editor's note

Possession by Roxanna Bennett
Our possessions, the things we choose to own, are signifiers of our selves, external reflections that remind us of who we are, or want to be. We pick objects to represent us, to be our wordless emissaries. We display certain possessions to impress others, or to tell our story for us. Our stuff becomes a shorthand, a way to share who we are with an audience without revealing our history or hearts.


Charles Bridge Walk by Patricia Duffy
At two charcoal Gothic towers
Toll collectors demand payment
Beginning and end
For each sheep and wagon wheel
Stari Most Bridge by Patricia Duffy
Build it or die
Commanded Suleiman the Magnificent
Four centuries ago
Night at the Chain Bridge by Patricia Duffy
Beside night traffic light and sound
A young couple walks hand in hand
Past the stone tongues of lions.
Excerpts from a War Memoir by m.nicole.r. wildhood
I don’t want to tell you about this grip, this addiction.
I want to be in the holy place, by myself, as the catastrophe I am.
Hansel On Fire by Theodore Eisenberg
You schemed behind apron flowers,
jellied sleep-crumbs from my eyes


Save Our Boys by Jean Boler
In a duffel in the trunk of my Comet, I’d packed a few pairs of jeans, a jacket, some T-shirts, a cheap tent and a sleeping bag, apples, a jar of peanut butter, and a box of crackers, in case we had to hike over the border through the woods up there. The English teacher, Mr. O’Hara, had hooked me up with a guy who ran sort of an Underground Railroad across the Canadian border for Vietnam War draft dodgers, a group named Save Our Boys, or SOBs as Joyce called them.
She Dreams of Flying by John Vicary
The phone call came on a Tuesday at four. Four fifty-six, to be exact. Sheryl still remembers that detail because she’d been waiting for the call for what had seemed like forever, and when it finally rang and broke the unnatural stillness that had settled in the house, she couldn’t bring herself to answer it.
Here by Michelle Assaad
They took everything from us. It got to the point where they even took our fear, but it took a very long time for that to happen. Before that we went home before the sun went down and barricaded ourselves in the darkness of our apartments. If someone had looked out into the street, all they’d see was a ghost city.
Tuesdays by Kathryn M. Hamilton
Some of the characters in her stories had peculiar names, like Cornbread or Whiskey or Shine, or funny double names like Willie-T or Johnny-Bones or Sukey-Lock.  I loved these names, would whisper them to myself after Weeze had left, gone home to these people she shared a life with. I longed to have such a special name as these to roll on my tongue and taste, often replaying later with my dolls a story she’d told me, using just those names.
The Golden Age by Jean Ryan
Janie wouldn’t call her life exotic. She had met plenty of movie stars, gone to plenty of parties, but her end of the business was not glamorous, it was arduous, especially for a woman. Men could wear padding under their clothes, but women didn’t always have that option (especially these days when they were doubling for size two actresses, half naked and in high heels).


Releasing the Demon by Anna Bragga
None of my family or friends knew I had been diagnosed with a spirit attachment. There was little point in mentioning it; they would have no idea of the concept, apart from the pagan ones, who would probably ask too many questions. I had, after all, signed a confidentiality agreement.
Keeping Time by Deborah Davis
At this moment, it's wedged between “Kinda Kinks” and “Abbey Road.” It's an inch and a half thick and encased in a creamy colored leather, with gold script lettering on the front and the side. An interloper in my album collection, it's a reminder that there was superb music long before the British Invasion. The dog by the gramophone, “His Master's Voice,” adorns the front cover, along with the words “RCA Victor.” On the side binding is the title: “Glenn Miller: Limited Edition.”
Tiny Booklets by Angelica Recierdo
This time it was France. He had a politician’s haircut with a Venezuelan accent. I always remembered them by the condition of their creamy cardstock nametags.
Land Sailing by Erin Schmiel
Breath held. Key poised. The engine turns over. One of the hardest parts about driving an old air-cooled VW Bus is keeping it on the road—the actual asphalt, between the yellow and white lines. The wind caused by any large truck or boxy vehicle as it passes you in the other lane is enough to knock the bus sideways onto the shoulder. If it's a semi coming down the hill as you've just picked up speed, hold on! Clench fits to that huge steering wheel, stay within those painted lines and out of the ditch. I call it land sailing, driving the broadside of a barn.


The Dailiness, by Lauren Camp by Roxanna Bennett
The Dailiness is Lauren Camp's second collection of poetry, following This Business of Wisdom published in 2010. Camp is an accomplished visual and audio artist and the convergence of these forms is evident in the poems. Strikingly visual and lyrically thoughtful, The Dailiness breathes with an empathetic warmth and an unblinking eye.