Since I moved away to a bigger city, I seldom come back home. Only for holidays and the anniversaries of a few people’s deaths.
Elizabeth Johnson
An artist, art writer and guest curator, ELIZABETH JOHNSON began writing reviews for artpractical.com in San Francisco, California, and later covered exhibitions in New York City, Philadelphia, and the Lehigh Valley for theartblog.org. She has written for artcritical.com, Artvoices Magazine, Figure/Ground, PaintersonPaintings.com and DeliciousLine.org. She interviews gallery artists for Gross McCleaf Gallery in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
Winter by Jasna Dimitrijević
The Closet
by Julia Halprin Jackson
There were two beds in Little’s room. Put back to back they were as long as his father was tall. The walls were covered in a light floral print.
Six Poems by Anna Matysiak
from Inbred Machines: (The Difference and the Repetition), translated from the Polish by Peter Burzyński
the queen wasp / opens her first pair of arms. / she convulses in the right chamber like / how nails sanctify a board.
We Will Survive
by Rolla Barraq, translated from the Arabic by Muntather Alsawad and Jeffrey Clapp
Death was passing through the pores of waiting / like fresh messages from the sky
I Cried Because You Told Me
by Abdulqader S. Al-Ghamdi, translated from the Arabic by Essam M. Al-Jassim
I recall the prickly pear shrub that never failed to pierce me as I tucked my skinny body behind it, trying to hide…
The Trembling Nasties
by William Luvaas
I am told I was a happy, mischievous kid who smeared peanut butter on walls. Insatiably curious, I would sit down next to strangers on buses and start up conversations. I have heard that I liked to make people laugh. I don’t remember any of this.
