Bedtime by Jane Linders
Photograph taken with Holga camera


Jane Linders | bio


Mike Ross’ Big Rig Jig



Regina Coll | bio


The first,
a necklace worn for days, remarked upon. . .

Eros and the Average Path

So, you’ll have 120 days to work it all out
and there’s not too much wrong you can do. . .

Colleen S. Harris | bio

Reclaiming Poverty

Poverty is
a rich man’s word. . .

Laura Ring | bio


Worcester. A woman leans over a block
of beechwood. . .

Grimes Grave

All across Suffolk, the flint mines pit the heath—
Devil’s Holes gouged like fingers into earth.

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Volume 3.3—September 2008

Editors’ Notes

Soft Light

Nonfiction: Rejection Section

Brandon R. Schrand | bio

On Failure

When you Google the words failure + literary + writer in a single search, you will be greeted with 1,970,000 returns. . .

Calvin Mills | bio

Mathematics, Gallbladders, and Sticking Your Babies in the Mail

When it comes time to periodically refresh my supply of stories, essays, and poems begging for acceptance on a variety of editor’s desks and hard drives around the globe, I inevitably feel like an adoption broker in an age where there are millions of great orphans, but only a hundred stable parents who might be willing to take one in, give him a good home, and love him forever. . .


Michelle Reale | bio

And She Flew

Jesus hangs on the cross right over the marital bed, blessing all things great and small. The mother, brow furrowed, sits in the hard chair, worrying her hands, intermittently reaching out to her children who breeze in and out of the room. . .

Douglas Bruton | bio

A Pebble from the River for Annie

Annie in the shadows, a shadow herself, shoes off, creeping barefoot through the moon-radiant street, all the way to the church with its windows blank and its door shut fast. And Annie, with a soft-mewling babe cradled in her arms, and the church door locked against her, and her small fist making little noise on the cold wood. . .

Taylor Pavlik | bio

Grave-Digging Machine

The dirt from the empty graves had formed mounds. Piled loose and high, to the yawning rectangles of the graves the mounds were an antithesis. Their lack gave the graves definition, yet made them still incomplete, left them waiting to be filled, which they would never be. . .







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