Issue 37

  • Hybrid,  Issue 37

    When I reached the rough manner of this rain, the scrunched petals of these flowers, their fraying edges, I stopped and set down language

    by Cory Hutchinson-Reuss

    photo by Jeylan Jones

     


    O, O, O:

    Of ode, incantation, pain, ecstasy, or completion. No paraphrase. The body dissolves on the tongue. Done. The river lapped her up. A kind of conversion. Consummation. A communion or an erasure.

     

    ~

     

    Here, now:

    I try to write about time and I write about my grandmother’s body.   

  • Hybrid,  Issue 37

    People Are our Greatest Asset

    by Leanna Petronella

    art by Jen Julian

    Éd-téch stárt-úp. Two spondees in a row.

    “We need the right people in the right roles,” they say whenever they fire someone.

    The thought leader stuffs keywords into a cold-brew keg. The angel investor is already there, incubating the unicorn. See its tiny horn, pink and clear like a jellybean.

    I write content in the company’s brand voice. Day after day, I climb inside the copy to join the other writers. We ideate and streamline, tweak to evergreen.

  • Hybrid,  Issue 37

    Riverside Boulevard

    by Kenton K. Yee

    art by Odilon Redon, 1882

    A barkeep goes to her therapist, says:

    I can’t sleep—hypnotize me. So you do and take her

     

    to Central Park Zoo and fall crazy in love.

    She cuts tail        so you’re on your couch

     

    rifling through web pages     pricing colonoscopies.

  • Issue 37,  Nonfiction

    Growing Up with a Low Rent Robin Williams

    By Simon A. Smith

    photo by the author 

    You never told anyone the whole story about your dad. You let most people think he was little more than a kooky horndog or dirty sailor. It was better for both of you. He got to see himself as the comedian he always wanted to be, and you got to pretend you weren’t dying inside every time he told another unsettling joke. That way, your friends felt it was harmless to laugh at all his unsavory antics. Like when you were at the pizza joint downtown,

  • Fiction,  Issue 37

    Sand Wall

    By Laura Schadler

    art by Caspar David Friedrich, 1817

    I.  

    The woman’s recurring dream found her online dating, tapping ineffectually through a glitchy and pixelated app. In each subsequent dream, she feared it had been too long to respond to a message from the previous night. 

    The woman had married at a strange in-between time when almost no one online dated. 

    In a second dream, a small panther prowled along with that sultry shoulder swivel, as if on its way to kill something. She often woke distraught.