I S S U E T W O

fisayo adeyeye, editor-in-chiefamanda oliver, prose editorshawn quintero, audiovisual editormolly silverstein, poetry editorrachel nicholls, event coordinator ruben delgadillo, visual editor/illustrator

prose contributors: hannah seelman, tj reynolds, anne reynolds smith, cailin doty

art contributors: benjamin varosky, ruben delgadillo

poetry contributors: mayelle nisperos, paul tomes, dalton day, sarah warren, stephanie campisi, andrew wells, maitane romagosa, emily matthews

front coverruben delgadillo

issue artruben delgadillo

STEPHANIE CAMPISI

PAUL TOMES

TJ REYNOLDS

ANNE REYNOLDS SMITH

MAITANE ROMAGOSA

BENJAMIN VAROSKY

EMILY MATTHEWS

8 Gone Visiting 9 The House That Became an Orchestra

10 Fireworks

12 I Sit Zazen

14 The Seat 54 The Farm

20 A Season’s End

23 Image

24 Untitled

DALTON DAY

ANDREW WELLS

MAYELLE NISPERSOS

SARAH WARREN

CAILIN DOTY

HANNAH SEELMAN

26 Bellying Close27 A Moment There & Then Gone

28 From “Nocturnes”

42 Pureza

46 Insight

48 The Memory Keeper

51 Drunk Barn Man

It is an unwritten rulethat shoes be removed at your doorthat your guests treadlightly as ghosts set a part of themselvesaside for later collection -so I stepped out of my bootsstepped out of myselfleft my body neatly folded in the laundrystepped out of orbitleft it all behindto claim at a later point -but it is pleasantly calm up herealways vacuumed always quiet -unearthly so -and I might stay awhile.

GONE VISITINGStephanie Campisi

Cam

pisi

8

The house eschewed itself -staked a sign out in front -for sale, it said, this title -for I am leavingI am no longer a houseI am not a structureI am an ideaI am an orchestraand I have been playingto the wind-whipped applauseof the washing on the line -and it is time to move on -to seek greener pasturesand try my luckamongst the concert hallswhere the wind turbinestilt and waltz.

THE HOUSE THAT BECAME AN ORCHESTRA

Cam

pisi 9

look around you we are watchinghere at the end of a long staircasewe are watching a world being bornin bright scars that burn and heal and burn againand across the water you are watchingrocking your daughter in half-sleepsame as the child who is half-dreaming beside me where we are watching a sky opening and tossing ribbons of lightlike flying stars across the mirrors of tall buildingswhere from an office the late husband is watchingstrange flowers like fireflies flicker in their fine brightnessand pop silently like baby language against the lake waterwhere the thrown reflection of the boatman’s neck and chin is upheld by the same vision of heaven drenched in sulfurmidnight ghosted over with the smoke and awe of the whole city

FIREWORKSPaul Tomes

Tom

es 1

0

watching and waiting with each breath for the next seam of fireto burst in the pocket of our interplanetary evening and flutter like bird glitterback down toward the tiny earth where we, all of us, are watching

Tomes 11

Will you sit zazen with me? Will you sit with open palms and closed eyes while the city lights blare and the cars horns wake the sleeping street lamps, one by one, denying the night’s gentle flow.

I sit zazen, the Japanese meditation of “no-mind,” and hope to be a poet. I will push at the seams, press my fingers into the fissures that outline and mark this from that. I sit zazen and dip a hand through my sternum, probing for some piece of me that is loose, easy to remove and inspect. I need to see that piece under light. Where did I put my match?

Every writer is a suicide. By committing a life to the imitation of life, the artist perishes. The Art becomes the vessel. The man turns dumbly into a shovel, a knife, a rifle, a billowing sheet of unending parchment. Perhaps the artist is only the woman who fell headlong into the Chasm of Despair, but instead of perishing, she found her

I SIT ZAZENTJ Reynolds

Rey

nold

s 12

clutching hand wrapped round an unexpected root of purpose. She is reborn with transparent skin, just wax over water. Maybe the artist is only the boy who was called in the dark, someone too frightened to live forever after.

I sit zazen and beg audience of you. Rub the coarse tar of my nightsong into your eyes and mouth. Please taste me in these words. Let at least some of them melt and stay there. Let the taste of me explain my faults away; forgive yourself the things you must do as you continue to climb the broken stairs.

Reynolds 13

THE SEAT

anne reynolds smith

THE SEAT

Dorothy clutched her son’s arm as they led her to her seat, facing the silver casket at the front of the small chapel. There weren’t enough of Maurice’s friends left alive to fill the big sanctuary down the hall, but this smaller space made it look like a crowd had shown up to pay their last respects. It was the same trick she used to use when she fed Maury on a small dinner plate, so he felt like he was getting a full meal when she had to cut back on his portions. But that was so many years ago, before he turned into a tiny, old man. She wasn’t sure why they needed such a big coffin to carry what was left of him. Ninety-three years of good living had used him up, and by the time he died on Friday, he couldn’t have been taller than five and a half feet, even if they dangled him so his toes pointed down to add to the length.

While she waited for the organist to finish the processional, and the preacher to take his place, Dorothy looked over at the honorary pall bearers. They didn’t have to do anything but have their names printed in the announcement, which was good. Freddie Golightly and Tom

Smith 15

Parker were the only ones of Maury’s closest friends left alive who could make it, and neither of them could have lifted a casket anymore, even with all those younger men sharing the load. Elmer’s son Jude stood in for his daddy in that group, since Elmer hadn’t left Rolling Meadows in six years, once the Alzheimer’s got him.

It was a good run, Dot. But the world is done with folks like us. I’m ready to go.

She remembered his words, from days before he died. They weren’t his last, but close to it. The last day in the hospital was rough, but in the end, the nurses had respected his DNR as they had promised, and Dorothy had watched him go. She missed him already, but she was glad to have made it all the way with him.

The service was nice, for all that it came from the new preacher who had only been here – Dorothy stopped to think, I guess it has been five years now. Not enough time to get to know someone like Maury. Their middle son got up to talk, and two of the great-granddaughters sang his favorite song, Roses of Picardy, while their piano teacher played the accompaniment. When it was over, and Mason helped her rise to leave, she pulled on his arm to turn to the right. She put her soft, spotted hand on the curve of the casket lid, and made a promise

Smith

16

in her heart. I’ll see you soon, Maury. Save me a seat.

They all gathered at Richard and Margaret’s house for the post-funeral buffet, since Margaret was Dorothy’s only child who still lived in town. Several ladies from the church brought casseroles and chicken, and someone brought banana pudding, remembering that it was Maury’s favorite. Dorothy picked at a plate, but she hadn’t had much of an appetite lately, even before Maury got sick the last time. Margaret’s house was full of family from out of town, and Mason and his wife were staying with Dorothy through tonight. His wife had to go back to Sioux Falls tomorrow, but Mason would be staying on as the executor of Maury’s will. Dorothy was relieved when they finally helped her into the back of his rental car, to go back to the house for the night.

The climb up the stairs to her bedroom was an effort, as it had been for almost a year since she found out about the cancer. She never told the kids about it, and she never agreed to the treatment the doctor recommended. He wasn’t even as old as her grandsons. What did he know about quality of life? There wasn’t any reason to fight it now anyway. She did what she had been determined to do. She stayed with Maury until the very end.

Smith 17

Dorothy put on her very best nightgown, the mint green one that showed off the last bits of red in her white hair, and climbed into bed. It was a good run, indeed. She looked at the bottles of pain pills that the young doctor had given her as a palliative when she refused the chemotherapy, and the tall glass of water she had brought with her from downstairs. The kids are already in town. Tonight would be a good night. Save me a seat, Maury.

Smith

18

iAt partiesCora steals the weedPeyton steals the liquorand I steal the hand soap.

Once we walked out with two rolls of paper towelsbecause we ran out at home.Nobody asked.

Kanye’s “Bound 2” was on.

iiYou can only hear mermaid tailsfrom the coast of Stuart Beach where children with platinum hairand plump lipsgrow up under thenot-so watchful eye ofBizarre-o Magic Dads.

A SEASON’S ENDMaitane Romagosa

Rom

agos

a 20

iii.A wife, barefoot in pajamas,takes a fat hand and pushes her husband backcloses the door and sighs.

The neighbor goes into to his garagesits in his lawn chair with a cat on his lapand smokes a cigarette.

Rom

agosa 21

Varosky 23

IMAGEBenjamin Varosky

abrasive lunar glareyou, the opulent twilight cosmossmear of white disease on sky

mute in flame of Basiliskin chilling tendrils of panic

heady Inevitable leans in whispersalready-deafening winter breathcrawling from symbiotic flush

from sour, steaming laughter

alight in pastel fascinationseparate: shorn from mortal stigmata

blood-drop, grainy in reeling airdying, shrined in collapsing shadow

taste of rain, for the last time

UNTITLEDEmily Matthews

Mat

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s 24

BELLYING CLOSEDalton DayBellying Close

I sometimes need a mountain to squeeze into & through Because like dogs my memory is the most important sense To lose I smell the trees I think about them calling out before they die The sky looks so capably today I may not be under it still I wag my tail under the dirt & eat the sun How’s that for revenge

Day

26

A MOMENT THERE & THEN GONE

A Moment There & Then Gone

I could leave this business of sweetness Take a new name like Monday or WashedOut I’ll collect pearls because they belonged to water & I didn’t & if I had a sister She’d teach me about explosions & say I am not made of bees I am made of either teeth or tangerine If I don’t do anything I’ll be Þne But not an eagle

Day 27

from‘nocturnes’

andrew wells

from‘nocturnes’ I

I do not look at the stars or the moon,though I have left the blind two inches up,and the window half-open for moth-air.

First night of many night scenesand a something perfectly round,hard ball of air or hollowed pebble, hangs

between my lungs...

V

Anonymous laughter outside,it isn’t fully dark, but the lightforgot to come this afternoon,

Wells 29

stuck in cloud-traffic perhaps;if it eases up, I expectthe sun straight away

turns backwith somewhere else to be.

VI

Cataract-boy, stooped beyond his yearswith both hands on the long beech deskby the window he cannot see through.

Winter delayed for the shortest time,fingers shrivel like leaves, curlup to die; brittle-boned and thin,

nails chipped like bark. A splutter;final words caught underneath the chin.

VII

Evening and everything is grey,

Wel

ls 3

0

stuck-lipped, lead-limbedin mid-September; silentnight spreads now, poisonedcloud-veins corrupting old skin,it blackens and peels, and then

death is dark water,and I am pebble-shodden.

VIII

Long after dark, and I am outsidein the cool of the nightto write my eighth scene.

There is a distant music-pulse,faint stars, and unfurling breath,and the cold of the patio,

scratched, naked shins; they sting.The garden light goes out.

IX Wells 31

I dream of a boy on the great lakein his little fishing boat, feet numbedby the pool of water already inside,

his fishing rod loose-held between two fingersand the harvest moon illuming a ripped reflection.How many nights will he sit here?

Where the lake soft-swells, and mudinvites him to the quiet under the tide.

X

How many days have passedsince my last ‘Nocturne’ you ask.Too many, but that’s a good thing,

you see, for these are just to pass the hoursthose insomniac hours, and, lately,I’ve been sleeping again. But tonight,

I am dead-awake, I push my head out the windowand let water-drops hit my back to make me shiver alive.

Wel

ls 3

2

XI

This is a detox of the brain.I have spoken of death; sometimesI long for it in spite of all my fear.

I have spoken of it, though allI really know is that deathis a fact, it is a wall

with no windows to look in,no windows to look out.

XII

Rumble over me of a plane.I will be leaving soon, maybesomeone’s sad. It rains.

XIII

Babysitting, three minutesand then they should be home. W

ells 33

TV off now, nothing’s on at midnight,

so I turn a tired mind to Baudelaire.I feel blind to the page, visionsstart to roam. Her dark

hair, that touch. Do I makethese illusions so my heart’s alive?

XIV

It’s those chimes again, they soundalmost once a month. First timeI’ve written of them.

I think they come from outside.

XV

Wide-eyed stagger towardthe red light. I trippedwhere roots ripped the pathand branches tried to grab me,

Wel

ls 3

4

one took a fistful of my shirtand another loomed above.

Unsteady downhill, I cometo five dark houses. No keys.

XVI

Where are the wind-chimes?I keep hearing them.

XVII

Less than a week, three timesI’ve dropped from rock to jagged rockunder an orange-tinted sky

with no stars or moons. I might falltwice more this month, yet to decide.For now I will sit, here

on the mountain ridge, reading againthe long jail letter. W

ells 35

XVIII

Somewhere a leaf drops,lonely, cold at the month’s close.I am leaving for Rome.

Below the cars’ gold riverthrough night-fields going. I listento Pathétique, first time in months.

I take nothing with me morethan bone and flesh.

XIX

That ball of air, mere absence,it has returned this morning.O for an absence of absence...

XX

What I wanted to say last night:I am afraid of losing fear, because

Wel

ls 3

6

perhaps there are certain things

I should be scared of. Not love,or getting drunk on Saturday, or droppingschool because grades<heart,

but knowing how to lose fear, might letknife or the dark-to-no-start in.

XXI

It has been over a week now, sincelast I wrote a nocturne. I tookthe bins out this cold evening,

bonfire smoke hung on the air,and a single gold light was onin a window of a cottage –

I saw it down the street, wonderedif they were watching TV...

XXII Wells 37

Is this what everything comes to?a few words, scribbles on envelopesand notepads, and the back of my hand.

All of these are fading as we speak,this too is just my feeble mark on timethat weakens by the second, to make

my life less cold. A cul-de-sac,is that what everything comes to?

Envoi

Wind chimes once again, ephemeralthe moment. Gone.

Wel

ls 3

8

I was born at the height of the deadseason, when monsoons dilute canesto shriveled, tasteless bark. You learn early on to stomach the bitter and spoiled.

My mother taught my hands to braidtractor wires before they understoodneedle and thread. Observe proper posturewhen loading the trucks. Perfumed mewith gasoline, powdered me in soot —

Understand this: by no means is sugar the lazy man’s crop. Not even the carabao feeds on hollow grass.

Summer is an exercise in patience. Neverbe too eager to fertilize, lest you burn the canes prematurely.

PUREZAMayelle Nisperos

Nis

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s 42

I imagine if my mother had learned restraint the way you learn to fertilize,

she would be raising her wine glass to a newly wed son and daughter -in-law.

The church bells sing a wedding song forthe haciendero’s daughter. The town gathersfor merienda, but there is no timeto spare. Milling is about to begin.

I strike the last stalk with a rusted espading; it hangson splinters. Listen to the parched fields guzzlethe raw sugarcane juice, drunk and slurring, “Ferment it into liquor, you bastard!”Snap the cane by the roots, and then twice more.

“No one will notice.”

A toast! To the happy couple,to a bountiful harvest! My virgin tongue now saccharine drunk;burn my throat, curdle my liver—

Nisperos 43

Drinking is an exercise in patience, now

let the monsoon sober me.

__________________________________________

Pureza (spa.) – adj. 1. a technical term in sugar agriculture referring to the sugar concentration of a sugarcane, “sweetness” 2. purity, chastity

Nis

pero

s 44

the Blackest brain,encrusted with charCoal and Sootscabby gumsthese I trade My Life fori do not need to BREATHEor eat or sleep or drinki Not am wonder Womanbut her icy corpsewhen they ask me What’s wRongi will tell them i didn’t sleepit Is trueSuch tedious questionsthe indeFineable, unimaginable Beetles in my Brainnibbling tissue,gNawing bonewho am i to Evict them?

INSIGHTSarah Warren

War

ren

46

The mountain town was as poor as it is old; the harvests barely keep them through the winter, the mountain monsters chased away any potential traders and the hunters could barely make their own weapons with what they have in the storage. Tough work put some muscle on the young adults, but would fade as quickly as it came and hunger pains would remind the rest that they were not like those above their ranks; those who always know when their next meal would arrive. In their town, there is only one such group that lived in that blessed stability; The Memory Keepers. Their cottage where they lived and worked and died in was in the center of town, in sight to remind the others of the privilege They had. A Memory Keeper was not created or taught, instead, they were born. And what they did, no one understood or knew. Anyone that asked was given the standard curt reply of, “Trust us, you don’t want to know”. They dressed in the darkest shade of black, their cloaks lined with heavy fur, and their heads were crowned with the skulls of stags. They spoke in riddles and in unknown tongues. They read books

THE MEMORY KEEPERCailin Doty

Dot

y 48

kept away from public. The villagers did not completely understand it all, but they did know one thing, and they knew The Memory Keepers had the best food. What else could explain those delicious smells coming out of their chimney or open kitchen window? And in this small village, food was the most valued thing of all and what determined a person’s status. Let them read their strange books and dress in silly ways, the outsiders would say, their food pays for all their eccentricities. Every husband and wife wished upon the stars for their unborn child to possess the unearthly grey eyes that signaled the arrival of another Memory Keeper. It was this hope, the only hope, which kept the village alive with children. More often than not, the prayers were not answered. Brown eyes, blue eyes, green eyes, hazel eyes, and black eyes, even, appeared. But when a grey eyed child was born, everyone rejoiced and their songs could be heard from the deepest valleys and the highest points.Today, a grey eyed girl of sixteen stood before the cottage door that separated her from the normal world and the world of The Memory Keepers. She held her old, patchwork, grey cloak tightly as the old oak door creaked open. Before her stood an elderly man, his shadow cast over her, his grey eyes cold and searching. He grinned, revealing the few teeth that were still intact. His cloak was black as night, the skull on his head bleached white from the sun.

Doty 49

“We’ve been waiting for you child.” He crooned. He held out a shriveled hand for her to take, rings of every shape and metal adorned his wrinkly fingers. “Step into the warmth, you must be freezing. Once we’ve given you a hearty meal, you’ll begin your work.”She obeyed without a word. She took his hand and crossed the threshold, knowing, not knowing, and wanting to know all at the very same time. She did not notice that her old cloak had fallen from her shoulders. Nor did she not notice the velvet black one that was draped across her. And far away, the hunting birds screeched. A new Memory Keeper had been brought into the fold.

Dot

y 50

I passed out drunk. Vision blurry/fuzzy, body marvelously so loose, tie falling from my neck. Oh yes, I was so drunk. Having spirit for once, of uncaring for the stress and darkness of this world. A moment of a high in a hearty heart. I passed out drunken in a farmer’s stable, but before I danced in a field of wildflowers. The moon enlightening the petals’ hues as petals of Easter. Perhaps it was the sweet juice but I swear I heard the angels sing will watching the faeries dance upon the ink stained sky. I passed out, suit forever soiled. Before my heart igniting as a spark for a smoker as I screamed and yelped to the smiling moon. The full moon creating a spotlight for my insane performance. I danced a dance of gratitude and lightness. The cold dew soaked grass staining my untamed feet. I passed out drunk. At last after I howled to the sky until I could no more, I saw a small light in the distance. Slightly bigger than a firefly and for some reason it beckoned me. Upon closer view it was an old dirty lantern placed in a smudged antique window upon the

DRUNK BARN MANHannah Seelman

Seelman 51

wall of a barn. The barn’s red paint chipping as the wood underneath plays peekaboo. I go and open the doors. They burst open with a wave of warm air and this hits my body. A sweet sensation of a sweet welcome. I simply passed out. I passed out among the confused cows, pigs, horses, and God knows what else. The animals’ eyes wide in wonder at this new encounter of such a strange beast. So many hearts in this place. Breathing together. A place with the distinct smell of hay and manure. I continued on stumbling and twirling with my shadow as the star dust streams in from the old window, a cold yet magical light. I passed out drunk. Simple as that. A free fall into the busy strings of hay. Head nodding off on the smooth and warm horse’s stomach. Air breathing in and out of the massive creature soothing, as if I strangely in a womb once more. Eyes flickering and then was gone gone gone. I passed out and dreamed a great dream in which I can no longer remember, but as I slept I felt myself smile. I slept in a stable with a barn full of smelly animals yet despite the hangover the next bright morning, and a rather confused farmer, I regretted nothing. It was the greatest and most real moment of my entire life.

Seel

man

52

The sheet of blood slowly contracted into a ribbon, as it traveled down the slightly oily surface of the knife, until the bulbous base of red fell in fat drops to the dirt once, then twice. The woman’s thin hand clutched it in an overhand grip, and her ropy forearm trembled slightly from the effort of holding it tightly, even now, when she no longer had to wield it in anger. You do what you have to do to survive. She stood over the body of the man, watching carefully to see whether he was going to move again. The pool of blood under him had stopped expanding, and she wondered whether that meant his heart was no longer pumping it out, or whether it was just soaking into the ground beneath him.

The once-pretty sundress that she wore was now torn at the side seam from when the man had grabbed the fabric and pulled at her, and the front was spattered from the spray when the knife had sliced an artery in his arm, as she forced him to let her go. Her breathing was starting to slow back to normal, but she could still feel her heart

THE FARMAnne Reynolds Smith

Smith

54

beating hard in her chest. The adrenaline had stopped pushing her forward, and now she was tired, barely able to move away from the man who was no longer fighting her.

Nora moved quietly down the packed dirt drive between her house and her barn. She’d lived on this farm since she and Leonard married in ‘46, and she’d been alone on it a dozen years, ever since he died in ‘59. She had told him he needed to listen to that doctor up in Birmingham, but he never changed his ways, until the day she found him leaning against his tractor, coughing up blood, making that awful sound as his lungs took the choice away from him. A woman alone on a farm was a hard life, but Nora was a hard woman. She didn’t back down when a fight came to her.

She slowed as she approached the barn. Someone else was definitely in there. She held her breath as she peered in, and saw the figure crouched behind Leonard’s old Oldsmobile. These goddamn teenagers. Why do they try to come out here? The girl turned and screamed as she saw Nora’s knife raised over her. You do what you have to do to survive.

Smith 55

Stephanie Campisi is an Australian-born, Portland-based poet and author whose work has been published in magazines and anthologies worldwide. She writes silly things at poetdeploriate.tumblr.com and tweets at @readinasitting.

Dalton Day is a terrified dog person & Pushcart nominated poet. He is the author of Fake Knife, & an editor of FreezeRay Poetry. His poems have been featured in PANK, Hobart, & Jellyfish, among others. He can be found at myshoesuntied.tumblr.com & on Twitter @lilghosthands.

Cailin Doty is a writer, an undergrad in Massachusetts, and majoring in English with a focus in Creative Writing. She loves hot cocoa, gel pens, and pondering over the mysteries of the world. You can read her works at thejinxedwriter.tumblr.com.

Mayelle Nisperos is currently a student at the Ateneo de Manila University pursuing degrees in Legal Management and Creative Writing. She spent most of her childhood in the province, and now spends most of her time at the local coffee shops. Pureza is her first published work. You may find her other works at mayelle-nisperos.tumblr.com.

TJ Reynolds is a graduate student at California State University Fullerton, working towards an MA in English. He writes fiction and poetry in an attempt to bring meaning to life’s tragedies. He firmly believes in the potential for artforms to break boundaries, change perspectives and allow for a positive change in the world. He hopes to one day obtain a PhD and become a tenure track professor and lifelong writer.

Maitane Romagosa is a second year Graphic Design major at the University of Florida. She collects pinecones, seed packets, bookmarks, lisa frank memorabilia, and crayons. She wants to ride really really fast standing on her bike pedals for the rest of her life. Please write “scoff” on her tombstone.

Hannah is a student at WMU in west Michigan. She loves dogs and wants to be an author and zoo keeper. Check out her blog at hannahseelman.weebly.com!

Anne Reynolds Smith is a nomad who has followed her husband around the country for twenty years, every time his boss said move. She had to redefine herself every few years, and after being an ex-librarian, ex-counselor, and ex-stripper-costume-designer, she decided to ditch the “exes” and just be a writer from here on out. She writes a nightly blog called Scenes from Smith Park, and she wonders whether she will ever have a long enough attention span to have a “forever house” someday.

Paul Tomes lives and works in Washington State. A student at Seattle Pacific University, he spends his inner-city days reading and writing, as well as volunteering at New Horizons, a shelter for homeless youth, where he helps cultivate a belief in the transformative power of poetry through a weekly writing group where youth have access to a safe space that welcomes creative expression.

Benjamin Varosky is a sometimes author, sometimes substitute teacher born and raised and currently living in Phoenix, Arizona. He prides himself on his social media presence and the fact that he can cook bacon without burning it - or himself. He once made a Frappuccino for Rick Ross.

Sarah Warren is a lover and a fighter, with special skills in getting sunburned and talking too much. She has the occasional poetic brain child. Her other hobbies include drinking tea, reading, stalking publishers, and writing on her hands in permeant ink. When she is not writing poetry – which is an unfortunately large period of time – she can be found in the theater, either onstage acting or backstage running the makeup table. Soli Deo Gloria!

Andrew Wells lives in Surrey and is a student of English Literature, English Language and Philosophy & Ethics at the Howard of Effingham Sixth Form. His work has appeared, or is forthcoming, in journals which include Dagda, Hark Magazine, Map Points, and Cyberhex Journal. He is an editor for Haverthorn Magazine.