Without Words fiction by Michael Warne . The steady rumble of the bus engine. Sitting in the back, he touches her knee with his fingertips, lightly traces half-circles up her leg, a swirling line, barely touching, an endless S, skin so much more sensitive between the ghostly touches. . She sweeps his hand away
On Fishing poem by Stephanie Airth The trout is a sliver of silver birch bark With gills like beet-stained paper snowflakes And a heart black as cherry jelly. It lays congealed on the gutting table; One solar eclipse eye wilts as it stares Up at heaven and sees . nothing. It knows It is the
The Idiot Imposter fiction by Luke Fraser . Of all the possible things that Daniel Briton could have imagined doing today, murdering a stranger would have been nowhere on his imaginary list. Yet, when he pushes aside the swinging door to his kitchen after returning home from work, he finds the end of a pistol
Open Letter to Yogi Tea Garden Statutory by Madeline Gorman To Whom It May Concern: . I am writing to express my concern with your “Yogi Inspirations”—the “inspirational” quotations printed on each Yogi tea bag label. While I understand that the intention of these mantras is to “inspire” people, I would like to gently remind
The Contours of Nature poem by Alex Winstanley Adam named the contours of nature to chisel a line between night and day, snake and lion. He walked naked in the midday sun, letting language linger in the sway of the light like a dryad clothed in the translucent tears of the willow. He let the
What the Dead Know: Political and Personal Corpses in Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four essay by Chelsea Pratt . Seeping ulcers, naked bodies, tortured forms: as intellectual as George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four might seem, it also draws heavily on the corporeal aspects of human existence. In fact, the individual body often serves to emblematize Oceania itself: the
“An Island Locked In Time” photo series by Kenneth Chong . Hong Kong used to represent the magic of the Orient mixed in with the aristocratic stamp of the British Empire. Nowadays, the city is known more for its frenzied pace and expansive skyline than its exotic history. However, fragments of the Orient’s past magic
The Book of Shells and Stones: A Reading of Wordsworth’s Dream of the Arab essay by Javier Ibáñez . Book V of William Wordsworth’s The Prelude opens with a lament over the fact that the mind does not have “[s]ome element to stamp her image on / In nature somewhat nearer to her own,” but
Oh, the humanities. Garden Statutory by Kyle Robertson In contemporary academia, tumblr posts suffice for paper proposals. Avoid inane in-class discussion. Distract yourself with self-mutilation. When discussing masturbation in literature, be sure to throw in something about body-as-text to sublimate accompanying academic anxieties for paper cuts. If called upon unexpectedly, speak metaphorically by borrowing
“Anonymous” painting by Genya Cheung
Later Days poem by Katie Coopersmith Valencia oranges had gotten crushed in my bag and soaked all the lace doilies, so Jake and I had coffee instead of high tea. It was an awkward forty-seven minutes. He began by clearing his throat, considering me with a few angular, darting glances, and commenting that he’d never
The Geography of Pain Exploring the relationship between places and people in Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway and Ernest Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. essay by Genevieve Barrons . The phrase “lost generation”—as used by Ernest Hemingway in the epigraph to The Sun Also Rises—refers to a state of political and spiritual crisis. However, at
“1 + 1 = 1” photo by Dalaina Heiberg Commentary My friend Sally Buttervalley and I saw and followed these two ladies walking the streets of Trujillo, Spain. I want to be one like them when we grow up. “My Mom’s Interest” Commentary I took this photo for my Mom because of her liking
Gates photo by Cyrus Sie Commentary Found in one of the less-frequented streets in Oxford, England on a summer visit, something inexplicable about the sign attracted me irresistibly to it. The whole time standing there it stared back at me, each passing cyclist effecting a blink of its eye.
Stranger in a Bookstore photo by Farisia Thang Commentary He was a stranger I exchanged a few short glances with in a secondhand bookstore.