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Go Wonder at the Riders in Isatch Canyon
On a familiar battle between good and evil in Mark Z. Danielewski’s Tom’s Crossing, and its unfamiliar resistance to ambiguity and the moral greyspace.
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Angel Days
“We were never close while he was alive. That’s why I’m putting in all this effort now, to make up for all my years of being a bad son.”
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Called Olympic
You created me with that thrashing tongue of garbled half-waves on smooth sound stones, aged by thousands of caressing palms looking to skip on Puget’s icy surface. You made my patronymic the peninsula, home to faces of fathers upon fathers— their hands in the murk which I track over your face. Baptized by…
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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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