Thomas Morton Prize: Fiction Winner.

Kyle’s Place.

by Nathan L. Pillman

My best friend Kyle is really into his sister. I am too. Her name’s Shannon. She’s 5’10” and tan and has hair the colour of rust. Beautiful rust. She doesn’t have much for boobs but everything else is there and it’s perfect. We’re watching all this perfection from Kyle’s window. It’s a little after nine in the morning and Shannon’s in the backyard jumping around on this little rubber mat in a bright yellow Under Armour tank top and spandex shorts. She’s facing away from us. Toward the backhoes and Bobcats tearing up the ground for another house in their neighbourhood. I wonder how they operate the machinery with her dressed like that. Shannon runs track all the way down at Texas A&M. Just finished her freshman year. She wants to be a vet. When she was away at college, Kyle and I went crazy. Des Moines never looked so …...


The Statistician.

by Richard Scarsbrook

The Statistician walks away from his campus office and toward the student ghetto. There is an uncharacteristic swagger in his measured pace. He runs...

The Matrix Resolutions.

by rob mclennan

  1. Plot leads the mind into a particular direction, and often turns. The twist. Weekly until my daughter turned seventeen and started working...

Thomas Morton Prize: Poetry Winner.

Seasonal Sonnets: Five Guidelines for My Death.

by Mark Sampson

  I. Should It Happen in Spring Then bury me in the salty sea, or among the ice floes of Hillsborough. See the teenagers out there who play with their poles, leaping recklessly from shard to shard. I was once among them. There is a secluded grove near Lewis Point where, at our adolescence’s dawning, we’d sneak in to watch older kids fuck in their cars. Beyond that place is the river, its stench in spring rising like invisible cumulus. This is winter giving up the ghost. Take me out in a boat, drop me overboard. Watch my corpse vanish into the whorls of the estuary. Afterward, go home. Stay up late. Take your dick in your hand. Watch Bleu Nuit.   II. Should It Happen in Summer Then don’t let my body leave the boundaries of Halifax; no pilgrimages to Stewiake. Hold my funeral in the Public Gardens among …...


Two Poems.

by Andy Verboom

  Flyting the Honeybee You gaffe your way in the sunblasted door a hero smuggled in August’s haycart. You spend all morning buzzing about rooms...

Three Poems.

by Nathaniel G. Moore

  AUGUST 4, 1969 // Dear Editor: This is the Zodiac speaking in answer to your asking for more DEETAIL about the good times i have had in the v...

Human Contact.

by Athena G. Csuti

  He lives like a man compelled to follow an inevitable course. His face impassive. His jaw locked. He has no concern about the movement of his...

Robber. Spear. Ari. Yes..

by Michael Lake

  1. Ari is my best friend. Her name means yes in some other language. I’ve forgotten which, is it Urdu?She is silent on the telephone my hand ...


“Inviting in the Patron Demon of Scribes”: A Review of Chris Hutchinson’s A Brief History of the Short-Lived.

by E Martin Nolan

  Soon, he thinks, he should find the room From where, occasionally, beautiful voices can be heard. But first he has to climb a flight of stairs, he must Reach the floor where words are manufactured From liquid-hot lead. I am tempted to leave the rest of this review blank because the above lines do an astoundingly imperfect job of describing Chris Hutchinson’s A Brief History of the Short-Lived—and, given that this collection can only be described imperfectly, why go on? Well, there’s a lot to discover here, if little opportunity to explain, so I’ll press on. This book is a search for the room described in the lines above, and while it is successful in that search, it never enters that room with finality, mostly collecting the instances in which “occasionally, beautiful voices can be heard” from the hallways and the “stairs.” “He must,” indeed, “Reach the floor where …...