Optimistic Dem to neighborhood full of Trump Flags: Halloween is over y’all. You can stop scaring the children now.
Dad: What children?
Optimistic Dem: Me, I’m the children.
Overheard in Conservative Neighborhood
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A WET HOT FOOD FOR THOUGHT AMERICAN SUMMER: Full Design
Pick up a copy around campus, or view the full design here!
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Letter From The Editor
Dear friends, We can be so timid with language when we speak. We worry about when to and not to use it, worry if we’re using it right, worry we’re using too many words to say something, worry what we’re saying isn’t coming across in the words we’re using. Each sentiment or feeling or…
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The German Class
“This time it would be a German book, specifically Die Bibel, which his wife had brought back from the church for free on the previous Sunday, after a German pastor had come to give a talk. They had been giving out Chinese Bibles, but ran out, so the pastor brought out some old German versions.”
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I Dream of Being an American Man
The desert ground bloated with rainwater dries a day later. Ripped apart at its seams into a matrix of fractures. What is lightning? Plasma? Or the way you stand with your Hips square, eyes level, jaw set. Bare shoulders in a hailstorm, burning. Cracked lips opened wide, burning. Night air after an illness, burning.…
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The Empty Plate
“Today, one of us has a full meal of roasted beef and steamed vegetables. The other of us is watching, long hands gripping the table and watching, eyes sunken and skin stretched thin around the orbital sockets.”
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A is for Airport
“The golden-brown pancakes and perfectly fried eggs from this morning churn uneasily in my stomach. It’s still hard to believe dad made them. He used to burn everything.”
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The Smell of a Faraway Fire
A Nass writer dwells on the sensations of homecoming, the scents and sounds of feeling.
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The Fall of a Rocket’s Empty Fuel Tank
Shaking, shuddering, skyward I crash as if I, alone, can break this glass haze with the fire sloshing in my belly. Every movement, I feel— my breath— arch into the greed of those astronauts, high on my fumes—guzzled and smuggled through my hissing steel veins to fuel our shared madness; I see the stars…
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Letter From The Editor
Dear friends, Wildfire haze has made this summer season one for spectating. Two hundred and fifty American years came and went, a milestone received passively, if willingly. In our first issue of the semester, I am happy to report that new contributors refreshingly shift our focus. Something about summertime makes me want to…
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