Submissions to our webzine have officially reopened! 😊
We invite you to send us your contribution to our theme call Liberation in the form of writing, visual art, music or basically anything up until November 30 2026.
Read our submission guidelines carefully here before sending us your work. 😉
Read More »by Neil Weiner
I lie on my back staring at the ceiling, the names circling like military rotor blades that won’t shut off.
Apache.
Black Hawk.
Kiowa.
Chinook.
Iroquois.
Cayuse.
Sioux.
Shawnee.
Choctaw.
Cheyenne.
Lakota.
Each one lands heavier than the last. They call them machines, but I hear nations. Histories. People who bled, who prayed, who endured. Now their names are stamped onto gunships cutting through the sky.
Read More »by Maysam Kandej and Bill Tope
Maysam was a writer from Iran. For three months, he had dreamed of this trip. He had met an American writer, Mr. Robert Hawley, online. They emailed about books and writing. One day, Mr. Hawley kindly invited Maysam to visit him in America.
Now, Maysam was here. On his second night, he was invited to dinner at the Hawleys’ large, beautiful home in an exclusive gated community known as The Village. He was nervous. As a Muslim, he did not eat pork or drink alcohol, but he did not want to explain his religion. He wanted to be a normal guest.
Read More »by Lynsey France
they say recovery is trying twice
when blood dries, gnats swarming the only sentence that’s safe to
return to
I am still waking from my last death because you will not forget her
Read More »by Foster Trecost
It was my first day.
Awkward introductions. Handshakes held a second too long. Then parked in a cubicle. The computer insisted on my attention, but the desk drawers won that battle. I pulled open the top. Empty, except for a few paperclips. Nothing in the next. The bottom bin, larger than the first two, contained only a coiled ethernet cable. I moved to close it, but stopped. Something more. Beneath the cable, a folded note. Hard-pressed pencil. Block letters.
Read More »by Emma Williquette
EXHIBIT A: GREAT-GRANDMA ON DAD’S MOM’S SIDE.
Indianapolis, Indiana. Sometime in 2007.
I only remember the day in photographic bursts now at twenty-one. Mom was putting my hair half-up in a little ribbon as she always did. After that, I was in someone’s arms going somewhere. Suddenly I had shoes on. Wanted them off. Couldn’t take them off. Lastly, the backseat of the car, left side, on a purple floral booster seat.
Read More »by Randall Amster
I awaken every day knowing that one thing will be different—one item out of place, one song lyric changed, one person here or not, one event remembered differently by others, one part of myself altered in a way that only I would notice. I’ve named this experience temporal arrhythmia because it sounds cool and smart and sciency, but I have no idea what it all really means in any tangible sense.
Read More »by Debbi Voisey
I remember your feet coming from me; the first thing I saw. And your screams and your crumpled face.
A breech birth, and ever after, different to everyone.
Read More »by Matias Travieso-Diaz
Freedom is when one hears the bell at seven o’clock in the morning and knows it is the milkman and not the Gestapo.
– Georges Bidault
The caterpillar does all the work but the butterfly gets all the publicity.
– George Carlin
The sudden banging on the front door startled Ricardo, who was not expecting visitors that early in the morning. His first instinct was to flee, but there was no back door through which he could escape, and his two-room apartment had nowhere to hide. He approached the door and asked: “Who is it?”
“It’s the Posse! Open up!”
Ricardo opened the door and was shoved aside as four armed men wearing brown military fatigues entered and encircled him. “Are you Ricardo Trovador?” asked their leader. “Yes, I am. But…” started Ricardo.
“Mr. Trovador, you are under arrest. You have ten minutes to get dressed and contact any friends or relatives.”
Read More »by Gianoula Burns
Some traditions take time to fade, the stocking at the end of the bed, the laying out of carrot and mince pie for Santa on Christmas Eve, the lights that adorn the live Christmas tree much weathered with each year, mince pies and custard, fruitcake, all those things we have come to associate with Christmas, lovingly built up when children arrive slowly fade when they grow and depart. It takes time to dismantle, but with each year one or other vanishes from the celebration and we wonder whether they ever did exist at all, just memories that are stored and unpacked when reminiscences are the norm. They meant something, sometime to someone and then memory departs and traditions are buried with the people that gave them life. She now prepares two stockings per bed, one for each couple, but they no longer sleepover, she no longer has to wait till they are fast asleep to creep into their bedrooms trying not to make a noise while placing the heavily laden parcels at their feet. That time has slipped away, gone with those other things we scarcely remember, the children’s high-pitched squeals of delight when the sun rises. Surely, they’ll remember when she’s gone the burden of that love, or so she hopes.
Read More »