Excerpt from ‘VISIONS’

Fiction by:


Jeannie is having feelings about the objects in the house again. She and Greg have talked about this many times. She agreed to try and  dim her senses to the messages which the objects send her. He encouraged her to try living in the real world and stop talking to the chairs and the toothbrushes.

Jeannie didn’t ask for this power (her word), this unfortunate capacity (Greg’s words). They do both agree that life is easier when it stays dormant. Because Jeannie is, in every other way, an exemplary partner (Greg’s words). She keeps the home beautifully and raises the children to be upstanding citizens. She prefers to spend her days working in the garden, paying social visits, and taking care of the shopping. But, when the power comes over her with all the randomness and intensity of a migraine, she has no way to stop it. She retreats to her bedroom, darkened with the shades pulled down, and suffers the buffeting waves. Countless social engagements have been broken as a result of these episodes.

Last night, for instance, she had to flee right in the middle of a dinner party, running up the back steps from the kitchen while Greg floundered about in the living room trying to keep the guests supplied with cocktails. The roast she was braising, left to smoke in the oven, set off the fire alarm and everyone piled through the door to escape the piercing sounds and billowing smoke. Out on the sidewalk in front of the house, Greg tried to collect the glasses from everyone before they disbursed to their cars. Just a touch of the flu, he said as he made his rounds, speaking as lightly as he could. But he could see from their eyes glittering under the streetlight and their soft dark muttering that his guests were not convinced. Back inside, the children were frightened and it took him more than an hour to soothe them. When he finally went to see Jeannie in their room, she looked pale and thin on the bed, her hand flung up to her forehead.

What was it, he asked her.

The wardrobe in the guest bedroom, she whispered.

The one we just bought at the antique store, he asked.

Yes, she said. A woman owned it who for years would get drunk in front of its mirror and lament her life. All the time it was like a prisoner, soaking up the energy like a sponge. This evening it just released it all in a burst. It was horrible.

Do you want me to move it or something?

No, she whispered. It got it all out. It’s a good wardrobe. It wants to be here.

Oh, that’s nice, he said, and sat perched on the edge of the mattress gently running his hand through her hair. He could feel her frame shake as she cried.

I’m sorry I ruined the party, she said.

It’s ok, it’s ok, he said. Don’t worry. He assured her it was all alright, but deep in his chest he felt a knot of coiling tension.

She drifted off and her face looked lovely in its slumber. But he couldn’t fall asleep, and he was awake to watch the stripes of dawn appear through the shades.

He sat at the breakfast table while she made him eggs and poured him coffee. The children were happy to see her looking well again and she enveloped each of them in a loving hug. Their youngest was obsessed with the theme song to a tv show, and was voicing its melody tenuously. Jeannie joined her, and then the other child joined in as well, until the three of them were singing a rousing rendition. They mugged for him, dancing, and he smiled his approval. But the whole time he was looking over their heads at a row of appliances gathered on a high shelf, trying to figure out if any of them were talking to her, and if so what they might be saying. He thought for a second that he felt a glimmer of something from the blender. It was a relief to get out of the house. He felt a sense of freedom as he worked his car through the bumper-to-bumper commuter traffic.


Michael Newton lives at the Jersey Shore and works as a bookseller at the Asbury Book Cooperative, in Asbury Park, where he runs the used book section and hosts the Crime Book Club. He is also a member of the editorial collective at Ugly Duckling Presse, where he helps manage the journal Second Factory, among other projects. He is also co-publisher of Asphalte Magazine, an online journal. An essay of his, on Tommy Lee Jones' face, is forthcoming from In The Mood magazine.

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Two Poems

Poetry by:


I stopped hearing god
after heartbreak
some red wing muse
to pine over

hate to admit
I’ve begged before
Say It Right
say it with flowers
say anything

I visit a club called heaven
where I am bored to tears
sober as the dishes
sober as silence
sober as feeling

do I not have nine lives
do I not have angels on my side

what if god wants me
to steal more, untiy
an earworm
I am your favorite song
so hold it like your breath
passing a cemetery


riding holy I gloat
how eroded of you
to be so gorged on me
bereft of dignity
glory, to be a god on high

my little peach
there is a remedy
love on days off
glory, to be a rave in my mind
a steamy receiving
a sugar glass crack
a bevy of very good girls
and virile bad boys

god made my honky tonk angels
and I just licked the jelly jar clean
in high, in heaven
there is a place, pray
that I am forgiven and hot

Follow Carson:

Instagram: @cahhhhson


Carson Jordan is a clown and poet living in Brooklyn, NY. Her first chapbook, Good For Her, was released by Dirt Child in April 2022.

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Poetry by:


I’ve been a thousand years asleep 
inside the untied
anchor-patterned robe 

my mother got me on 
America Island 
where I first slept off 

a slight addiction
all castaway
all prince white garden 

I would only regard 
the oleanders 

only so sated 
a patient snake 

belly-down and 

for what was bound 
to happen
to give

the way a horse might rest 
its head
in a rider’s hands 

and just to stay
like this a little longer 

let the horse be grey 
and blind and 

where that leads the aching 
animal inside me 

I will get where I am going 
when I feel thirst

Where You Will Wait For The Rest of Your Life

standing across the aisles
in the stadium of my heart

everyone is waiting for the drum
to play beloved

the sky is always bright there
that last light-before-dark

when the colder water
turns the wrists with blessings

the swallows kick
their used-up wings against

the skyline
and I am not broken-hearted

everyone I love is there
even the resurrections

they do not cry out
do not mind the spectacle

of my oars my armour
ringing toward the red

shore that I call heaven
that like anything forbidden

turns an unblurred face
on where the details fade

from this still life this
slow-moving crowd

now leaning like departure
like planetary revolution

approaching an ending
and turning around

Follow Sasha:

Instagram: @sasha.lesh


Sasha Leshner is a poet and editor from Brooklyn New York. Her work is drawn from the intersections of art, memory, and the possibilities of their articulations. She has an MFA in Poetry from Columbia University and a BA from NYU. Her work has been published and is forthcoming from ExPat Press, (M)othertongues Magazine, Pour Vida Zine, west 10th magazine, 89+ and the luma foundation, and others. Her poems are dedicated to the beloveds who beat her to the next world.

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Stranded Prepositions

Poetry by:

Stranded Prepositions

Follow Simone:

Instagram: @_rebelgreen


Simone Larson Zapata is a poet, printmaker, and educator from San José, CA. She received her MFA in Creative Writing from CalArts in 2021. Her current research draws on theories of cognitive linguistics to explore how grammar and punctuation establish relation between subjects on and off the page.

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EST 2020


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EST 2020