Poetry: We returned to kiss the cross by John Chinaka Onyeche

We’ve looked at the face of this life / Just as one looks at the cross.

Creative Nonfiction: I Never Stopped Learning English for You by Katya Suvorova

But he didn’t call me by my name. Instead, he called me honey, sweetheart, babyface.

The sun will rise when you think it has set forever.

Compression calls for a unique way of creating stories that don’t always follow traditional plots and story arcs.

A couple ensquared fucks, haloed in glossy filter.

The moment Rick cracked open the storm door to shoo it away, the chicken barreled inside like a feathered linebacker.

Perfectionism truly is “the oppressor,” and writers often don’t even know that this is what they’re battling, as it tends to come disguised.

“Everything I see and experience finds its way in my work somehow.”

The earliest places scooped from placental
chicken shit, ghosts in the dust-riled hose spray.

I first understood my father through my mother’s words.