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Cover
Table of Contents
Editor's Notes
Donations
Submission Guidelines
Website

Stories & Essays
A Day In the Life
_
By Sida Li
Eight Minutes
_ By Michael Gettings
Jesusland
_ By Max Gordon
One September Morning
_ By Brian G. Ross
Patrimony
_ By Len Joy
Reading Between the Lines
_ By Michael Gettings
Scarring Truth
_ By M.W. Hamel
Snapshots of the Ordinary
_ By Monica Lee
Spirals
_ By Robert Connal
Stars
_ By Daliso Chaponda
The Jury
_ By Jeremy Tavares
The Thief
_ By Marva Dasef
The Train to Pennsylvania
_ By C.L. Atkins

Poetry
735 Miles to Nootka Island
_ By Nicholas D. Klacsanzky
Al Fresco Cafe Poems #125
_ By Duane Locke
Al Fresco Cafe Poems #127
_ By Duane Locke
Barnstormer
_ By Lynn Strongin
Gilded Candy
_ By Mina Blue
Marriage 2
_ By Christine Redman-Waldeyer
Memo to Italy
_ By Andrew Francis
Rain, Your Words, and the Agony...
_ By Betina Evancha
Sarcasm
_ By Juliette Capra
Textbook
_ By Christine Redman-Waldeyer
The Unspoken Eloquence of the Sword
_ By Anne Nialcom
Three Shades of Grey
_ By Monica Lee
We Pay
_ By Betina Evancha
White Dread
_ By David Snyder
Writing
_ By Betina Evancha

Art & Photography
Keira Anderson
_ Photography
Anne-Julie Aubry
_ Paintings
Whitney Clegg
_ Photography and Drawings
Eman Reharno Jeman
_ Photography, Graffiti, and Drawings
Mike Pomery
_ Paintings
Jennifer Robbins-Mullin
_ Photography
Madia Krisnadi Widodo
_ Photography
Penny Wilson
_ Mixed Media and Digital Art

735 Miles to Nootka Island
By Nicholas D. Klacsanzky


735 miles to Nootka Island,
I am told by my wary yet willing father.
It seems like a road of forever to begin,
but sooner than seen I have horse-legs to help
me and my best friend, a bike of beatific beauty.
We climb cliffs higher and steeper than the sky,
relieved in ecstasy at the top; the long downhill
to coast, the game of skipping
imperfections in the road, coming faster
than the speed of our minds. We almost die
in a midnight car crash, almost eaten by a psychotic cougar,
almost starved to the point of peanut-butter feast.
Yet still with a breath of discovery,
we arrive at the hallowed harbor,
hailed by the sun of a red-morning sea.

In a small and smug tugboat, we patrol the islands
known only to the resting birds, and the wind that carries them.
Our blood runs clean in exhilaration,
like the porpoise through his sky;
searing by our side, coming to see our journey end.
(Even the gulls take rapture in talk of our coming)
The archetypal captain of pipe and beard calls,
"Here is Nootka Island." Eyes like lotus
wide in Indian spring, we devour with sight the island
that danced like a dove above our head since the first push
of pedal in lone Seattle. Its ordinary beauty
seems magic to us, a solace to wayfaring spirits.
The captain, with a face smug as the ship,
and lips like an ancient barnacle, turns to us.

"Nootka Island has more bears than peopleó
only if you want to die do you go there."
No wallow struck my eyes; instead, my head
shifted to the side, taking in the stretched sea
held by the sun's sublime hand. All the islands
had their own conjured magic; some wise,
some pristine, some proud.
I raised my face to the sun
and then to my father:
"Dad, let's keep exploring;
there is so much to see!"
Nodding like the waves and kelp
of Nootka's charm, my father and the captain agreed.

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