Vignettes of a Love for Science by Lilla Bozek

My god is bitter and gritty.
To pray is to chew the glittering dust of Leviathan and spit out soot.
Embracing the detachment,

There is no grace in my religion.

But her:

Harp hands plucking soft melody into the neurons of prey, bloody tissue under her nails from raising scars
on minds. Eyes to turned away so violently, looking for guidance in the other direction. Carbon and other
chemicals leach from her tear ducts. A cruel seductress. A garden of incidental thought. A siren song
played a meter too long. Oh, fair angel! How little I mean in the wake of your Adonis.

There is no grace in my religion.

But him:

Soft sloping elegance: a summer breeze nestling in the crook of his neck, tendons rifling through
memories of lattice-laced leaves crossing a cloudless sky. The morning grass, wet with dew, cuts the jut of
his nose bridge and the blossoms of rosy pink-flesh cushioning his marble-sharp bone: sharp as the glass
in his eyes and rusty metal rot in his hands, robust modernity masking the vintage boyish pretty. The kind
of pretty that makes me want to scream from the mountain tops “Oh god, why must men grow old.”

There is no grace in my religion.

But me:

Alone.
Again.

The whimsy machinations of my idle mind tell-tale the tall tales of my bleeding heart, but now comfort is
a fool’s confession and I,

A man of science and worldly endeavors,
Sans-cardiac-sleeves rolled up past my elbows,

Have no time for foolery.

And what matter is comfort when my god is indifferent.

Topography of my Twenty-First Year by Eliza Dunn

from Moosilauke Ravine Lodge

By now we know this by heart—
how to set the long wooden tables by the windows, 
which are propped open tonight to let in warm late September.
Isabel sets the forks and Margaret the soup bowls and I carry
the pallet of glasses, the whole sparkling weight
of them. Outside, sunset is falling fast over the ridgeline,
all the way to the southern peak. This is a place that shows you
your smallness, waking up each day to this sloping giant
of mountain. Knowing your place in the topography of things.
It was my mother who first taught me to read the oyster-shell 
patterns of the topo lines. We traced fingers over mountain ridges
made map-flat—lines dark, pushed close—then blank space 
of valley floor. I know now that, broken into its Latin roots,
topography means “place-writing,” as in this place has written itself onto me.
As in this place is another form of writing—its map is also a body
of text, where I can trace all the words of these past few months here,
all the words that have, finally, led me here, miles from everything I thought 
to be true, here where light is now moving like water over the valley.
I have learned this topography by heart—high swoop of mountain
and still-shining dinner table and the widest sky I’ve ever stood under.
It’s as if I finally learned to read the map of my life, the topography 
of these twenty-one years. It was always pointing me here.

Before I Stopped Believing in Fairies by Alison Blake

Late August and I’m shin-deep in the stream,
itching for frogs and geckos
when my little sister sprints in from the yard,
brandishes a stick in each hand.
I’ve been patient:
this summer has taught me to wait 
for her before I grow wings
and let a pouch of pixie dust
materialize on my wrist.
I hug the trunk of the tree 
whose roots I tiptoe on 
and the stream’s caresses 
keep from taking flight—
some iridescent flecks spilled 
from my pouch, you see.
I peer into the hollow, but nothing. 
Just moss and some bird poop.
Undaunted, I follow my sister 
to where the wave of her wand
temporary tattoos the forest air golden.

Late August and we flutter upstream,
certain we’ll meet Tinker Bell before nightfall.

Silver Thorns by Alexa Strauss

after “Scar Light” by Laura Benson

Apollo’s whip incites heat thunder, 
its crack a drum that shakes the sky.
It’s barb strikes stars upon immortal steeds, carving bursts of light on velvet flanks. 
Their hide once held the shade of night: true darkness, a boil of cosmic matter.  
Their eyes a mirror of times before.

Wide backs fill with painful light, 
stars seeping into day.
Their forms float,     weightless. 
Untacked, untethered, left victim to the wind— a fate not fit for beings of night.
Pure force sucked dry by the boy god’s whip.

Those with luck break free from flaming chains. 
With lives that never         fade away.       

But some suffer a repeated fate, trapped in that spoiled boy’s palm.

Men who tear off butterfly wings gaze up from earth with eyes of greed,
and throw lassos forged in fire up high, 
to drag him to the ground, 
to pin him inside a frame. 

They hang him in a darkened room, 

                                                 his scars filling with dust.

Tears drip 
from his cracked, 
opal eyes. 

They grow stalactites 

of silver. 

About the Author by Faith Guttman

F. LAWSON is a high school English teacher in Massachusetts, where he lives with his wife and son. He seeks to inspire a passion for literature in his students and readers. Grandfather Clock is his first novel. You can visit him at www.flawson.com.

He didn’t include a picture because he couldn’t find one he liked. The good ones weren’t authentic, and the authentic ones were far from good. He also doesn’t see the point in including his home state. He did because most other authors do, but that’s the only reason. He doubts anyone would recognize him if they walked past him on the street (especially since he didn’t include a photo). He mentioned that he’s a high school English teacher because otherwise this section would’ve been an almost blank page. His book doesn’t include any anti-blank page details, though. “I’m sorry I didn’t call you that day when I could’ve. And I’m sorry I didn’t want to come to dinner that one time; I really enjoyed it.” No, every element is included for a reason. “I’m sorry that I judged you.” Every fallen strand of hair, every chime of the clock, every pitter patter of frantic feet on the floor—they all serve a purpose. “I’m sorry I didn’t come visit you in the hospital because I was too scared to see you this way.” The protagonist, Jonas, is holding his grandfather’s hand, and Grandpa gives him a weak squeeze. You see, when Jonas’ grandfather lies on his deathbed, that’s really his grandfather, and when Jonas cries his eyes out and runs to the grandfather clock down the hall, spinning the gears, desperately trying to slow down time, turn back time, that’s really him, F. Lawson, crying, scraping for one more minute with his grandfather. “I’m sorry that when I did come, I was almost too late. I’m sorry I wasted all of that time.” In the book, when Jonas spins the gears, he does turn back time. He goes back just enough to apologize to his father for his poor behavior and lack of understanding, for his demanding attitude and lack of sympathy, for his selfishness and lack of support. He goes back just enough to apologize to his mother, who is losing her father for good, which he fails to grasp in the beginning. He gets down on his knees, trying to bend as low as he feels, and asks what he can do to make the present moment easier for her. “I’m sorry I ever let you down.” Grandpa’s eyelids begin to flutter, as though preparing to fly away. His mother simply asks for a hug. Jonas, of course, obliges. He goes back just enough to apologize to his sister, who has been mourning all alone, and differently, since she is unable to understand that Grandpa isn’t leaving but departing. At her young age, is there a difference? Finally, he goes back just enough to apologize to his grandfather. For the remaining time that they exist on the same plane, he lets his soul loose. “Most of all, I’m sorry I didn’t say ‘I love you’ more. I—” Grandpa’s hand gently releases his, and a tear slowly rolls down Jonas’ cheek. It slides beneath his upper lip, delivering a salty taste into his mouth, forcing him to feel this moment as it is. “I love you.”

His mother has a picture of him hugging his grandfather in that bed. He likes that picture.

Love and Death in a Kwik Trip by Scott Sorenson

We are choosing something to drink
In a Kwik Trip at one in the morning
After getting naked in your mom’s Lexus.
My smoothie is blending on the other side of the store
And you’ve got your hand on your chin,
Peering through the glass like this peach tea
Will change everything.

The cashier does not know that you have just become
The second person in my life to call me sexy
And the third girl I’ve ever been naked with.
She didn’t see us giggle,
The way you wrapped your hand around the back of my head
And held my lips to yours
Like someone was trying to pull us apart.
That feels tragic, but it’d probably be odd
To inform a cashier of our activities–
She’s a stranger.
Then again, so were you five hours ago.
Maybe if we just tell this lady what just happened,
She’ll take a liking to us.
Maybe she’ll become our best friend
And she’ll be the maid of honor when we get married,
And the cake will be lavender
Like your perfume.
We’ll say our vows in Aisle 6,
Have a few Sour Patch kids and raise them right
(Sweet little rascals),
And when they’re grown we’ll drink wine with the cashier
And talk about politics,
And I’ll die before you but you’ll keep sending our friend Christmas cards
While you read poetry to the sky and die a slow, happy death
On papasan cushions.

We do not tell this woman any of this,
Because she is busy
And you need cheap tea
And you’ve got to be in Eau Claire
By morning.
I understand.
Hookups only ever last one night.
As we turn to go, though,
I can almost swear she winks at me.

Sahelanthropus Tchadensis by Sydney Mann

‘How do you think he died’
‘Does it matter’
‘No’
Golden grains falling out my maw
Bones unburied in time for a Sahara sunrise
Yes, yes, I whisper through the sand,
Touch my nuchal crest and let me face the sky
Look at my maxilla, my teeth worn like yours, you
hear me say as-salamu alaykum, the first
Man-ape mistaken for man speaking to you
Mumbling peace from the miocene
With my too large brow ridge you think makes me look prayerful
Eventually they will call me Toumai
A hope of life in a desert
But back in my day I was fruit-munching-oasis-tanning-soaking-up-the-rays
Clambering back into leaves, leopards interrupt my evening dinner
Now I am Sadiq of the Sahel
A friend on the shores of a lake as dry as my bones
Today, I am ready to be resurrected a second time
The First Man in Mecca

The Busboy by Haley Banta

This morning at the Riverview Farm there was a mother and her baby daughter.
I liked her little denim dress and the way she waddled between the flower patch and apple trees.
I remember when my little hand would hold my mother’s, with nothing else to wish for.
She must have picked blueberries under the blue sky because that’s what we were there to do
and later, at the wedding, I thought I saw her and her mother
and there was a bowl of fresh blueberries next to the cupcakes.
If I could have tried them, I would have known for sure
if they had the same sour tang of my blueberry breakfast,
but I was busy bussing round wooden tables —
lighting candles and holding hors d'oeuvres and throwing away the paper plates.
I liked the guest who wore a gingham suit and the one with a long sylvan walking stick.
When they laughed at themselves because they did not know
the etiquette of running after the girl holding the tiny gourmet pizzas,
I felt like a guest at their party.
I liked the light in their eyes when they saw the buffet and said “veggies!” 
because they like what’s good for them sometimes.
I gave the bride and groom extra because they needed energy
and my mother told me that you never have a moment to eat at your own wedding.
I ate all the leftover pork and potatoes I wanted as I listened
to their toasts from the corner. 
The bride and the groom met because they were the only ones
at the party who wanted to go ice climbing.
Her mother said they are a Spruce and a Birch tree rooted in the same spot.
The best man went to Harvard with them and I could tell. Grandpa said a prayer. 
The groom's father said If you can enjoy your time together, everything else will fall into place. 
I wondered why, if it was so simple, is it so messy,
with tables to clear and spills to soak and guests to smile with nonetheless?

Why the fuck did I cry in the blueberry bushes?

Nobody said that bussing tables was easy, but there is no cutting cake without it. 

Ledyard by Ramsey Alsheikh

Back then water joined
two banks.

A river flowed,
but it did not separate,

before it became Connecticut.

But when Ledyard sailed upon her,
and cast Ovid’s spells upon her,
a quiet metamorphosis took place,

and the river of old
took on a new name.

Now water partitions
two states,
and to travel across it,
you need to rent a canoe.

instagram- (bonus) by Kabir Mehra

self-worth is made up

so join me as i carefully sculpt my own grandiose persona

No one can stop me

I’m Peter Pan, oblivious and fearless, I’m Mother Teresa, i give and i give and i’ll give some

more-I’M a SILVERBACK GORILLA

with a 92 inch dick- i can and will do anything

And yet i need all of you

To tell me you love me before

i can go

to sleep.