Articles

C. Rees is a queer Pennsylvania-born eco-poet, writer, and New Writers Project alumnus living in Austin, TX. His work excavates the intersections between trauma and emergent landscapes, the contamination and contagion of violence, and lineage and complicity in rural settings. They fuse elements of speculative, horror, fabulist genres to explore the sediment of idealized “idyllic” …

You dream, often, of scalpels. Of carving an absence into your chest—there is weight here that only the body knows. A kind of tenderness made in the dismantlement of a form. You make yourself holy with every change. And, too, every refusal. Rocks have ridges as much as concaves—remain coarse where they are smooth. Dysphoria …

You know that moment when you bite into a hot piece of apple pie and your mouth waters and you think the only thing missing is a scoop of vanilla bean then you bite down and discover the apples are hard and the bottom crust is soggy and it makes you think of boarding school …

1. Because black 2. Because she 3. Because she black 4. Because she because she black because she wife 5. Because she because she black because she wife because she hoop 6. Because she because she black because she wife because she dunk because she tatted up 7. Because free because free black because wife …

She left two button-down shirts, pressed and folded, size large, and a promise from the landlord to deliver the package if her son returned. She left a birthday card: slid into a cubby at the nurse’s station, pushed into the hands of a skin-and-bones roommate, mailed with extra postage to his last-known address. She left …

Jennessa Hester is a transgender writer and scholar working out of Lubbock, Texas. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cream City Review, HAD, Rust + Moth, and elsewhere. She serves as a managing editor for the Iron Horse Literary Review and poetry editor for Wrong Publishing. Find her on social at @cherrypoppunk.

My story starts not where the bullet pierces flesh but where the blood pools all around. Some waves of pain never stop, no matter how well one writes of healing. My story starts symbolically as a mirror in front of which I knot my necktie, half-Windsor, the way my late father taught me years ago, …

I can never see that river again. I should have guessed the last time would be the last time. Walking there I smelled the riverbed, its desperate stench released by the sun bleaching it as it does bone. Down the solitary road began our village. Feral cats spread eye infections among themselves. Rye stalks shuddered …

Grandpa looked down, eating an apple, which was exactly what this fawn was doing behind our field when I drove a slug through its guts. He put ripe fruit in his mouth, the juice oozing out into the white bramble of his beard. I stuck his buck knife in the young deer, cut out its …

My first time visiting my mother’s country I’m eight and she finds me in the street counting the stars because Moca has more than Montauk and these stars are strung to my anchor-heart. She says we all have a star and if you count your star you die. I keep counting and she stops finding …