Contents
Naked and Fallen
Jenna Citrus
Through Process
Emily Plummer
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
Freedom
Winafret Casto
The Seventeen Seconds of Odette
Rachel Lietzow
Hidden in Sight
Jenna Citrus
Barrio
Casandra Robledo
The Passage
Liam Trumble
Resentment as a Kind of Relief
Eric Kubacki
Beauty Standards
Sarah Kronz
Over the Kanawha
Claire Shanholtzer
Faith
Anne Livingston
For Empty Spaces
Regis Louis
Entropy
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
Contemplations
Sarah Kronz
The Shadow of Paris
Anika Maiberger
Memories of Home
Audrey Lee
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
Transposing
Ayla Maisey
In Your Absence
It’s two a.m. and I’m falling asleep
on the line. I don’t remember what was said,
but it must have been good. It must
have been pretty good, because our
laughter is costly. “When I told
you to run, I didn’t think
that you would.”
I broke your mug this morning.
I tried to catch it, but it slid
through my hands. It hit the corner
but missed its mark.
It spun—slow-motion, fast-crash
linoleum—and spread
across my floor,
making snow angels
in orange juice.
I wanted to tell you,
but I must have forgotten:
We carry so little
of ourselves these days.
Instead I keep you talking,
just to avoid the fact
that there is nothing left to say.
Because silence is now an admission;
absence is what makes
the mouth go. There are only
so many words between us.
Everything else is distance.
So I tell you to watch your step,
as I allow my feet to dangle off the roof.
Don’t look back until I tell you. Remember
Lot’s wife—she was the one
who looked back. She was the salt
that I tasted in your mouth.
I want you to pretend that I am right there
beside you, breathing into your neck
and grasping your hand; we walked behind
the corner store together,
so I could place my mouth near yours.
I don’t want to sit on these shingles forever.
The night has already heard our story
too many times.
About The Author
Emma Croushore is a freshman at Christopher Newport University studying neuroscience. In the rare moments when she is not in the lab, she enjoys good music, strange movies and books with happy endings. She has also been published in Falling for the Story, an anthology published yearly by the Northern Virginia Writing Project