Pieces by Sara Judy

The Insect Wife by

01. One morning we wake up to termite wings. It is our honeymoon. Odd and fumbling, we laugh in disbelief; we drink more rum than water, calculating gallons as a way to pass the days. From styrofoam containers: greasy donuts,… Continue Reading


Pulling a Geographic by

NEIL GAIMAN, THE GRAVEYARD BOOK: It’s like the people who believe they’ll be happy if they go and live somewhere else, but who learn it doesn’t work that way. Wherever you go, you take yourself with you. At my count… Continue Reading


Small Complications by

When he suggested a blow job under that old tree by the water in the public park, she laughed. She knows almost nothing about poetry, or death. She works at the grocery store. She is, generally, apathetic.She does not expect… Continue Reading

Issue 1 Poetry