POETRY
Tyurina Allen	A Childhood Compared to the 9-Hour Workday
Christy Cottle	The Downtown Upanishads
Mieke Eerkens	Kitchen Spirits
Denis Michel Garrison	Larks Die Too
Michael Griffith	Maybe One
Garrett Patrick Kelly	Verano
Timothy M. Leonard	Kuwait Fall Love Letter
Duane Locke	Goodbye Circe
Jennifer McCoy	A Billow on the Clothesline
Dan Sicoli	Simply Doc
PROSE
James Boice	An American Suicide
	They found him in his closet. It was his mom. She found him in his closet. He was blue and puffy. Didn’t move. Now he lives in his mother’s sleep. Sleeping. Only eyes were open.
Andrew Gallix	Sweet Fanny Adams
	Granted, it could have been an airport, say, or any other point of departure for that matter, not necessarily a railway station. Then again, I would not want you to go thinking that his choice had been totally arbitrary, although he was, admittedly, no stranger to acts of random behaviour.
Jon Ingold	And They Say He Shall Return
	The trees began to slow down. Tall elms, with wide majestic sweeps at their canopies and thick trunks like the legs of a giant; they began to crawl past as if each was old and frail until eventually the concrete rim of the platform grew from the earth to level with the train.
PHOTOGRAPHY
Elizabeth Larrabe	Heather

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