Table of Contents
Editor's Notes
Submission Guidelines

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

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
_ 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
_ By Juliette Capra
_ 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
_ 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

White Dread
By David Snyder

You Don't Haffi Dread To Be Rasta, This Is Not A Dreadlocks Thing, 
Divine Conception From Tha Heart -Morgan Heritage

Dread locks.
No thought of cosmetology.
Once a symbol of renewal
And pride for a lost worldís jewel;
John the Baptist,
Peter Tosh,
And Bob Marley.
Now a ratís nest.
Black hole of cosmetology.
It stands renewed in the present
As a statement of forced acceptance;
Vanilla Ice,
Every hippie at Banaroo,
And Sideshow Bob.

Straggly, wiry brown hair
Clasping to straw like matted strings.
All fastened to a greasy scalp
By freshly excreted solid vines of protein.
Full locks lie in a haystack
Of the loose unclean amino deposits
Like recently delivered animal excrement
Lying on a dying bed of St. Augestine.
Smells arise from the pile of chaos.
Beeswax, sweat, and stale cigarette smoke
Mix in Tallahasseeís Fall air,
And then permeate
Causing a sent like an unholy
Fragrant oil being doused on a piece 
Of brimstone in the depths of hell.

Tosh wore his dreads as an anti-societal stance,
And his resistance swayed as he sang and he danced.
Now hippies simply wear them to get a second glance,
False facades of rebellion from a generation entranced.

So I stare at this wretched pile that is self-made,
And wonder if Marley would now sport a fade,
Since the statement he made has now been betrayed.



DAVID SNYDER is a product of South Florida. He now lives in Broward County with his wife Samantha and son Dante, where he teaches Language Arts and Creative Writing. A graduate of Florida State's Creative Writing program, David is currently working on his first novel, Blueprint of an American Relationship. His hobbies include spending time with his beloved family, getting tattooed, and playing poker.