the hills have eyes, their trees have lives


it's not the heat, it's the humidity, by sharon shapiro

X Marks the Spot
-- by hailey leithauser

where hot swag or loot
was put, or great beasts

squat or sleep. Where last
words were first said, pot

planted, fevers caught.
It's usually east

and south, down deep, grease-
fingered routes of dots,

past glyphs for burned out
shacks, stacked rocks, deceased

elephants or priests,
along a path not

habitually sought---
brambled, unpoliced.


Devotion, The Story of My Ear
-- by beth woodcome

The floor is cold. Hardwood with small
noises shuttering along each plank.

When I walk I walk blindfolded.
There’s only so much I can stand at once.

I don’t live in the same world anyone else does.
I can feel you in the house. Your breath

at night is my alarm. Something that can
pull me head first, from room to room.

If I can find you living, I’ll sleep.
If I can find you, I’ll stop.


Mystery Cover
-- by tina celona

The upside-down tornadoes with lobster-claw heads gathered around the beautiful Japanese woman protruding from the casserole. This is pitiful, I said. I was trying to think, and it just wasn't working. I closed my eyes, screwed up my arm, and threw. Nothing bounced off of nothing, calling in an outrageous falsetto, Yoo-hoo, boys! We all linked arms. Reality was so boring, compared to art. The ornate Victorian flocked wallpaper reminded me of my mother, the drug addict. I knew that from that day forth I would take no more sedatives, I would be disciplined, even if it meant going back to the pink bed with the pink blankets and door with a little square window.