POETRY
Carlos Ancalmo	That was the year of my magical underwear
Bek Andoloro	On the Seventh Day
Laird Barron	Abstract No. 6
Michel Cicero	Ashes to Ashes
Dee Cohen	Lime Ave Evening
Michaela A. Gabriel	friday
Ann Holdreith	Curving
Tim Jeski	Requiem for a Blind Watchmaker
Rick Lupert	How to Kiss
Kathryn Anne Lutzner	the woman and the child
Dorothy Doyle Mienko	A Poem to My Left Breast
Christopher Neenan	Moonlight
Kelly Pilgrim	Father's Mistress
Shari Diane Willardson	They Put All The Round Things Together
PROSE
Maryanne Hillis Del Gigante	Shattered
	She still reckons I should work in one of the Houses so that I can hear real-life weird stuff like that and use it in my writing. I point out that if I listen to her regularly, I can have the weird stuff for my writing without having to change diapers on adults over six feet tall who want to bash me.
Lad Moore	The Second Birthing of Young Tim
	I was the stocky little captain. He was the small and frail one, looking like he had missed most of his meal calls or had drank excessively of bad goat's milk. But Bobby Pottsmith was the only other white kid anywhere around. So we became friends by default---like waking up after washing ashore together on an island beach---one having matches and the other a pocketknife.
Sean McCormick	Soundings
	Once we reach some open water, my father steps out onto the foredeck while I kick the throttle into neutral and push the worn wooden tiller until Ulysses noses her way into the wind. The breeze whips the mainsail back and forth, writhing like a great beast as it snakes up the mast until my father cleats the line down and I pull the tiller hard towards me.
PLAYS
Sandy Steinman	Dust
	"The bathroom. He's giving Daisy a bath. Hear her barking? He loves that dog. He takes a bath along with her. They do everything together."
PHOTOGRAPHY
Lacey Volk	Krissy B.

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