Fool Moon

It was his initiation day. Just the thought of what was to come turned his stomach upside down, yet having to transform with the entire family watching was a nightmare.

When the time came, he followed the trail through the forest. They were already there, waiting in silence. His parents came for a moment to speak words of encouragement, then joined the others in the circle.

He took a deep breath then looked above him at the night’s sky. He saw the moon rise from behind the crest, silver and round, and he heard himself howl. Something inside him began.

From Guest Contributor Ioana Birdu

Cicadas

Gary’s gasping two-hand tap against the wall earned second place in the breaststroke. Pete had less time to breathe.

First in the butterfly - their final high school triumph shared.

Later, they met in the shower. Whispers were overpowered by streaming water.

Gary’s kiss goodbye burned as a beloved's should.

“You’re sure? My heart...so damn broken.” A lump choked his every word.

“Me, too.” Gary held him. “But we’ll be one thousand miles apart.”

Later, Pete laid in the tall grass behind the aquatic center. Silver-voiced male cicadas polished their mating song in desperation, chanting for a miracle.

From Guest Contributor Embe Charpentier

At Least It Gets Me To Work And Back

I pass the dump truck parade on my way to work, and I pray the spider cracks in the windshield of my creaking and shaking and ground-scraping savior will remain intact until tomorrow. But this is the end for it. The heavy glass shatters on me, pouring down with a ripping gust of gravel and unpaid bills. I cover my scrunched face to protect from the impending costs. I bleed my next paycheck into the repairs. There is a new scar on my credit report, just next to my student loan debt. My last breath is spent coughing up pennies.

From Guest Contributor Stacy Gorse

Calendar Sex

Cellos make little nicks in the dark and we breathe together. The afternoon was a failure. This plain gesture, togetherness, makes quick use of industrious forgetfulness. I cannot keep you behind this gate beyond the third movement. We mean to create more than one monologue to accompany the flutist. The children upstairs, our occupancy momentarily set. I position your fingers behind my neck as talisman for strings. The tent is down. This igloo explodes into every shard of routine that has, before this moment, set what stands for you and for me, aflame, sparks falling into pockets, to the ground.

From Guest Contributor Kelli Allen

Kelli Allen’s work has appeared in numerous journals and anthologies in the US and internationally. She is a four-time Pushcart Prize nominee and has won awards for her poetry, prose, and scholarly work. She served as Managing Editor of Natural Bridge and holds an MFA from the University of Missouri St. Louis. She is the director of the River Styx Hungry Young Poets Series and founded the Graduate Writers Reading Series for UMSL. She is currently a Professor of Humanities and Creative Writing at Lindenwood University. Allen is the author of two chapbooks and one flash fiction collection. Her full-length poetry collection, Otherwise, Soft White Ash, arrived from John Gosslee Books in 2012 and was nominated for the Pulitzer Prize.