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Kennebunk Port, Maine by Alaina McGinnis The smell of decaying fish and low tide never bothered me in late August the way it did mid July. The attic bookstore was worth it. I never understood how the eight foot tall candle by the door, refused to engulf the building. I guess it had respect for literature. Sometimes I think of the rotting wedding cake Miss Havisham sat next to. This must be what it looked like. A mass of ivory melting only to harden again stale. The barely insolated, wooden, walls looked as if they were torn out of a Bible. The scripture holding everything together. My grandma said, when the sea ai

To Rome by Kristi Kirkland These are quiet times; our flower beds are unmade, speech comes softly in slurred phrases— the bawdy body hungers to roam the beaches of Italy, to coast the coastline from rocky boot-tip to heal, converse with wind joke with waves forget the lies we’ve muttered (without confidence). These are quiet times, introspective, yet completely unaware of self. We’ve tricked ourselves, petty deceptions, what we need is to be alone. But where are we now? Stuck inside the rhythm of the shape shifter’s groove, a Ferris wheel that overlooks the sea, chases Mediterranean breezes. We spin

Nahla by Hamza Reed I look for you in the expressions of silly little girls or deep in the windings of their tangled hair- black, of course. And when Spring arrives, yellow buses become fat with the howls of children. Some of them bounce off at stops, and I wait for one to be you as if my wishes could be fashioned into stones and skipped heedlessly across the grasp of God. Every unbounded shoulder of Sun will no doubt bring ample interim. Last night, the moonlight swept across your mother's face as I watched her sleep. I think I met you there by the curve of her lips. Hello.

Fragments of a relationship by Jon Asby Are they ever going to get married? Amanda was pregnant last year from David, a long term boyfriend who came and went. She had the kid while Mark and his group of friends still living here talked to her as friends. Full and hormonally pregnant she kept smiling while he rolled another spliff, she stroked his arm and kissed him after he put down the Carling can. He ended up in her pants without really meaning it, but did not regret it even with her bulging belly that kicked out. He felt a lot better about it after she gave birth, her having returned to a female figure he could understand. It all seemed a

What Spies Do by Melanie Brown My dad is a rock.  He is solid, he is powerful.  He can still pick me up and toss me over his shoulder.  He is never seen to cry, he can never be swayed or damaged by opinion.  He is a real estate agent, and he pushes those deals and sways those clients with confidence and experience.  He flexes his arms at the dinner table when I ask him and points exactly which way it is to the beach or the gun show.  He is a tree, a mountain, a thick and formidable presence in any room, in any place, against any person. “He’s late,” my mom said, and pursed her lips through the steam of her hot dinner plate.

Lovesong for London by Gemma White Elementary my dear Watson, A zebra, not a zee-bra, It has stripes, not spots on. Sunshine of my clouded mind, I love you more than any other I care to find. Two in the Eye, Overlooking London's lights, One hand in my hand, Strolling through Soho's night. Eating tart in Camdentown, In a construction site, While it poured down. "It never rains in London, But just in case that's a lie - We must be all business, All the time". There is not a minute to be lost. We cannot be stuck Without a bus, With only tophats to guide us. Good old Freddie Mercury, Ablaze in watted glory, Points the way

The Crabhouse by Lucy Baker I remember golf carts and squashed icecream sandwiches a dark glittering pool covered with deer footprints. Fishingnet hammocks, boat bathtubs, velvet curtain sunlight- waking to shadowed stairs, maybe a fall showers outside, dead crabs. I remember muddy afternoons, cold tea, boats, a pair of waterskis that caused splinters. The poptop, with holes for errant toes and fingers, a waterlogged blue T-Bird. I remember losing races in brittle summergrass, sponging spicy crabmeat from our afterdinner mouths. Honeysuckle cocktails and pleading for a ride in the back of the Oldsmobile- the freedom in our swing

7107 by William Soule Rain rattles like rice grain Across the roof of palm leaves. Thunder as thick as the air Vibrates the hut-walls; Grandma warns That witches are cackling again. Mountains tower like forest-back behemoths, Protecting the jewels of fish that align The space between each island—a diamond ring We could afford, shimmering on each finger. The naked children bathe the next day After the witches are silent. The river: A friend of the people; Grandpa taught respect Of the land, the giver of crops, swine, And fresh water cascading down the mountain That protects us; police were for mainland Manila. School is a

The Wrong Way Down Brookline by Barrett Steinberg in yellow moonless buzz, Scene. You know it's not quite like the walks through dusk's fireflies or gliding down mountain snow, both of which remind you of death. There was never the pop out of writhing flesh and heavy distortion to the cement; this is too silently alive to compare, and no one likes the word "kafkaesque" anyway. It's more like a scene that the Director turned and left the camera on, but we're still filming