———————- CURRENT ISSUE ———————

Summer 2019

 
Rachel Eliza Griffiths

Rachel Eliza Griffiths

Maceo Montoya

Maceo Montoya

 

“Just cause what you call a ‘vision-dream’ might fall out of the scope of science as you know it doesn’t mean it’s not legit,” Niya says with a sigh.


When the Bones Begin to Speak by Noni Carter

The three of us shared a mattress on the floor of a cramped room in Westlake. Every few nights my brother would wake up screaming, drenched in sweat, telling my mom the eyeless men were coming to get him.

The Ghosts of Nameless Men by Michael Leal Garcia

READ MORE

 

——————— SPECIAL FEATURES ———————

#PoetsforPuertoRico: Kweli Edition
Intro by Vincent Toro

 
Photo credit: Victor J. Blue

Photo credit: Victor J. Blue

 

As colonized people, we have been subject to slavery and indentured servitude, imposed seizure of our lands, the forced sterilizations of women, military attacks on the island’s civilian population, the assassination and imprisonment of our leaders, and the orchestrated destruction of the island’s economy. Now…today… again… in the aftermath of Maria, we find ourselves having to deal with an occupier that has left our families to die and then lies about the impact of their own maliciousness toward us. READ MORE


—————— FROM THE ARCHIVES —————

Ain't That Good News
by Brit Bennett

 
Painting: Maceo Montoya

Painting: Maceo Montoya

 

Wanting to kill someone felt like a type of love. Before they caught him, Florence worried about Andy as often as his own mama might: cotton soft thoughts, like was he fed? Was he bloodied? Was he well? Was he sleep at a bus stop? Did he remember to bring a jacket? Bet he forgot. Bet he never remembered to bring a jacket. He was on the run for three months, and all that time, she worried that he might catch cold or starve. The only thing worse than him getting away was him dying a natural death. She didn’t want there to be anything natural about the way Andy Robinson left this earth. And she worried about him, praying that nothing or no one else would touch him until the sheriff got to him first. Now that he was locked away, she still thought about Andy every day, little thoughts that felt like touches in the dark. Just to reassure herself that she hadn’t imagined him—that this long, lanky boy on the front page with those soft eyes had used his knobby hands to spread her daughter’s thighs like a wishbone before he hogtied her with her carnation pink sweater and tossed her in the Calcasieu River.   READ MORE