An independent, ad-free leftist magazine of critical essays, poetry, fiction, and art.
by Carl Harris. Lest I be accused of fugitation in flagrante, I write to you, my trusted correspondents, from a motel in Encino, California. Fellow soldiers in the information war have betrayed me and my mission, smearing my name with accusations of instability and compromised journalistic integrity.
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by Sarah Sturgiss. It’s summer and we’re playing soccer with a red rubber ball in the front when Max starts to do the thing he does when I’ve scored more goals than him. It’s the same frustrated look he’d get when he was a baby; his smile shrinks into a squinched-up line, and he pushes his breath out of his nose.
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by Seth Garben. Well, I was there when the spinning game was invented. Or perhaps it is more accurate to say, I was there when the spinning game came into being. For to imply that any one person at that fateful dinner party authored it, or even to assert that it was a “group effort”, would be misleading, would border even on the hubristic.
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by Miles Klee and Madeline Gobbo
The man under the bed held his breath. The opening wasn’t wide enough for a body, but it looked like an escape. The man hadn’t heard the alarm in time to make his. The wobbly electric sobs made him want to call his mother. He would be late for their appointment, but he’d never intended to go.
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by Seth Garben
An excerpt from Devices, a short fiction piece that appears in our first print issue, Pattern Machines.
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