flattering?

A. “Now you can go tell your other friends you’re not a gimp.”
B. “Aren’t you glad you had some spare IQ points?”
C. “You’re only as brain injured as you want to be.”
D. “I knew you weren’t one of those people, milking your accident for attention.”

Answer
Each of these answers is demeaning. The Woman is learning other people have become disinhibited as a result of her TBI.


8. After being introduced at a garden party, the Woman mentions to another that she has a brain injury. What’s the first thing the other woman should say?

A. “Oh, my memory is bad too!”
B. “Have you read the research about how the brain repairs itself?”
C. “You should try clover grass tea.”
D. “It’s wonderful you’ve recovered.”

Answer
If you’re the brain-injured person, follow the next hors d’oeuvres tray that passes and leave the party.


9. While picking up cough syrup for his daughter at a pharmacy, a man finds himself behind the Woman. She is repeatedly pushing on the entry door even though it won’t open. What should the man do next?

A. Clear his throat, then microphone, “Pull. The sign says Pull.”
B. Reach over her shoulder, pull the door open, and shove past her.
C. Try to joke, “The handles on these doors are useless.”
D. Find another entrance.

Answer
The best answer is D. It makes little sense to startle or humiliate a person caught in the loop of a problem with a simple yet impenetrable solution.


10. While struggling with a copy machine at Kinko’s, the Woman slams the lid down, yells “goddamned motherfucker,” and kicks the front of the machine. What is the most appropriate response? 

A. Grab her papers and make the copies for her.
B. Say, “I get frustrated with these machines too.”
C. Move to a different machine while muttering, “What an asshole.”
D. Complain to the staff.

Answer
See answer to 6 above.


11. The Woman is frantically searching for milk. Her husband finds the carton in a cupboard. What should he do next?

A. Pat her back and say, “It’s okay, dear.”
B. Stick a label on the refrigerator door that says Refrigerator.
C. Say, “We all do these things as we get older.”
D. Ask, “Did you break your ‘one thing at a time’ rule?”

Answer
The correct answer is B. This is the only practical solution to avoid misplacing milk in the cupboard.


12. The Woman visits a town official to ask about a tax benefit for seniors and the disabled. What is his most likely response?

A. “I changed the way we calculate that because it gives people like you an unfair advantage.”
B. “The attorney that represents the town agreed I could change the rules.”
C. “What’s wrong with you? I explained this several times.”
D. “I have to leave for the day.”

Answer
All of the above. The Woman, tired of this test’s answers, lobbies town representatives to amend the program’s legal language. Prior to the final vote, a committee chair tells the Woman that if the vote is successful, she’ll have to buy everyone a round of beer.

The law is changed. The Woman does not purchase beer.

Shroud (Ghost Apples)

by Sébastien Luc Butler


the orchards’ stench / an redolent camp / high school
like a dreaming of high school / riding in the backs of pickups we had

our obsessions / our idols / indifference / & corn fields
& drunken midnight baseball field laying in the grass / yes

staring at the stars / believe or not / there were railroad tracks
we walked them / after forking someone’s lawn / hands blossoming

on a bottle’s neck / a slip / a shattering of glass / liquid left
squandering itself between crossties / there was

so much / between the crossties / of each others’ bodies
run over / ground down / hellos & goodbyes a strummed web

love / a few staves / one for each month / a month
meant a great deal then / in the making of our myth / lithe

fierce / the way the gym’s lights hummed through
the night / or our headlights / searching / a freak october blizzard

i wake now remembering / the frozen orchards the next morning
how the fruit would fall / until / only ice in the shape of fruit

& the dead deer / strung up around the gazebo / their shiny legs
hardened as twigs / slowly thawing / but still hanging there

for weeks / their limp haunches / dripping / in our rearview mirrors