I want our childhood back to watch the ice break off at the shoreline and float away when the sun begins to warm the waters of Lake Superior early spring. Or spend whole Saturdays planting the pink and purple candy-striped petunias you loved in flower boxes and along the borders of our little sidewalk. […]
He used to search desperately for them—these mysterious people—but their voices would fade out of earshot whenever he thought he might be getting close. But he knows they’re there.[…]
There is something wonderful about being able to write both fiction and nonfiction…. It does take
different kinds of brain work, which is really enjoyable.[…]
Well, it looks as though you have three choices. You can go to him as he orders; you can refuse,
be whipped, and then have him take you by force; or you can run away again.[…]
Part of me wanted to turn back, but I couldn’t look away. My camera was my shield. Hiding behind it made everything feel slightly less real, like I was watching a movie instead of the massacre of my own childhood.[…]
Everyday the author takes the bus like a distant hum, I love that. I love that somebody leaves the author a voicemail and doesn’t talk about pain as a thin golden feather. I love that the author calls back.[…]
I don’t even feel comfortable in public coughing,
Without someone trying to put a nail in it. And that’s nothing to sneeze at. No hand washing or hand sanitizer will clean you of your phobias.[…]
A literary and art journal
from the MFA community at
Antioch University Los Angeles.
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Photo credit: Ryley Eden Priest 
Credit: Anamari Gaeta
Credit: Tyler Raso
Credit: Kevin Nguyen