Naked and Fallen
Jenna Citrus

Through Process
Emily Plummer

The Annex
Casey Burke

Tearing at Sores
Regis Louis

The Birth of Our Names
Tesneem Madani

Untitled No. 4
Sarah Kronz

Our Condition
Troy Neptune

On the Fundamentals of Art and the Soul
Ayla Maisey

In the Foreground
Aree Rachel Coltharp

Of a Woman
Jackie Vega

Winafret Casto

The Seventeen Seconds of Odette
Rachel Lietzow

Hidden in Sight
Jenna Citrus

Casandra Robledo

The Passage
Liam Trumble

Resentment as a Kind of Relief
Eric Kubacki

Beauty Standards
Sarah Kronz

Over the Kanawha
Claire Shanholtzer

Anne Livingston

Sponsorships & Acknowledgements

For Empty Spaces
Regis Louis

Liam Trumble

Culled from the Flock
Deborah Rocheleau

Searching for Divinity
Madeleine Richey

From Pillars to Dust
Madeleine Richey

As Best I Could Do
Hoda Fakhari

In Your Absence
Emma Croushore

Sarah Kronz

The Shadow of Paris
Anika Maiberger

The Liffey
Kara Wellman

Memories of Home
Audrey Lee

Jackie Vega

The Beauty in Fracturing
Taylor Woosley

Butcher Paper
Casandra Robledo

Human Scavenger
Devin Prasatek

Babel Was a Second Eden
Luke McCusker

The Painting in Gallery 26
Sydney Crago

Sofia Io Celli

Ayla Maisey


Human Scavenger

In a family of so many brothers, you had
the misfortune to be born with two X
chromosomes—one brush stroke away
from Y. Your father wept when he saw
that your mother’s labor had produced only
a piece to be broken, like the tarsals in your
foot. Your spirit was weak. It could not be
reshaped to fit the world that likened you
to cowbirds. Some vengeful god must have
killed the boy in your mother’s womb
and planted you there instead. Now you
answer for some past life. You must count
yourself lucky you were not turned face down
in a plate of ash at birth, wet skin coated
in death like the phoenix. You could never
be a phoenix; cowbirds aren’t even scrub jays.
Instead, you and your six sisters were given
to someone—anyone who would take
even one of you. You were spread out across
the country, each of you, a piece of something
that would never come together. You would never
find each other. You would never find yourself.


About The Author

Devin Prasatek is a junior writing major at Grand Valley State University. Her writing centers around her interest in analyzing the concept of identity and how it shapes the world around us. Her main focus in writing has always been poetry, and she hopes to compose many more successful pieces in the future.