Anne Boleyn by Kait Quinn

Kait Quinn (she/her) was born with salt in her wounds. She flushes the sting of living by writing poetry. She is the author of four poetry collections, and her work has appeared in Reed Magazine, Watershed Review, Chestnut Review, and elsewhere. She also received first place in the League of MN Poets’ 2022 John Calvin Rezmerski Memorial Grand Prize. Kait serves as an Editorial Associate at Yellow Arrow Publishing and a poetry reader for Black Fox Literary Magazine. She enjoys repetition, coffee shops, and vegan breakfast foods. Kait lives in Minneapolis with her partner, their regal cat, and their very polite Aussie mix. Find her at kaitquinn.com.

Excerpts from things terrible and unguessable by Kristy Bowen

Bluebells line the road to the boneyard.
Spread themselves like maidens over rock
and crook. Hook themselves into treacherous

places. I was no more than a girl when the master
slipped a hand inside my frock. A flock
of ravens scaping. The landscape gray and brown

and broken by fence lines. I was his until I wasn’t,
feasting on fatted lamb and fetid water from
the chapel well. Fervent with fear and forest clearings.

So much death inside me, my eyes turned blue black
and I’d birth the strangest things beneath the coverlet.
Three legged rabbits and blind foxes, broken swallows

and the occasional snake. He’d bury
them in the garden and begin again,
his black fingers staining my thighs.

❧

The children grow fat on roast mutton.
Thrust their greasy fingers through keyholes
and mail slots. Suddenly there were more

of them. Sliding down bannisters
and placing their hands over my eyes.
I drowned three of them in the bathtub,

another in the lake, but still there are more.
Dripping water on the floors of the parlor
and crawling into my bed. Fed on neglect,

they thrive. Ravaging the beehives and scavenging
the pantry. A small cold palm slithers into my own
as you set them on fire in the chapel, but they

are too small and damp to burn. Too hearty with spite.
How they frighten the maids with their weeping
Keep finding their way home.

❧

The woman in the attic sings the house
into an inferno, singes the linens with
her anger. Keeps pulling the sheets

from the bed in the night while you sleep.
She writes messages on the mirror over the dresser.
Confesses her sins over the dinner table,

levitating the china brought back from France
till it’s a pile of rubble. The trouble was you
looked like her in certain light. But tamer.

Curvaceous, but plainer. In the dark,
It’s all the same to him. Their honeymoon,
many moons ago, and all the rooms inside

her on fire. And now you, smoking beneath
your ribs like an oven. How you dowsed the
room in kerosene then lie down over him.

Under him. Let it take you both in ecstasy
while she twitched excitedly in the corner.

A writer and book artist working in both text and image, Kristy Bowen is the author of a number of chapbook, zine, and artists book projects, as well as eight full-length collections of poetry/prose/hybrid work, including the recent SEX & VIOLENCE (Black Lawrence Press, 2020). Bowen holds an MFA in Poetry from Columbia College and an MA in Literature from DePaul University. She lives in Chicago, where she runs dancing girl press & studio and spends much of her time writing, making papery things, and editing a chapbook series devoted to women authors. See more at www.kristybowen.net.

Monster, after Eavan Boland by Jennifer Harrison

after Eavan Boland’s ‘Tirade for the Epic Muse’

Your mouth’s a bone. You switch and tic.
In my kitchen, in my epic,
Wretch, find peace

bone-headed witches . weaving their rat spells
in an iron cauldron . off with their heads .
catching shrimp in a fish net . winding
holy faces into shrouds of nightingale gauze .
the dead ships go back and back . the centre
of a poem is yours . a servant’s chore .
to follow the long stringed path through a castle’s
green shrubbery . all that galley funk . incest .
mother love . black sails . herringbone
awash with evil’s blood . what a monster song .
all your splashy smarts awash with long coats
and rifle buttons undone . like shiny sons .
who will name the on and . on of an epic’s vanity .
its stretched limo . Irish guns . poor little widow .
take back what you said about the day’s winnowing .
the three-cornered hat is a dance . find a kitchen
and its lino spoor . find another match little girl .
moon in the boiler room . no woman there . just go

Jennifer Harrison has written eight books of poetry, most recently Anywhy (Black Pepper 2018). A new book Sideshow History will be published in 2023. She manages The Dax Poetry Collection housed at The Dax Centre at The University of Melbourne. The poem “Monster” is from a collection in progress titled After. Echoes, which features poems that respond to the work of Irish poet, Eavan Boland (1944-2020). Jennifer received the 2012 Christopher Brennan Award for sustained achievement in Australian poetry.

Jagged Little Thrill by Oak Morse

Let me call my neighbors who they were
—humans heavy of the world
who brilliantly taught me malice and deceit,
branding me in grim.
Don’t make the main character unlikeable.
But what’s more likeable
than a monster offering his arteries, his secrets?
The last time I saw angels dangle
was before I stole, before lied about being thirteen to get a job.
I see my spiked nature. I see it in the others too.
Oh, scorpions and soldiers, a body cannot live without
a couple drops of evil.
Who hath summoned me to be a bruised saint?
A jelly fish sting upon you who
scammed me out of $200. That night I bit into a pretty
peach that veiled a blade, the taste of gore, a dream.
I gamble with my sanity. I mistake myself for an alien ally.
Octanes of evil make this land a cemetery elegant and horrid.
Look under your nails. The residue of betrayal
and lies you left upon your precious people
on your journey. If you carve my core, you will see I want out of evil.
I still reap sins hard to remember, the ones I cast on myself.
But who can be the regulator of my evil? Fury erupts to self-flame and I
become a quiet case of knives.
I feed the serial lover in me, nurture the morose person.
Here is when I ask God to retire for a holier God
who shows mercy on me. Everything seems held for ransom—
the exchange of voice for victory, truth for peace.

Oak Morse lives in Houston, Texas, where he teaches creative writing and theatre and leads a youth poetry troop. He was the winner of the 2017 Magpie Award for Poetry in Pulp Literature and a Finalist for the 2023 Honeybee Poetry Award. A Warren Wilson MFA graduate, Oak has received Pushcart Prize nominations, fellowships from Brooklyn Poets, Twelve Literary Arts, Cave Canem’s Starshine and Clay as well as a Stars in the Classroom honor from the Houston Texans. His work appears in Black Warrior Review, Obsidian, Tupelo, Beltway Poetry Quarterly, Nimrod, Terrain.org, Hampden-Sydney Poetry Review, among others. IG Oak_Morse

Grandma Teaches You to Hunt by Miriam Navarro Prieto

You need to wait for the summer:
sit on the stone bench by the front door

every afternoon until the sun does not let you.
That is when you know asparagus are ready for you

to pick up. Wear a pair of shoes that will not get too stuck in the sand
(or let the soil nibble instead of waiting for the whole meal of you),

forget the gloves home because it’s too hot to worry
about pricking your palms, and go to the pine tree forest.

No bag, no basket. Go.
Track the leaves turning fractal,

search the ground around them:
that is where the asparagus will be.

Hound the short and wide ones
(do not pick up the yellow ones— too sour),

the greener the better, but do not pull them up from the head;
remember the knife I told you to always have on you?

I know you forgot, so here is mine.
Slice the flesh where it becomes soft,

take only as much as your hands can carry back home.
Wash them. Do not you dare chop them to throw them into an omelet;

no granddaughter of mine wastes the green punch of the earth,
no granddaughter of mine waters down the dark heart of anything.

So a bit of olive oil in the pan, high heat,
the whole handful of asparagus, a bit of salt, two minutes,

lid on, low heat until your fingers start stinging
(reminder of the branches resisting your onslaught,

the tips learn fast to burn, the soft skin is there to take it all,
to grow harsher, deserving,

as children who do as they are told
instead of resenting life and its lessons),

take them out, put them on a plate.
A bit of sea salt. Enjoy the crop:

no hard fiber, its clean-cut sourness
impossible to find on cultivated ones.

Let your mouth prey on
the spoils. Swallow it all.

Miriam Navarro Prieto, currently focused on life-drawing preferably diverse humans, and writing poems on autobiography, ecology, gender, queerness, and the politics of memory. She translated her first self-published poem collection Todo está vivo, also available as Everything Is Alive. Her poems have been featured in The Pinch, Paranoid Tree, etc. Ecognosis, her second collection, was a finalist at the I Premio de Poesía Letraversal and will come out somehow. Her monthly bilingual newsletter-podcast is about her creative process, plants, and translated literature. She’s anxiously waiting for an acceptance for her first chapbook in English, a reflection on her Post-Spanish-Civil-War ancestry. Find her online here.

the yin yoga instructor as a sylvia plath lookalike by Sai Liuko

girls, mine is an antidote for dingy dungeons. when your body is the play-
thing, you are never bored. stay.

first, take a good look at your feet and think
sweet sweet sweet. what terrible thoughts have your mats absorbed?

forget what you know about yoga. let’s walk on coals. let’s walk
my foals. forget the cobra. get the viper! forget

the warrior. be the sniper. imagine your enemy’s head as a fly-fest of
a melon. say after me: I am the snake in your pipes, the falling

piano and the banana peel. I know more than I let on. y’all
feel? I scream so long the black hole falls into me. shark

asana. white dwarf asana. marinara, lasagna. stop thinking
about your shopping list and mall to-do’s, you hip-swinging, gun-slinging

supermarket menace. I know you’re a spit-swilling, gin-spitting blight at
brunch, the afternoon death delight. thinking you might

gun down a room. bloody a tanning salon. we have now warmed our muscles
for the more advanced positions. ready? let’s stretch our arms into angelcore. grow

our hair into cottagecore. now we’ll work on our core. you’ll make everyone
sorry and sore. this is the fucking USSR navy ship carrying

a nuclear weapon asana. I feel it, girls! do you
feel it? do you realize? the poses are water glasses to wildfires. you want to fake

your death to friends and family? no deal. the best you can do is steal
their coins and ties. the best I can do: fly too close to sun without having any fun.

after all the kombucha and sweat lodges and organic teeth whitening kits and curtain
bangs, how can you still feel this way? we must’ve forgotten to breathe into the pain.

girls, I don’t think we can lady lazarus our way out of this one. final resting position.
you’re done. go home––put the kettle on––the blood brought to boil.

Sai Liuko (she/her) is a bad teacher, a good English graduate & an excellent Scorpio Rising from Helsinki, Finland. Her poetry has been published in 3Elements Literary Review, In the Mood Magazine, Honeyguide Literary Magazine, and others. You can find her portfolio at https://sailiuko.carrd.co/

I woke up with snakes for hands by Rachel Pittman

not the venomous kind, but garter snakes
with long yellow stripes. From my elbows 

down, silk-scales, ropes of living muscle.
Where my hands should be, instead: 

their oval heads, black tongues tasting
the bedroom air. In the shower, my twin 

snakes hug the walls, knocking over shampoo
bottles, shaving cream. Brushing my teeth 

is an exercise in trust. Left-snake clamps
her mouth to squeeze the toothpaste, 

right-snake wields the toothbrush, clumsy.
A clatter of bristles, plastic, teeth. My cats 

see new exotic toys, hyper-realistic, swinging
from my arms. Hissing and snapping. 

It takes weeks, months, to teach my snake-
hands tenderness. How to kiss, instead of strike.

---

Rachel Pittman is an MFA candidate at McNeese State University where she serves as Poetry Editor for the McNeese Review. Her writing has appeared or is forthcoming in miniskirt mag, Cartridge Lit, Stillpoint Literary Magazine, Gingerbread House, and Whale Road Review.

The Marble Essay by Lauren Mallett

I come from marble people.

We are foggy edges and ribbony centers.

Twisted filament spirals. We are clearies and cloudies;

sunbursts and crabclaws; catseyes and comets.

In 1930, our Dada, great-great-grandfather

Claude C. Grimmett, cofounded Master Marble

Company with John F. Early and John E. Moulton

in Anmoore, West Virginia.

I come from molten globs and slugs cut and

cooled. I come from screw conveyor and two grooved

cylinders spun alongside one another.

We are sorted by our opacities and

transparencies. We are infinity swirls: latticed, solid

core, divided core, ribbon core, ribbon lutz, coreless.

We are stored in polyvinyl bags, heat sealed through

the centers of the headers.

           ¤

            We play for keeps. Our knees do not touch

the chalk of the circle. We shoot from our fingers. We

lay one knuckle on the ground as anchor and rule.

            Our ancestors made marbles from clay rolled

between their hands or rocks smoothed by the ocean.

All of civilization held their own alleys and throws.   

                                       ¤

              Marble stands for body. Chemistry shows up

as colors there. Cobalt for blue. Iron oxide for green.

Manganese for purple.

              I come from surplus amidst Depression.

              My people are depressed.

              We have been knocked and jobbered by stomps

and quicksies. We carry marbles in our mouths. At all

costs we avoid mumbling.

We watch fireworks from the patio of the psych

ward. We feel like we are stuck in boxes. We dream

our teeth cut us open. We throw ourselves from the roof

of the State Hospital.

We lack the freese machinery of our rivals—

their offset rollers, their smoothed poles. We are

unimproved. We cannot be mistaken as theirs.

The we of me is right here at my cutoffs and

crimps. My u-shaped seams. The marble is me learning

the quiet extent of our illness.

            I went looking for my family and found toys I am

trying to ask questions.

                                         ¤

A marble is a willful structure, though not

impervious to chips, flakes, and scratches.

The conclusive thought of a marble is look at me.

See here my backlit moonie. Gleaming and antique.

            My point of vulnerability is a sentence that ends

with I hide.

            Mother says I am made of the best of her and

Father. Unlike the others. I resent the conundrum

of wellness. I know scattering. Watch the crack of my taw

splay into mibs.

She wants me to make you, little duck.

            Of course the marble is embryo. I didn’t ask to

turn out this way. I didn’t mean to summon you. This

is the circle I walk. I carry two pouches in my gut.

You are one of me I’ve kept you inside me my

whole life. My dear peach and emerald patched comet.

You are better than onionskin; blasted as aventurine.

            I never said you weren’t astonishing. I never

said I was unafraid of your becoming.

                                     ¤

Our marbles return to us, settle at the back

of our throats. Rise up as we cry or utter a difficult truth.

The marble is me learning I am hardening

to possibilities. I am fantastical dreams of injury

and babies. I am fertile and disillusioned with

roundness. 

I don’t want to reconcile creator with mother.

I come from the whole set my Dada made lined up

in the box that slides from its cover.

              Their glass is my glass. We are the forced speed

of chemical injection. Sand, soda ash, lime, cullet mixed

in a furnace-driven tank. We began in meltdown.

---

Lauren Mallett’s (she/her/hers) poems appear in Poetry Northwest, Puerto del Sol,The Seventh Wave, The Night Heron Barks, Sprung Formal, and other journals. She lives on Clatsop land of Oregon’s north coast. www.laurenmallett.com

Brain Tremors are so Fucking Cliche by Kelly Gray

I know that he knows there is a snake in my belly. He lays his hand upon it, tells me to lie down. Says to find my happy place. I sigh. We go over several landscapes, none of them work. There is something dangerous in each of them. He walks me out to the desert, I look around. He assures me that it is only me, yucca trees, ink night sky. I know this is not true, but I relent. So many stars blur into milk across the hemisphere. I can see three layers of coral crusted dirt at all times. Rifle beetles burrow up to retrieve the blooms of datura, then scurry down again, dragging white flowers into the underworld. Sloop, sloop, sloop. Honeypot ants move in amber murmurations across the desert floor, swirling towards me, up and over my feet, leaving sticky tracks in their wake. Starlight settles on my feet, sticks to sweet. Yucca does not need to move to dance. He asks me to lie down. I can feel the snake rubbing the inside of my belly, telling me that I don’t have to be sick. Everything that my digestion should do, the snakes does for me. I am here because I can’t stop bleeding. I am snake bloated blood, pregnant with gut of an outwitted serpent. Distance is a Pink Thing and Pink Thing is getting closer, rumbling and spitting under the hood. Silver flashes down its side,  windows tinted. Pink Thing stops next to me. I ask him if I should get on the bus. He says I am already on the bus, that the desert is the bus. That’s why it is the Pink Thing. I tell him I hate when he talks like this, but when I pull myself up into the bus, he’s right, it’s all desert. Thick plants of spine and fuchsia fruit and impaled bats. It’s so dark that my brain is starting to cramp again, I feel him move his hand around to the back of my neck. Can I hold you here, he asks. Yes. There is a circle of coyotes around us and each one of them is a different shade of blue. Please tell me the shades, I ask. You should be relaxing, he says, before the surge comes. It’s already happening, I say, please tell me blue. He says, there is a cornflower coyote and a true-blue coyote. That one is steal, that one is teal. The coyote you can’t see is midnight blue. Powder blue coyote and aqua blue coyote. The seizure in my brain is getting stronger, the honey can’t hold my feet to the ground. Let me give you my mouth he says, I have all the stars in the back of my throat. I want to answer.
Before I do, the snake comes,                                                                                               mouth first.
The snake comes out my belly,                                                                                          mouth first.
The snake comes out of my belly as an umbilical cord,                                                       mouth first.
This is so fucked up, I say. Me and the snake, we are bloodless. Maybe she is my child, she looks like my mother. She’s coming for your head, babe, she’s going to eat it right up, he says. And she does. Mouth open like a birth canal. I go backwards into my own body, that small Pink Thing driving in circles over beetles sleeping in underground meadows of vespertine blooms while the scratch of my boyfriend’s voice draws the longitudinal fissures between the hemispheres of the sky which I almost remember is the crest of my brain.

---

Kelly Gray is the author of Instructions for an Animal Body (Moon Tide Press) and the audio chapbook My Fingers are Whales and Other Stories of Cetology (Moon Child Press). She is the recipient of the 2022 Neutrino Short-Short Prize from Passages North and a finalist for Best of the Net 2021. Gray's writing appears or is forthcoming in Northwest Review, Superstition Review, Newfound, Menacing Hedge, and Driftwood Press, among other places. You can read more of her work at writekgray.com.

Two Poems by Seneca Basoalto

ANAHEIM & HONEY

Don’t tell me I know how to walk
with the weight of a hoard,            take my
                                                           self(ie)
                                           insist it does not
                                           expose—
every man I’ve ever known will tell you                                                
           “oh, that girl
                      is never satisfied”
                        center stage on the strip
west side via sunny side up (this means I lay flat on my belly
                                                           nude &
                                                           inciting speculation)
tell Walt Disney
      Whitman
I said anyone who quotes the white man’s word as
pathology
will probably tell you their favorite movie is Fight Club
, I want to be paid for this, for being 

            beautiful, being abstract &
listening to them circle the wrong tree, age old art of
figuring out how to crystallize the cultures of men
who pretend to study my favorite foods          but still
have the nerve to call me honey                         this 

is when the vocal chords grow in gaudy            & a
body learns what it means to truly starve
after they have all lost their dynamite in
flavor of the flavor of my baby blue morphine film 

I know how to time travel, so I
sat in the same seat on the same roller coaster
where I met Robin Williams when I was just
                    a girl waving around her sapphire wand
                                                  with a Warhol wish
                                                  back when I did not
know what karma was or how capable it could
be at finding you wherever you are             I
                                                                     am
without kinesis now, I don’t even have to peel off my dress
to be seen           ,not when men have eyes, which—!
                   they don’t even need
when the lions have learned how to find their food
by fragrance alone

---

SENECA BASOALTO
(a study in kinesis)

my name has been changed six times, as a start
—consider it performative, being baptized again
whenever a mood talks of acquiring new shapes
                  I am
                  once more talking about the soul
as it relates to the same pair of boots taking
loud steps into several places
that it has both been before &
yet never at all until this hour

everything I have done & will ever do
is exactly the same as pouring Coca-Cola
from a dirty glass into a clean glass, then
constantly using a new glass - irrelevant
of whether the next glass I fill is clean  

don't you get it?
there was no need to pass me around
—I've been dirty since the beginning

---

Seneca Basoalto is a bisexual Iberian-Sicilian poet with degrees in creative writing and psychology. Her unusual childhood and uncommon encounters have helped shape her experiences into highly personal candid narratives that expose the gritty complexities of tempestuous love, womanhood, and our own chaotic perception of self.

Her publications include NAILED Magazine, Indicia Lit, Nude Bruce Review, Santa Fe Literary Review, California State University, bloodmoon POETRY, samfiftyfour, Terror House Magazine, Voice of Eve, Honeyfire Lit, and many others. She was also a finalist with Tupelo Press for their Poetry in the Pandemic series.

Two Poems by Indrani Sengupta

Indrani Sengupta is a poet from Kolkata, India, currently braving Illinois weather. She received her MFA in poetry from Boise State University. Her work has appeared or is forthcoming in The Southeast Review, The Colorado Review, Hayden’s Ferry Review, PANK Magazine, The Feminist Wire, Wend Poetry, and others.

Divorce, as Discus by Stephanie Yue Duhem

Stephanie Yue Duhem is a 1.5 generation Chinese-American poet and educator, currently studying in the New Writers Project MFA at UT Austin. She was a winner of Red Wheelbarrow’s 2018 contest (judged by Naomi Shihab Nye), a Radar nominee for Best of the Net 2020, and a finalist in the Glass and Frontier 2020 chapbook contests. She can be found online @nameandnoun or at www.sydpoetry.com.

venus in blurs by Ariel Clark-Semyck

Ariel Clark-Semyck is a poet from Chicago. She is currently an MFA candidate at Miami University. Her poems have been published in Witch Craft Magazine, Yes Poetry, Dream Pop Journal, Occulum, and elsewhere.  You can find her on instagram @mousecadet

did I ever tell you I believe in palmistry by April Michelle Bratten

April Michelle Bratten’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Southeast Review, Glass: A Journal of Poetry, Zone 3, THRUSH Poetry Journal, Screen Door Review: Literary Voices of the Queer South, and more. She is the Editor-in-Chief of Up the Staircase Quarterly. You can follow her on Twitter @aprilmbratten.

excerpt from You Alive Home Yet? by Daniel Beauregard

Daniel Beauregard lives in Buenos Aires, Argentina. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in a number of places including Surfaces.cx, Youngman.io, Harshlit, Ligeia Magazine, Misery Tourism, The Nervous Breakdown, New South, Burning House Press, tragickal, Heavy Feather Review, Always Crashing, sleepingfish, The Fanzine and elsewhere. His chapbook Total Darkness Means No Notifications is forthcoming from Anstruther Press in 2021 and he has previously published two chapbooks of poetry, HELLO MY MEAT and Before You Were Born. Daniel is also a co-founder of OOMPH!, a small press devoted to the publication of poetry and prose in translation. He recently finished a collection of short stories titled Funeralopolis and a novel titled Lord of Chaos and can be reached online @666ICECREAM or www.danieljohnbeauregard.com.

Meantime by E. Kristin Anderson

This is an erasure poem. Source material: King, Stephen. Rose Madder. New York: Pocket, 1995. 145-152. Print.

E. Kristin Anderson is a poet and glitter enthusiast living mostly at a Starbucks somewhere in Austin, Texas. A Connecticut College alumna with a B.A. in classical studies, Kristin’s work has appeared in many magazines including The Texas Review, The Pinch, Barrelhouse Online, TriQuarterly, and FreezeRay Poetry. She is the editor of Come as You Are, an anthology of writing on 90s pop culture (Anomalous Press) and is the author of nine chapbooks of poetry including Pray Pray Pray: Poems I wrote to Prince in the middle of the night (Porkbelly Press), Fire in the Sky (Grey Book Press), 17 seventeen XVII (Grey Book Press), andBehind, All You’ve Got (Semiperfect Press). Kristin is a poetry reader at Cotton Xenomorph and an editorial assistant at Sugared Water. Once upon a time she worked the night shift at The New Yorker. Find her online at EKristinAnderson.com and on twitter at @ek_anderson.

A History of Telekinetics by Celeste Rose Wood

Celeste Rose Wood’s poetry has appeared or is forthcoming in Nimrod, River River, and Barking Sycamores. As a hermit, i.e. agoraphobic, she thinks it sucks that many people buy into capitalism’s opinion of “disability entitlement” as dirty words. Her dreams are of things like necromancy, mermaids, and healthcare for everyone. 

Two Poems by Hannah V Warren

Hannah V Warren is a PhD student at the University of Georgia where she studies poetry and speculative narratives. Her chapbook [re]construction of the necromancer won Sundress Publications’ 2019 chapbook contest and is forthcoming. Hannah’s works have haunted or will soon appear in Mid-American Review, Gris-Gris, and Prism Review.

Her Name Was Daphne by Arah Ko

Arah Ko is a writer living on the Big Island of Hawai'i. Her work has appeared in journals including Ruminate, Rust+Moth, and SIREN. She was the 2018 Luci Shaw Fellow at Image. When not writing, she can be found correcting her name pronunciation or making a mean pot of coffee. Catch her @arah_ko or online at https://arahko.com.

Eerie by Nicholas Alti

From the depths of the rural Midwest, Nicholas Alti is a barely-functioning occultist wannabe with trigeminal neuralgia and poor timing. He enjoys all things nebulous and farfetched and anything of the heebie-jeebies variety. Nicholas is an assistant editor for fiction and poetry at The Black Warrior Review. Other panicked yowls have found homes at DIALOGIST, Rivet, gaze, Contrary, and Puerto del Sol.